The folded paper extended no more than two millimeters from beneath the ornate cup and saucer, just enough that Lev noted it as he passed through the main dining room at Bellini’s. The table for two was not occupied, nor would it be for the rest of the evening. He’d made sure of that. Lev paused briefly on his way back from taking the Nelsons’ order to remove the paper, slipping it into a pants pocket.
In the supply closet, he shut the door and turned his back to it. Keeping the paper out of the shadow his head cast from the overhead light, he quickly unfolded the slip. Lev had only moments before someone barged in for fresh linens.
The penciled note was underlined twice: 2xM=cube.
Crumpling the paper tightly in his fist, Lev put it in his mouth and swallowed it. Eluding the feds was crucial for this to work. No evidence, he’d been told. Leave nothing behind.
Back in the dining room, he delivered the plates to the Nelson party and took several more orders. At the table in the corner, the two lanky men in business suits stood to leave. When Lev swept by three minutes later to pick up the payment book, a square wooden top lay on it. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He turned the top to look at each of the four sides: q 7 n 3.
“Waiter!” Judge Samuel Nelson called out. When a Nelson summoned, you responded on the run.
“Sir,” Lev said, standing at the judge’s elbow.
“Another martini.” The older man raised an eyebrow at the top that Lev still held. “A teetotum,” he pronounced.
The chatter around the table hushed. The five other Nelsons waited for the judge to continue.
“A top for those who don’t know,” the judge said, his tone implying that very few aside from him would know. “And why are you carrying a top, Lev?”
No evidence. Lev swallowed, sweat popping out beneath his slicked-back hair. He felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. “Someone left their child’s toy behind,” he lied. He inched away from the table, eager to be gone.
The judge held out his hand. “My grandson Palmer will love it.”
Lev froze. His job was on the line if he didn’t relinquish the top to this patron. His life was on the line if he did.
Toy gave him the answer. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll need to place this in our lost and found,” he said, hoping his voice carried enough authority to override the entitled old man’s intention. “You know how children are; they can be very attached to a favorite plaything. Once the parents realize they’ve left it behind—”
The judge folded away his outstretched hand, nodding. “Astute argument, Lev. Well said.”
The other Nelsons nodded in agreement and turned back to their dinner conversations.
Lev exhaled in relief. “I’ll be back with your cocktail in just a moment.”
At the bar, he placed the drink order. Every stool was taken, the din almost deafening. Lev remained at the bar—the judge was too important a patron to keep his drink waiting once it was ready—and carefully studied the crowd. At the far end of the polished wooden expanse sat a woman in a simple burgundy dress, hair in an elegant twist.
He made his way purposefully through the throng, and when he was near her, bent to pick up a black silk scarf from the floor.
“So sorry to disturb you, miss.” He stood next to her. “You must have dropped this.”
She smiled. “Thank you so much.” With both hands, she took the scarf—and the small, four-sided top now wrapped within it, and turned back to the bar.
Done. Lev’s shoulders relaxed and his brow smoothed. Despite a close call, another message delivered. He maneuvered back through the thicket of bar guests and retrieved the judge’s martini.
-
Hannah dipped a brush into the egg wash and spread the pale fluid over the turnovers, mentally crossing her fingers. Beside her and across the steel work table from her other students concentrated on their entries. She had to ace this final exam; if she didn’t, her budding pastry career would never rise to reality.
-
Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
-
This is your last chance, people, to find the perfect gift! My perfect gift would be a medical miracle for my dad. He’s been unconscious for two weeks, since the car wreck on I-80. The doctors say he should recover—if he wakes up. But he’s pushing eighty. It may not happen.
That would make a good card theme, right? A get-well wish made for people whose loved one is in a coma. May they snap out of it. Or, how about: Wake up, sleepy Jean. But that’s my dark humor bubbling up. Damn it, now my eyes are blurry.
-
Thanksgiving was three days ago, and I’m still reeling at what I witnessed. My sister hosted, as she has for the last twenty years. That was the only thing predictable about the holiday, though. I was there, of course.
-
At the chiming of eleven bells, the retreat’s evening session began. Squeezed around the table, six people scooted chairs until no one brushed up against anyone else. The room’s reddish glow came from a candelabra on a nearby shelf, and the air hung thick with cedar incense.
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