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Jean-Claude the waiter doesn't like it when a new guy horns in on his territory. Even when the new guy's a private waiter working for the meanest mob boss in town, Mr. Donzatto. No way will Jean-Claude let some mob flunky steal his thunder. He'll stop at nothing to put the new guy in his place, from tripping him up to breaking him down with a series of violent "accidents." But playing hardball with a mob waiter is risky business, especially when the last course of dinner is a dark secret that could change the whole menu forever. Don't miss this exciting tale by award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected crime fiction and mysteries that really pack a punch.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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THE OTHER WAITER
A CRIME STORY
ROBERT JESCHONEK
CONTENTS
Also by Robert Jeschonek
The Other Waiter
About the Author
Special Preview: The Masked Family
THE OTHER WAITER
Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek
http://bobscribe.com/
Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin
www.benbaldwin.co.uk
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved by the author.
Published by Busted Books
411 Chancellor Street
Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904
www.piepresspublishing.com
ALSO BY ROBERT JESCHONEK
Crimes in the Key of Murder
Foolproof Cure for Cancer
Six Crime Stories Volume One
The First Detect-Eve
The Masked Family
THE OTHER WAITER
When Jean-Claude LaSalle asked the man at Table Twelve what he would like to drink, the man said something about Dolly Parton's breast milk and told him to take a hike.
Jean-Claude did not move a muscle. "Would you like to see a wine list, sir?" he asked smoothly, extending a leather-bound folder toward the bloated big mouth.
The customer swatted the list aside with the back of his puffy hand, knocking it to the floor. "What part of 'take a hike' don't you fuckin' understand?" he said.
Jean-Claude sniffed but remained rigidly in place. In his twenty-plus years as a waiter, he'd dealt with worse customers than this one. "Excuse me, sir," he said coolly. "Is something not to your liking?"
"Yeah," said the man. "You."
"Perhaps I should bring over the manager," said Jean-Claude, bowing slightly at the waist.
When he turned, he saw that the manager, Mr. Darcy, was standing less than three feet behind him.
The man at the table snort-laughed, wagging his baggy jowls. "That was quick," he said. "Too bad you're so slow on the uptake yourself, boy."
Even though Darcy was near, Jean-Claude half-turned at the remark. Aged forty-six years, with not a trace of black remaining in his slicked-back silver hair, he could not imagine what grounds anyone could find for calling him "boy."
"Jean-Claude," said Darcy, gesturing toward another table. "Would you please take care of Table Ten? Someone else will cover this table."
Jean-Claude narrowed his eyes. "But this table is in my zone," he said.
"Yes, yes," Darcy said impatiently. "And Mr. Donzatto has made special arrangements in advance."
"Arrangements?" said Jean-Claude.
"Here he comes now," said Donzatto, shifting his mountainous bulk to look in the direction of the men's washroom. "My own personal waiter."
Stunned, Jean-Claude watched as the new arrival wobbled toward them on bowed legs. The waiter looked as ancient and shriveled as a hundred-year-old goatherd who'd just come down from the mountains. His uniform--white jacket and shirt, black bow tie and trousers--hung as loosely as bedsheets blown from a clothesline onto a dead sapling.
"You wash 'em good, Zeno?" said Mr. Donzatto with a hearty chuckle. "Get off all the leftovers?"
"Yes, sir," said Zeno the waiter, blinking beneath bushy, white brows like pasted-on cotton balls. He held up his bony claw hands and showed both sides to his boss. "Scrubbed like a surgeon."
Donzatto laughed, then looked up at Jean-Claude and scowled. "Now scat, you," he said sharply. "Or do I have to have Zeno roll you outta here on a dessert cart?"
Jean-Claude managed a thin smile and a stiff bow. "Enjoy your dinner, sir," he said pleasantly...but he flashed a contemptuous glare at wiry Zeno when Donzatto wasn't looking.
Jean-Claude might have been new at the Sterling Room, but he was not about to let some scrawny little coot cheat him out of his rightful tips and get away with it. No fucking way.
* * *
"Listen," said Darcy as he walked Jean-Claude away from Donzatto's table. "These people are V.I.P.s. We give them what they want."
"So I gathered," said Jean-Claude, striding briskly toward Table Ten.
Darcy caught his arm and held him for a moment. "Let me just say this," he said quietly. "They're connected. As connected as you can get."
"Of course," said Jean-Claude.
"He has to have his special waiter," said Darcy. "Takes him everywhere. Loves to eat, obviously, and loves to eat out, but has to have his waiter. Has to be careful, maybe. Know what I mean?"
Jean-Claude moved his arm, and Darcy released his grip. "I've been working in this field for many years," said the waiter, straightening the sleeve of his black uniform jacket. "This is not the first time I've encountered this class of people."
"Good, then," said Darcy, nodding. "I need you to back up this Zeno. Make sure he gets whatever he needs."
Jean-Claude was too busy seething to acknowledge the instruction. As if it hadn't been enough of an indignity to be pulled from a table in his zone, now he was being told to serve as back-up for his replacement.
"Remember," said Darcy. "Whatever Mr. Donzatto wants, Mr. Donzatto gets. I tell you this for your own good."
"I understand," said Jean-Claude. Conveniently, he left out the part about agreeing to do what he was told.
That way, he wouldn't be going back on a promise when he screwed over that personal waiter motherfucker.
* * *
Jean-Claude wished he could have seen the old cripple slip on that grease and hit the floor, but he had to settle for the aftermath. As it worked out, Jean-Claude was stuck at Table Ten when it happened...but that wasn't such a bad thing. The less he was around when Grandpa Fuckhole had bad luck, the less likely it would be that someone would figure out that Jean-Claude was the one making the luck possible.
"Oh my God!" said Jean-Claude, pretending to be surprised when he pushed through the swinging doors and saw Zeno sprawled flat on his back on the floor. "What happened?"
