Brand New Me (7 page)

Tom gave her a long look when she came in, then shrugged, leaning over the end of the bar where she stood out of everybody’s way. “Ready to go?”

“I guess so. What do I do?”

He shrugged. “It’s pretty straight. Take the orders. Bring them to me or Harry. Pick up the drinks. Take them back to the table. Get the money.”

Deirdre blinked at him. “What do I do with the money?”

He gave her a look that made her feel like a moron. Correction,
more
like a moron. “Bring it to me. Here. When you get a break.” He turned back to open the cash register, reaching inside. “Here’s a stack of ten singles to start with. For change—put it in your pocket. Keep your tips in your other pocket so they don’t get confused.”

She nodded, folding the money into the pocket of her khakis, then turned back to the room.
Just men. Nothing to be nervous about here. Just men.
She stiffened her spine and walked to the first table. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

One of the men glanced at her, cupping a hand over his ear. “What?”

“What do you want to drink?” Deirdre felt like she was bellowing, but the rest of the table hadn’t even turned her way yet.

“Hey,” the first man called to his friends. “Doofus. What are you drinking?”

Two other heads swiveled back.

“What can I get for you?” Deirdre shouted.

“Shiner. Three drafts,” the first man bawled out.

Deirdre turned on her heel and headed back to the bar. “Shiner. Three drafts,” she yelled at Harry.

He poured them in record time, sliding them across the bar. Deirdre stared at them dumbly. She had no idea how she was supposed to pick them up.

“On the tray,” Tom explained. He pushed the three steins together so that the handles formed a circle, then lifted them onto a metal tray. “If you get more than three or four, call Chico to help you.”

Deirdre grabbed the tray and hoisted it to her shoulder—it was a lot heavier than it looked. She staggered back across the room, then plunked the steins into the middle of the table.

The three men looked up at her. One of them gave his buddy a quick grin. “I can’t reach it, honey,” he bawled. “Push it a little closer.”

Deirdre frowned. He wouldn’t have much trouble if he just leaned forward. Still, she was supposed to do her best even if this was a transparent attempt to look down the front of her shirt. Not that the front of her golf shirt was all that enticing
.
She leaned down slightly and shoved the beer in his direction.

The man’s grin widened and then stopped abruptly. Deirdre had a sudden sense of someone at her side and looked up to find Chico glaring at the table.

The men looked away from her as the song ended on the jukebox. “That’ll be six dollars,” Deirdre said quickly in the relative silence.

The first man handed her a ten. Deirdre started to reach into her pocket, but he shook his head after glancing at Chico. “Keep it.”

“Thanks.” Deirdre moved on to the next table, vaguely aware of Chico in the background. She was glad he’d come over, but she needed to look out for herself if she was going to do this.

She went back to the bar to give Tom the ten, then pocketed the tip. Another table gestured at her, trying to get her attention. She had a feeling others were beginning to turn her way.
Oh well. The more tips you get, the closer you are to getting your shop.

She pasted a smile on her face and headed for the next group of drinkers.

Tom watched his newest barmaid square her shoulders as if she were heading into battle. In a way, of course, she was. A battle against the assholes of the world. Unfortunately, it was a battle she wouldn’t win, but then neither would anybody else.

Deirdre Brandenburg could eventually work out well, assuming that she got the hang of the job. Right now she looked at little like a refugee from prep school who’d stumbled into the bar by accident. He sighed. While she was dressed like that, most of the customers wouldn’t give her a second glance. Hell, he even forgot what a knockout she was unless he was looking directly at her face.

On the other side of the room, Sylvia cast a few exasperated looks Deirdre’s way, but given the amount of complaining she’d done about being the only full-time barmaid in the place, she didn’t have any room to gripe. She wanted help, and now she’d gotten it, tentative and fumbling though it was at the moment.
Be careful what you wish for, Sylvia.

Of course, that could also be good advice for him. He’d wanted a good-looking barmaid, and he’d gotten Audrey Hepburn, circa 1958. Not exactly what he’d been expecting. But the real question was, could Audrey Hepburn sell Shiner Bock?

He watched Deirdre slide nervously between the tables, apparently trying not to get trapped by groping hands. Of course, if anybody tried any serious groping, Chico would be on them in a split second. Still, he was amazed that someone so heartstoppingly beautiful was so unsure of herself. As if she had no idea what she looked like.

He blew out a quick sigh. At least a few more locals might come to the bar after the town heard his new waitress was related, although distantly, to the Toleffsons. And Deirdre didn’t give any indication of being a pain in the ass. He’d known his share of knockouts, and they’d all been trouble on a stick. Deirdre Brandenburg didn’t strike him as any kind of trouble at all. Except for the trouble she might cause if she ever showed up wearing something besides L.L. Bean.

“Two margaritas,” Sylvia snapped.

He’d been so busy watching Deirdre he hadn’t even noticed her walk up.
Oops
. He turned back to grab the tequila.

“Where’d you find her?” Sylvia’s voice sounded particularly edgy tonight.

“She walked in today. Needed a job.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“She will.” He placed the drinks on her tray.

“She doesn’t belong here.” Sylvia sounded almost envious, like she wished she didn’t belong in the Faro either, all evidence to the contrary.

Tom sighed. “Sure she does. Just roll with it, Sylvia. She’ll work out.” He watched Sylvia flounce back across the room and profoundly hoped he was right.

Deirdre was at her shop by nine the next morning.
Her shop.
She paused to let the idiot grin fade away. She’d managed to get Tom Ames to give her the key the night before so that she could at least see what needed to be done. Now she stood in the middle of the room, fighting a mixture of elation and dismay.

The place was dirty.
Really
dirty. Dirtier than any place where she’d ever spent time before. The concrete floor was streaked with dust and some stains that looked like grease. The walls needed to be washed down and then repainted. The finish on the shelves was cracked and peeling. She walked slowly toward the back. The counter at the end of the room was at least in decent shape, although the surface needed a good cleaning.

She measured the space between the back wall and the counter carefully. The coffee maker could go here, although the roaster would need to go in the back storage room, along with the sacks of beans. Since the sink was on the other side of the wall, the plumbing connection should be easy. The cooler would go on the other side of the door, so that customers could see what they had for drinks besides coffee. Right now, she figured mineral water and maybe some artisan sodas. And iced tea for the traditionalists.

That was assuming, of course, that she could clean off at least a few layers of grime. Right now the health department would probably shut her down in about five seconds if she tried to serve anything edible. She turned back to the sack of cleaning supplies she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way there, hoping she’d gotten enough, at least to start.

An hour later, she’d managed to wash most of the surface dirt off the floor, although the stains looked like they’d need either a scraper or a steam cleaner. Deirdre bit her lip, wondering if Tom Ames would be interested in splitting the cost of renting one, assuming she could run it herself. She sighed. Probably not, since he’d let the shop get into this condition in the first place.

Someone knocked on the front door she had propped open, and Tom himself stepped inside. He wrinkled his nose. “Stinks in here.”

She shrugged. “Ammonia. It’s in the cleaner. That’s why I’ve got the doors and windows open.”

He glanced around the room, frowning. “Floor looks better. What do you want to do about the walls?”

“I’ll get to them next. They’ll need a good washing down and then some paint.”

He nodded absently. “And the shelves?”

“They’ll need to be stripped and repainted too.” She swallowed. “Would you be willing to spring for the paint?”

He shrugged. “Sure. It’s my place. Are you sure you can do all of this by yourself?”

Deirdre blew out a breath. “I’ve already figured out what I need. I can do it.”

“If you think you can, go for it. Of course, I might need to raise the rent after you finish fixing the place up.”

She stared at him until she saw the corners of his mouth edge up into a grin.

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“Good to know.”

“You might want to go home and get cleaned up yourself. Lunch shift starts in less than an hour.”

She glanced regretfully at the damp floor. One more pass might do it. On the other hand, she was currently too filthy to wait tables, even at the Faro. “I guess I’d better start bringing clean clothes with me when I come over here in the morning. Then I can just clean up in the back before I start work.”

“Okay by me. See you later.” He started toward the door.

“What should I do with those boxes in the back room?” she called after him.

He paused, frowning slightly. “Ferguson’s T-shirts? I’ve been using them for bar rags. I guess you could use them for cleaning. They’re not worth much more than that.”

“Oh.” She glanced back at the boxes piled in the storeroom. “They’re all T-shirts? All those boxes?”

“Far as I know. Do what you want with them—like I say, they’re not worth much.” Tom headed back out the door.

Deirdre stood staring at the storeroom, with its leaning tower of T-shirts, then glanced at her watch. Unfortunately, Tom was right. She’d have to leave them until this afternoon, after the noon rush was over.

Craig Dempsey sat opposite Big John Brandenburg’s desk, pretending he wasn’t intimidated. Brandenburg’s desk was an antique—heavy mahogany, burnished to the color of old honey, a good six feet across and a yard wide. Plenty of room for Big John himself and a message to anybody sitting on the other side.

Be impressed. Be very impressed.

Craig was. Money always impressed him, mainly because he knew how to spend it. He figured he’d be spending Big John’s soon enough, right after he dragged Dee-Dee back where she belonged and got the requisite ring on her finger. Maybe he’d even get a desk like this one as a reward.

“So you talked to Reba,” Brandenburg rumbled. “Did she know where Dee-Dee was?”

“She said no.”

“You think she was lying?”

Now there was an interesting question. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one he had a good answer for. “I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “She seemed surprised Dee-Dee was gone.”

“Hell.” Brandenburg stared down at the pile of papers in front of him. “She can’t have gone too far. She doesn’t have any money.”

Craig thought of Dee-Dee trying to get by without money. Without her father’s support. Without all the cushions she’d had most of her life. “No,” he agreed. “She wouldn’t be able to get too far away. Are there any other relatives she might call on?”

Big John gave him one of those looks that he’d grown to recognize.
Why don’t you already know this? Weren’t you almost engaged?
“We never spoke much about your family,” he explained quickly. “It seemed to be a sensitive subject.” He had no idea whether that was true, but it sounded like he cared.

Brandenburg shrugged. “Maybe so.” He stared down at his desk again, his forehead creased in thought.

Craig wondered what he was supposed to do now, if anything. He wasn’t a private detective, which was what the big man probably needed. He had no idea where else to look. Left to his own devices, he’d just wait for Dee-Dee to limp home on her own once she gave up in defeat. A defeated Dee-Dee would be a lot easier to bring around to his point of view anyway.

“Konigsburg,” Brandenburg muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Konigsburg.” He glanced up at Craig. “It’s where my fool niece ended up. Running a damn fool bookstore. Married some nobody and got herself a kid. Dee-Dee might head over there. To see her cousin Docia.”

“Konigsburg?”

“Hell, yes. Hill Country town. Don’t tell me you never heard of it.”

Of course, Craig had heard of it. Every Texan had heard of Konigsburg, and most of them had been there at least once. It was blue-hair central. His own grandmother had loved the place. She’d dragged him up there one summer to look for the over-decorated china figurines she collected. That was far from his favorite childhood memory. “Yes sir, I’m familiar with it. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of place Dee-Dee would end up in.”

“That’s where she is, I’m sure of it.” He brought his fist down on the desktop. “Goddamn it. Reba’s got a house up there. I’ll bet you anything, Dee-Dee’s staying with her or that daughter of hers. She flat out lied to you, boy.”

Craig studied his employer. The big man seemed a lot more pissed than the situation warranted. But he might be able to use that reaction to his advantage. “I didn’t think she was lying, sir. But I’ve been wrong about women before.” He shrugged, giving him a rueful little smile. Just one more man betrayed by female deviousness.

“You need to get up there.”

“To Konigsburg?”

“Yes to Konigsburg. Get up there now.”

Craig took a breath, trying to figure out how to be diplomatic. “What do you want me to do up there, sir?”

Brandenburg waved an impatient hand. “Find Dee-Dee, of course. Track her down. Tell her to stop being an idiot. Get her back here.”

“And if she doesn’t want to come?”

Brandenburg’s face darkened. “She will. She’s been out on her own for a while now. You can tell her she’s got a job waiting in Houston. She’ll be good and ready to come back by now.”