Read Online Caper by Parnell Hall - Free Book Online

schoolgirl, toting a book bag. She wasn’t giggling like she’d been smoking grass. Of course, I wasn’t too up on what a teenager smoking grass acted like. I hadn’t even seen any of the stoner movies. I only knew the half of Harold and Kumar that was on House . Nonetheless, if she was buzzed, I would have expected some difference. She did seem a little exhilarated. I don’t recall marijuana producing exhilaration. A goofy, mellow groove, not an upper. Or so I hear.
    Sharon and Congressman Blake returned to their table, which was not that far from mine, but closer to the stage, which was good in that they’d be looking in that direction, whereas I’d be looking at them.
    The congressman signaled the waiter over, gave him an order. Eager to use up his two hundred bucks, no doubt.
    When the waiter left they picked up the large leather-bound menus on the table. I had one on mine but hadn’t paid any attention to it. That’s because I never took the advance course on private eye surveillance about appearing natural in a restaurant by pretending you were there to eat.
    I picked up the menu, flipped it open, so if a waiter appeared I’d be ready. I could place my order without taking my eyes off the congressman and the kid. I took a look at the entrees. The rib-eye looked good. At sixty-five bucks it would take a whack out of the hundred-dollar deposit. What the hell. I was hungry. Might as well use it up.
    And for starters, a pear salad, with shaved reggiano and balsamic vinaigrette, for a mere eighteen ninety-five. Throw in tax and the Diet Coke, and my waiter might start liking me again.
    My waiter seemed in no hurry to take my order. He reappeared with my Diet Coke, plunked it on the table, and was gone before I could ask him about the day’s specials. Not that I was going to, but even so.
    I wondered how many tables the guy was covering. Not the congressman and the kid. Their waiter was back with a tray from which he delivered the congressman a martini, and the kid … a margarita!
    Oh, the charges were adding up.
    Sharon sipped her drink, giggled, licked salt off the rim of her glass.
    I wondered if they carded anyone in this place. Or if she just got by because she was with the congressman. I wondered if he was a regular. That would make sense. He was allowed backstage. He was allowed to order booze for his pubescent date. After smoking dope, no doubt.
    The waiter came back, asked me if I’d made up my mind. I hadn’t, really. I was torn between ordering the rib-eye and breaking the congressman’s nose. It was a tossup, really. I mean, the rib-eye sounded good, but the thought of hearing that nose crack …
    I stifled the urge, ordered salad and the steak.
    â€œHow would you like it cooked?”
    â€œIf I say rare, what will I get?
    â€œRare is bloody. Medium rare is red. Medium is pink.”
    â€œI guess I tend toward medium.”
    The waiter repeated “tend toward medium” as if he were writing it down. More likely, “asshole, burn it.”
    â€œWould you like another Diet Coke?”
    I’d barely touched the one I had. “Not just yet.”
    As the waiter hurried off in quest of fresher game, I realized my attention had been diverted momentarily from the congressman and the kid. There was a waiter at their table too, going through a similar routine, though probably with more deference. He seemed quite happy with what he was writing. Probably “big tipper, remember to smile.”
    The waiter’s routine ended with a gesture toward their drinks.
    Sharon’s margarita was half gone. She nodded yes. The congressman shook his head.
    Son of a bitch. Staying sober while plying her with booze. I wondered why. Was there anything he wanted she wouldn’t do? Something particularly kinky, perhaps? Which would explain the elaborate preparations, the trip, the dope, the booze.
    Sort of.
    The lights went down, and the