Echoes of a Distant Summer (59 page)

The all-clear horn blared and the PA system echoed that it was safe to cross the safety line and begin firing. Jackson said, “I need a few moments to gather my thoughts.” He crossed the safety line to his stall and picked up a pistol. The regular discharge of his gun betrayed no trace of preoccupation. He seemed to be concentrating solely on firing his weapon at the target.

Dan and Lincoln exchanged looks, then they stared at Jackson’s back for a while. However, after a few minutes their gazes fell upon Elizabeth. She returned their stares, shifting back and forth between their faces. After a few moments, she asked, “What’s the question?”

Lincoln answered, “How much do you know about this?”

Elizabeth answered, “Not enough to tell you anything. All I can say is that he had no idea that any of you were in danger. He was thinking that he would have some time to work out an arrangement.” Elizabeth stuck out her hand and said, “By the way, we haven’t really met formally. Elizabeth Carlson.”

A sad smile crossed Dan’s face. “Pardon our manners, I’m Dan Strong and this is Lincoln Shue.” Dan extended his hand. “We’re Jax’s oldest friends. He’s told us about you, so we’re happy to meet you and welcome you into our community. Although this isn’t the best of times.”

“Glad to meet you both,” Elizabeth said with a brief nod of her head.

Lincoln shook hands with Elizabeth and said, “You’re the first woman he’s been excited about in years. Too bad you have to come along now. I hope when this is over we’ll be able to welcome you in a more appropriate manner. But right now, we don’t want any more of our friends turning up in Dumpsters.”

Dan tapped Lincoln on the shoulder and pointed in Jackson’s direction. “Look at those pistols he’s using. I’ll bet you they were his grandfather’s. Look at those ivory handles.”

“You’re right,” Lincoln answered. “We haven’t seen those before.”

Elizabeth asked, “Does Jackson have a lot of guns?”

Dan shrugged. “Is thirty to forty a lot?”

“That’s quite a few,” Elizabeth acknowledged, shaking her head. Of course, it was consistent with her recent feelings. The puzzle was falling into place and the picture was rapidly becoming clearer. She now realized, whether he admitted it or not, that Jackson would never walk away from this conflict. He possessed all the skills and wherewithal to carry on this war to its bitter end. He was merely a warrior who needed to be awakened, and the events of the past few days were enough to bring him out of his slumber. She knew this to be true down in the pit of her stomach. It seemed so obvious now, she didn’t understand why she hadn’t seen it from the very beginning.

Jackson walked up to the table and opened a box of bullets and began loading magazines for his pistols. Jackson turned and faced his
friends and said quietly, “This is not the place to talk about this. Let’s go someplace where we can have a little privacy. I have a proposal to put to you concerning this situation.”

As he strode across the open meadow to get his targets, Jackson realized with foreboding that he would have to take some proactive steps in order to deflect attention from his friends and family. His situation was complicated by the fact that Carlos was in Mexico and not available for consultation. Nor would his decision be made easier by the expression he had seen on Elizabeth’s face. It was clear that his dangerous and winding path into the future would be traveled without her presence. He swallowed his sadness and tore the targets off their mounts. When he looked at the shreds of paper in his hands, he felt he was holding the ripped tatters of his heart.

D
ominique Volante Asti stood at one of the large wooden cutting boards, expertly chopping zucchini into thin slices. Her knife flashed in the bright kitchen lights as it cut through the soft squash and hit against the cutting board in a rapid staccato. Dominique moved swiftly through the large bowl of zucchini. She did not let her anger affect her efficiency. It was nearly eleven-thirty, time to open the restaurant’s doors for the lunch crowd. Simple vegetable preparation should have been completed by ten o’clock. She was furious at the lack of organization with which DiMarco ran his business. Once again Mickey Vazzi, the prep cook, had called in sick and DiMarco, who had the responsibility of setting up the cash drawer and assisting in lunch prep, was nowhere to be seen. In addition, Carlo Luna, the head chef, had not arrived. Consequently, she had to reassign the waitstaff to lunch preparation chores instead of letting them set up tables with linen and cutlery.

“Rosaria, bring me the bowl of red bell peppers and I’ll chop those before I go out and open the restaurant’s doors. Did you finish washing the lettuce and cutting the tomatoes?”

“Almost, Dominique,” Rosaria answered. She was a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks and short brown hair. She bustled over with a large metal bowl. “Here’s the red bell peppers. We won’t have all the tables prepared by the time you open up. Do you want to hold off opening until twelve?”

“Can’t run a restaurant business like that,” Dominique said with a shake of her head. “We’ll prepare the tables by the windows first and seat people at those until we finish with the rest.” She began cleaning bell peppers while cursing DiMarco under her breath.

Carlo Luna staggered into the kitchen with a huge box and set it down on the counter. He stared at Rosaria and Dominique performing their chores and asked, “Where’s Mickey? He was supposed to have that finished this morning.”

“He called in sick again,” Dominique answered without warmth. “Where were you? You were supposed to be here.”

“I’ve been to the fish market. I told Paul that I could get some good prices on fresh calamari, crab, and shrimp from my brother. Paul told me to go ahead. He knew I was going to be late.” Carlo took off his jacket and washed his hands. “Did somebody take out the sauces? Is the minestrone on the stove?”

“Only the minestrone,” Dominique answered. “I didn’t know what the specials were going to be today. We’ve got to work out better communication. Nobody told me you were coming in late and I don’t know where the hell DiMarco is. If we are going to run a good restaurant I need to know what’s going on!”

“I don’t blame you,” Carlo said as he began moving swiftly around the kitchen. “I’ll make sure to tell you my ideas for the next day’s menus before I close the kitchen at night. You can go and finish in the dining room. I’ve got the kitchen covered.”

Dominique took off her apron and went out to assist with the work in the dining room. At a quarter of twelve, she opened the doors for customers. There were two men waiting at the door. She showed them to a table by the window and informed them that lunch entrées were a bit delayed, but if they would wait she would provide the wine free of charge. The men declined the wine and indicated that time was not a problem. Dominique returned to her chores and told the waitress to be attentive to the two men. Several other customers entered and Dominique seated them and made them the same offer as she had the first two.

Nearly all the tables were set with linen and cutlery when Jackson Tremain entered the restaurant and waited to be seated. Dominique grabbed a menu and went to greet him.

“Would you like lunch?” she asked with a smile.

He returned her smile and nodded his head. “A table by the window would be great.”

“You’re just ahead of the rush hour, so I think I can squeeze you in.”

Jackson looked around at the nearly empty restaurant and said, “I
certainly hope so. It looks like people really knock one another down to get in here.”

Dominique was in no mood for sarcasm. “We’re running a little late today, sir. Perhaps you’d rather choose another restaurant. I can recommend several that are close by.”

“No, I’ve chosen correctly. Sorry if I offended you. I know the restaurant business takes considerable work and investment of energy.”

Dominique was mollified by the apology and as she led Jackson to a table by the window she said, “I normally have more of a sense of humor, but on days when people don’t show up for work, I get a little crazy. It makes it quite hectic for the remainder of the staff.”

“I know what you mean,” Jackson said, sitting down. “I ran a bar on the east coast of Spain that served food in the late sixties and early seventies.”

“I spent a lot of time in Spain,” Dominique said. “Where did you manage a bar?”

“In Sitges, about twenty-four clicks southwest of Barcelona.”

“I’ve been to Sitges!” Dominique exclaimed. “I was there in 1969! What was the name of your bar?”

Jackson replied, “The Taverna, but everyone called it the American Bar. We used to sell hamburgers and fries from four to ten in the evening.”

Dominique took a step backward and said, “I’ve been in that bar!” She looked closely at Jackson. “You were the black guy behind the bar. You used to put on Jimi Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’ at closing time. I remember you! You and your roommates had an apartment on the beach and used to give wild parties.”

Jackson nodded. “That was me!”

“This is quite a coincidence! What’s your name?”

“Jackson Tremain, and what’s yours?” He extended his hand.

“Dominique Asti,” she said, shaking his hand. “Everyone called you Jax and one of your partners in the bar was a short guy with a Spanish name, but he wasn’t Spanish.… It was Pres something.”

“Pres Cordero.”

“That’s it! I went with him to one of the private parties you guys gave up at Villa San Miguel! He was a really nice guy. What ever happened to him?”

“Pres lives in Oakland. He will be very interested to hear that I saw
you. He was truly heartbroken when you disappeared. You got under his skin.”

Dominique smiled. “I’d like to see him again. He sort of got under my skin too.”

“Thirteen years and ten thousand miles away; what kismet to meet you here,” Jackson mused. “You’re not related to the DiMarcos, are you?”

The mention of DiMarco’s name brought Dominique out of her reverie. There were some customers waiting by the door. “No, I just work here,” she said with a sad smile. “Pardon me, there are people waiting to be seated.” She whirled away and went to the door.

As she was seating the second party at a table near the bar, she saw Paul DiMarco and Mickey Vazzi enter the restaurant. DiMarco went straight to the bar and got himself a shot of scotch. Vazzi saw Dominique and his pockmarked face broke into a leer, then he continued on into the kitchen. Dominique went over to DiMarco as he was downing his second scotch.

“We almost didn’t open for lunch,” she said in a flat, toneless voice. “There was no prep cook this morning and Carlo didn’t come in from the fish market until after eleven.”

“So? We’re open now, ain’t we?” DiMarco replied in a surly tone.

Dominique looked at Ernie, the bartender, who upon seeing the look found something to do in the storeroom. “As maître d’ I need to know when people are not going to be at work, especially if I’m going to be responsible for opening up!”

DiMarco growled, “I don’t have time for this shit!” He stared at her and thought he didn’t care whether she was a trained assassin or not. His life was already in jeopardy because of the Lenzinis. The local newspapers had been full of reports of how they had been found in a house under construction, stripped of their pants and underwear and tied together. They had been arrested because they were both carrying guns and neither had a valid license for concealed weapons. The only reason he was still alive was that they hadn’t squealed on him yet, and they wouldn’t, if he found them first. DiMarco and Vazzi had scoured the town looking for them, but no luck. They had gone into hiding after making their bail. However, the police were now looking for them also, since discovering that one of their guns had been used in an unsolved murder. He had to find them soon or it would be his ass. They would sell him out to save themselves. DiMarco set down his glass and
saw that Dominique was still waiting as if she deserved an answer. He pointed a thick, stubby index finger at her and growled, “I own this goddamn restaurant! Get it? Not you! You work here! Now get the fuck out of my face!”

Dominique was so angry, she was speechless. She stood silently staring at DiMarco. DiMarco reached over the bar and poured himself another scotch then picked up his glass and returned her gaze with a smirk on his face.

Rosaria came over and stood waiting for DiMarco to acknowledge her. He broke off his visual duel with Dominique and turned to Rosaria. “What the hell do you want?” he snarled.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. DiMarco, but one of the customers wants to talk with you,” she said politely.

“Who?”

Rosaria turned and pointed to Jackson sitting by the window. “The gentleman at table twenty-six.”

“What the hell does that eggplant want?”

“I don’t know, sir. He said to tell you his name was Jackson Tremain, that you’d know what he wants.”

The look on DiMarco’s face changed suddenly. The smirk was gone and it was replaced by a sly, cunning look. “Tell Mickey Vazzi to come out and join me in five minutes.” He turned and walked toward table twenty-six without another word to Dominique.