Black Widow
Page 77
Given my luck, I was betting that would happen sooner rather than later.
But the days and weeks passed by, and before I knew it, I was standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant on a cool November day, staring up at the freshly cleaned sign with the pig holding a platter of food. Maybe I should change the logo to a phoenix. After all, the restaurant had risen from the ashes, just like I had. I grinned. Nah. I liked things just the way they were.
Still, as I slid my key into the front-door lock, I couldn’t help but look around, searching for rune traps and any other nasty surprises that someone might have left for me. But things had been shockingly, amazingly quiet since I killed Madeline. None of the underworld bosses had sent any more of their men after me. No one had tried to kill me at all. Perhaps they’d taken my words to heart. Or perhaps they were lying in wait like Madeline had, spinning their black-widow webs and hoping to ensnare me in them. Either way, I’d finally gotten my peace and quiet, and I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
There were no runes or traps, so I stepped inside the restaurant and locked the front door behind me. It was early, just after nine, and today was the first day that I was going to open the restaurant since the night it had burned.
I looked out over the storefront, which was brand spanking new, yet so familiar at the same time. Everything inside was new, shiny, and polished, from the blue-and-pink vinyl booths that lined my improved bulletproof windows, to the sturdy metal tables and chairs in the middle of the storefront, to the padded, swivel stools that fronted the long counter that ran along the back wall.
I’d even had an artist come in and redo the blue and pink pig tracks on the floor. They curved over to the restrooms as usual, but the artist had taken the extra step of having the tracks lead to other places too—the cash register, the double doors, the back of the restaurant, and even up onto the walls and all the way across the ceiling. To me, the tracks were almost like Fletcher’s footsteps, marking his paths through the restaurant and all the memories I had of him here over the years. Mine too. I liked them, and I knew that he would have too.
I moved over to the counter and ran my hand along the slick surface. Since I’d had to remodel the entire restaurant, I’d upgraded everything inside and now had fancy new appliances, dishes, and silverware that would put the most expensive, highfalutin, and uppity restaurant to shame. Underwood’s didn’t have stoves, pots, and pans as nice as I did now. Even the dish towels were all new, fresh, and clean.
I moved over to the cash register. It was just about the only thing that I hadn’t modernized. Oh, it was new to me, but Jo-Jo had found it in one of the antique shops a few blocks over. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one that Fletcher had had for so many years, but it was close enough and made a similar ring-ring-ring whenever I opened the cash drawer.
But there were two important things that were missing. I unzipped the black duffel bag hanging off my shoulder and reached inside. I drew out some paneling nails, along with a small hammer. A few tack-tack-tacks later, and I had put two nails in the wall close to the cash register, right where I wanted them.
When that was done, I put the nails and hammer away and reached back into the bag. The photo of a young Fletcher with an equally young Warren T. Fox went up on one nail. On the other, I carefully hung the framed copy of Where the Red Fern Grows, the one that was spattered with the old man’s blood. I looked at the two framed items, the counter, the old-fashioned cash register, and the pig tracks curving every which way through the restaurant. Things that were old, new, borrowed, and blue. I took them all as a sign of good luck. I had finally reclaimed the last thing that Madeline had tried to take away from me, and it felt damn good.
The Pork Pit was back in business.
* * *
I admired the restaurant for a few more minutes before getting to work. Turning on the appliances, tying a new blue work apron on over my jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt, pulling out vegetables and other foodstuffs to get everything ready for the day.
The first thing I put together was a vat of Fletcher’s secret barbecue sauce. As soon as it started simmering away with its rich, smoky mix of cumin, black pepper, and other spices, the restaurant felt like home again. I quickly fell into the usual routines and lost myself in the welcome familiarity of cooking. Sophia, Catalina, and the rest of the waitstaff came in, and I went over and flipped the sign on the front door over to Open.
My first customer of the day was Moira Monroe.
The bright, shiny silver bell over the front door chimed, and the little girl skipped inside, followed by Jo-Jo. Moira was the only thing that we hadn’t told the cops about, and she’d been staying with the Deveraux sisters ever since we found her. But today, she was leaving Ashland—I hoped for good.
It had taken them more than two weeks, but together Finn and Silvio had managed to find her father, Connor Dupree. Apparently, in the middle of the night, Emery had stormed into the hotel room where he’d been hiding with Moira and had taken his daughter away from him, almost beating him to death. I’d had Finn and Silvio thoroughly vet the dad, digging into every part of his life and background, but he seemed to be a genuinely good guy who loved his daughter.
Jo-Jo led Moira over to the counter and helped her sit up on the stool closest to the cash register.
“Hi, Gin,” the little girl said in a bright voice.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you having fun with Jo-Jo?”
A grin spread across Moira’s face. “She painted my nails this morning. See? I can’t wait to show them to my daddy when he gets here.”
She held out her hand so I could see the pale pink polish and silver sparkles that glittered on her tiny nails.
“They’re so pretty,” I said. “Just like you.”
Moira giggled and started spinning around and around on her stool. I fixed her a cheeseburger and some sweet-potato fries, and a barbecue-chicken sandwich and some coleslaw for Jo-Jo.
People came and went, and we had a much larger crowd than I’d thought we would, everyone from my friends and family to folks who had heard about the fire and had come to gawk at how the Pork Pit was open for business again—and that I was still standing when I should have been cold, dead, and buried in the ground.
Eventually, Jo-Jo moved Moira over to one of the booths so the little girl could color on a paper place mat printed with the Pork Pit’s pig logo.
But the days and weeks passed by, and before I knew it, I was standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant on a cool November day, staring up at the freshly cleaned sign with the pig holding a platter of food. Maybe I should change the logo to a phoenix. After all, the restaurant had risen from the ashes, just like I had. I grinned. Nah. I liked things just the way they were.
Still, as I slid my key into the front-door lock, I couldn’t help but look around, searching for rune traps and any other nasty surprises that someone might have left for me. But things had been shockingly, amazingly quiet since I killed Madeline. None of the underworld bosses had sent any more of their men after me. No one had tried to kill me at all. Perhaps they’d taken my words to heart. Or perhaps they were lying in wait like Madeline had, spinning their black-widow webs and hoping to ensnare me in them. Either way, I’d finally gotten my peace and quiet, and I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
There were no runes or traps, so I stepped inside the restaurant and locked the front door behind me. It was early, just after nine, and today was the first day that I was going to open the restaurant since the night it had burned.
I looked out over the storefront, which was brand spanking new, yet so familiar at the same time. Everything inside was new, shiny, and polished, from the blue-and-pink vinyl booths that lined my improved bulletproof windows, to the sturdy metal tables and chairs in the middle of the storefront, to the padded, swivel stools that fronted the long counter that ran along the back wall.
I’d even had an artist come in and redo the blue and pink pig tracks on the floor. They curved over to the restrooms as usual, but the artist had taken the extra step of having the tracks lead to other places too—the cash register, the double doors, the back of the restaurant, and even up onto the walls and all the way across the ceiling. To me, the tracks were almost like Fletcher’s footsteps, marking his paths through the restaurant and all the memories I had of him here over the years. Mine too. I liked them, and I knew that he would have too.
I moved over to the counter and ran my hand along the slick surface. Since I’d had to remodel the entire restaurant, I’d upgraded everything inside and now had fancy new appliances, dishes, and silverware that would put the most expensive, highfalutin, and uppity restaurant to shame. Underwood’s didn’t have stoves, pots, and pans as nice as I did now. Even the dish towels were all new, fresh, and clean.
I moved over to the cash register. It was just about the only thing that I hadn’t modernized. Oh, it was new to me, but Jo-Jo had found it in one of the antique shops a few blocks over. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one that Fletcher had had for so many years, but it was close enough and made a similar ring-ring-ring whenever I opened the cash drawer.
But there were two important things that were missing. I unzipped the black duffel bag hanging off my shoulder and reached inside. I drew out some paneling nails, along with a small hammer. A few tack-tack-tacks later, and I had put two nails in the wall close to the cash register, right where I wanted them.
When that was done, I put the nails and hammer away and reached back into the bag. The photo of a young Fletcher with an equally young Warren T. Fox went up on one nail. On the other, I carefully hung the framed copy of Where the Red Fern Grows, the one that was spattered with the old man’s blood. I looked at the two framed items, the counter, the old-fashioned cash register, and the pig tracks curving every which way through the restaurant. Things that were old, new, borrowed, and blue. I took them all as a sign of good luck. I had finally reclaimed the last thing that Madeline had tried to take away from me, and it felt damn good.
The Pork Pit was back in business.
* * *
I admired the restaurant for a few more minutes before getting to work. Turning on the appliances, tying a new blue work apron on over my jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt, pulling out vegetables and other foodstuffs to get everything ready for the day.
The first thing I put together was a vat of Fletcher’s secret barbecue sauce. As soon as it started simmering away with its rich, smoky mix of cumin, black pepper, and other spices, the restaurant felt like home again. I quickly fell into the usual routines and lost myself in the welcome familiarity of cooking. Sophia, Catalina, and the rest of the waitstaff came in, and I went over and flipped the sign on the front door over to Open.
My first customer of the day was Moira Monroe.
The bright, shiny silver bell over the front door chimed, and the little girl skipped inside, followed by Jo-Jo. Moira was the only thing that we hadn’t told the cops about, and she’d been staying with the Deveraux sisters ever since we found her. But today, she was leaving Ashland—I hoped for good.
It had taken them more than two weeks, but together Finn and Silvio had managed to find her father, Connor Dupree. Apparently, in the middle of the night, Emery had stormed into the hotel room where he’d been hiding with Moira and had taken his daughter away from him, almost beating him to death. I’d had Finn and Silvio thoroughly vet the dad, digging into every part of his life and background, but he seemed to be a genuinely good guy who loved his daughter.
Jo-Jo led Moira over to the counter and helped her sit up on the stool closest to the cash register.
“Hi, Gin,” the little girl said in a bright voice.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you having fun with Jo-Jo?”
A grin spread across Moira’s face. “She painted my nails this morning. See? I can’t wait to show them to my daddy when he gets here.”
She held out her hand so I could see the pale pink polish and silver sparkles that glittered on her tiny nails.
“They’re so pretty,” I said. “Just like you.”
Moira giggled and started spinning around and around on her stool. I fixed her a cheeseburger and some sweet-potato fries, and a barbecue-chicken sandwich and some coleslaw for Jo-Jo.
People came and went, and we had a much larger crowd than I’d thought we would, everyone from my friends and family to folks who had heard about the fire and had come to gawk at how the Pork Pit was open for business again—and that I was still standing when I should have been cold, dead, and buried in the ground.
Eventually, Jo-Jo moved Moira over to one of the booths so the little girl could color on a paper place mat printed with the Pork Pit’s pig logo.
