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“Time to go to work,” I mutter as I make my way through the narrow alleyway.
A place as busy as Grio’s employs more than twenty serving staff during peak hours. With the revolving door for waiters being what it is in LA, I know I have an excellent shot at infiltration.
There’s an art to blending in. A lot of people think it’s all about being unobtrusive. They stick their hands in their pockets and avoid eye contact because they think that will make them stand out less. In reality, it makes them more noticeable, because nobody trusts someone who won’t make eye contact.
And then some people are on the opposite end of the spectrum. They think that blending in means looking as confident and comfortable as possible. These types of people will go out of their way to seem extroverted and friendly.
The right way is, as always, a metered, balanced approach. Most people aren’t gregarious social butterflies, especially when they come into their minimum wage workplace. Likewise, most folks don’t keep their eyes on the ground and avoid social interaction completely.
So I grab an apron and nod at one of the waiters smoking a cigarette by the door, as if we know each other. He nods back, the look in his eyes speaking volumes. The waiter doesn’t recognize me, but he’s too lazy and uninterested to dredge up his memories to verify my identity or not. Exactly the type of response I need.
I head into the back, the heat of the kitchens enveloping me like a tight glove. Sweat beads on my brow as I sidle through a traffic jam near the prep table. Everyone is too busy to pay me much attention.
“Damn, the place is packed,” one young man says to me as I head for the lobby floor.
“Yeah, but that means good tips,” I reply in the same jaded tone.
“Yeah. Good luck out there.”
He claps me on the shoulder as I go. We’ve never met, but he assumes we have. Assumptions are a dangerous thing. I discovered that in my former profession.
Lovato, for example, assumes that he and his table full of sleazy cronies are speaking a pidgin dialect of Portuguese that no one outside of certain parts of South America will understand. But I understand every syllable as I approach their table.
“...told you, Hauer, you can have three brown-skinned girls for the price of one white-skinned one.” Lovato drains a glass of gin and slams the glass back down for emphasis. “Now, I’ll arrange whatever kind of company you need, but as your friend, I have to tell you that you’ll get more bang for your buck if you loosen up on those requirements of yours.”
The apparent Hauer smiles back, but his eyes appear dead behind thick glasses.
“I appreciate you, Marcy, but I like what I like.”
“Well, try not to break your toy so quickly this time. It’s a good thing that Escobar’s nephew needed that kidney transplant, eh? Otherwise your whole purchase would have gone to waste.”
I keep it off my face, but their discourse turns my stomach. Lovato has needed to go for a long damn time. I’m glad to be the penicillin for this particular infection.
“Hi, gentleman,” I say in a high pitched lilt. “I’m Aaron, I’ll be your server today. Can I start you guys out with some water?”
“You can bring me another damn gin and tonic,” Lovato growls. “And some more of those crab cake appetizers.”
“Right away, Sir.”
As I scribble on the pad, I ‘accidentally’ knock over a half full bottle of beer, which pours onto Lovato’s lap.
“You fucking idiot!”
He stands up, staring in rage at the dark spot spreading over his pants.
“I’m so sorry, Sir,” I say, helping him dab at the stain with a cloth. No one notices that I slip my other hand into his pocket and steal his phone.
“Don’t touch me! Just bring me my drink, and those appetizers better be on the house.”
“Of course, sir, I’m sorry again. Your drink and your food will be complimentary.”
I bow my way out, and then head into the lavatory. I get into a stall and shut the door behind me.
I tilt the phone so I can see the reflection off the screen. Greasy fingerprints allow me to discern the four digit code locking his phone. Once I’m in, I start navigating through his many contacts and files.
It only takes me about five minutes of scrolling to hit something juicy. Real juicy. The motherlode of incrimination, you might say. For all of Lovato’s slipperiness, his phone proves to be everything I could ever have hoped for.
Of course, none of it does me any good. I’m not a cop or a prosecutor. But I can pass the information along to the appropriate interested parties, thanks to some help from an old friend.
