11.2. Nate Andros
Nate was serving Saturday brunch at the Coastal Kitchen when the guy came in. Huge, hamhanded, with a face like a pork loin. He didn’t exactly fit in on Capitol Hill, where the men were less macho as a rule: students, artists, musicians, gays. Nate was too distracted this morning to notice, not until someone pointed him out.
“Rambo at ten o’clock,” said Michél as he spun by carrying twin platters, his hips swinging.
Nate looked and saw that Pork-Loin-Face—Rambo—was looking at a menu. He’d been seated in Nate’s section.
“Great,” Nate said, to no one in particular.
He was exhausted. He’d been at the hospital until 2:00 A.M., hovering around the waiting room. The police had finally asked who he was, and he’d said, “A friend.” He would have told them more, if they’d pressed. They didn’t. They seemed disorganized. And the longer he’d sat there without being questioned, the more nervous he became about what he would say, so he’d ditched.
Maybe he shouldn’t have come in to work today. He wasn’t thinking too clearly. This morning it had seemed like a good excuse in case the cops asked why he hadn’t come to the station to volunteer what he knew: I was working. But he could barely make himself go through the paces. He was frantic about Jill, wishing he could be at her bedside to hold her hand—as if she’d want him to—or at least be there to see for himself that she was going to be okay. And he couldn’t stop thinking, too, about the deep, deep, deep shit they were in. Atlantic Ocean deep.
What the hell was he going to tell the police? What could he tell them without making Jill look guilty as hell? Or himself, for that matter? He was as much a party to everything that had happened as she was.
“What is the matter with you today, boy?” Michél asked. Nate was staring down at an undelivered omelet as if the clues to the universe had to do with eggs, caramelized onions, and Havarti.
“Nothing.”
Michél put his empty plates in the back room and returned, put a hand on Nate’s arm. “Are you sick? You look like Death, and I don’t mean Brad Pitt.”
Nate collected himself. “I was thinking about something, that’s all.”
He took the coffeepot and filled up a few of his tables. He was running out of ways to avoid taking Rambo’s order, so he headed over there.
Rambo stared at him as he approached. There was a curled-up sneer on his face—the look a cat gets when it’s smelled something particularly piquant. Nate could guess what that smell was: he was the only straight waiter in the place and the clientele was pretty much fifty-fifty.
“What can I get you?”
“Steak and eggs. Coffee.”
“Sure.” Paleolithic. Big surprise. Nate reached for the menu. Rambo clamped a fist over his wrist.
It hurt, as it was meant to, but it was more of a shock, that someone would do that in the first place and do it here, on Nate’s own turf. He guffed a laugh, stared at the man indignantly.
“Nate Andros, right?”
Nate nodded, his view of the man shifting instantly. Cop. He should have guessed.
Rambo used his nonsqueezing hand to show a badge, making sure Nate had plenty of time to read it. ED HINKLE. FBI. “I’m going to eat my steak; then you and I are going to chat. So go tell your boss you’re leaving early.”
Nate was still nodding; his neck had, in fact, grown springs, so he didn’t have to make a special nod for this occasion. Rambo released him.
The kitchen grill was open to the restaurant, the chefs and diners face-to-face. But behind the grill was a back room where they did dishes and yakked. Nate grabbed some dirty plates and went back there, wanting to get out of the man’s sight.
Nate stood breathing heavily and looking around the long room. There were boxes of food, the dishwashing machine, and a walk-in fridge. There was no back door. This was an urban neighborhood, and the only doors in the whole place were the front door, in the restaurant itself, and a door at the tail end of the restaurant that led to a small balcony two stories up with no stairs.
FBI! Shit!
He had an order up. He delivered a salmon salad and a scramble. He could feel Rambo’s eyes boring into him.
“Boy, you are hyperventilatin’! What’s up?” Michél was at the waiters’ counter, along with Justin, a blue-eyed Iowan who had all the other waiters drooling. Nate muttered something indiscernible and went into the back. They followed.
“You’re driving me crazy, and I hate that.” Michél blocked the doorway, hands on his size 21 waist.
“That guy out there,” Nate said, scared and sounding it. “He’s FBI.”
“Rambo? No shit?” Michél looked back over his shoulder, delighted.
“What’s goin’ on?” Justin asked with cowboy sincerity.
“I think he wants to talk to me about that explosion on campus last night.” Nate gripped his abdomen and bent over. Just saying it made his stomach ache.
“You had something to do with that?” Michél was no longer goofing, his face worried. “Oh, jesu, are you in trouble. Mannie works over at Swedish. He called me this morning, says the FBI are all over the place, man. They’ve got that scientist from the news, what’s her name, Dr. Talbot or something?”
Mannie was Michél’s partner, a male nurse. Nate was startled at this news. When had the FBI taken over? And why?
“Talcott. I’ve been her grad student for the past two years.”
Michél went maternal and put his arm around Nate. “Oh my god! What were you guys doing? Did she really cause that explosion?”
Nate shook his head mutely. I don’t know. But his face burned. Yeah, she did. He did. They did. Michél and Justin exchanged a look.
“Listen, you don’t want to talk to this guy, just say the word.”
“No problem.” Justin nodded.
Nate looked at their resolute faces. “I’ll have to talk to them eventually.”
“Yeah, but do you want to talk to them now, that’s the question.” Michél held out his hand, expression Cuban cocky, as if to say, You don’t have to do shit while I’m around.
Nate breathed deeply and raked a hand through his cropped hair. He went to the doorway and peeked out. Rambo was staring right at him. Someone had taken him his order and he chewed steak, looking back at Nate with eyes that had a little too much… anticipation in them.
Nate drew back, confused. This didn’t feel right. Why was the guy alone? Why couldn’t Nate just talk to the police instead of this goon? And there was this whole gay thing mixed up in it, that look of disdain. Was Rambo a homophobe? Would he take the opportunity to beat the crap out of him?
Nate nodded quickly at Justin and Michél before he could change his mind. “Yeah. Get me out of here.”
Michél unfurled a smile the devil couldn’t have matched. “You got it, sweetcheeks.”
Five minutes later, the entire Coastal Kitchen crew was huddled over a piece of chocolate mousse. Michél lit the candle and winked at Nate.
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!”
The rousing chorus line descended on Rambo with felicitations, blocking his view and his path. Nate beat it out the front door.
He was heading toward his apartment when he realized that wouldn’t be smart. If the FBI knew where he worked they had to know where he lived. And his bike was there, damn it, and therefore irretrievable.
He was standing on one of the residential streets that stretched off Fifteenth. Old brick apartment buildings lined the narrow street. He sank down to sit beside a car to get out of sight, put a piece of gum in his mouth, which was drier than dust, and tried to think it through.