“Honestly,” he replied.
“Honestly, how? Come on, help me out here.”
“Here’s the short version: I was married to a rich woman who had a rich father. She also made a lot of money in investments while we were married. When she walked, her old man insisted that she make a settlement, and I got a very nice check. Everybody was happy, and since it was a division of marital property, there was no tax. I spent a chunk of it on this apartment.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
“Good, now why don’t you move in with me?”
“Well, Rosie couldn’t pay our rent all by herself. She’d need time to get another roommate.”
“Tell you what: I’ll pay your share until she finds somebody,” Dino suggested.
Viv brightened. “Yeah, that would work.”
Dino dug in his bedside drawer and came up with a card. “This is a guy from my old neighborhood who has a carting business. Pack up your stuff and call him. Tell him to send me the bill.”
Viv leaned over and kissed him on the ear. “I’ll do it this weekend.”
“Then we’ll both feel better,” Dino said. He set down his coffee cup and got a leg over. “Let’s celebrate,” he said.
So they celebrated.
8
Mike arrived at The Arrington’s front gate, where a security guard checked his driver’s license photo and gave him directions to the executive offices.
“Don’t stop anywhere along the way,” the guard told him. “They expect you at the office in three minutes.”
Mike nodded, then put his car in gear and drove up the hill. He found a parking space next to a dumpster overflowing with building material scrap and went inside. A woman at a makeshift desk in the hallway pointed at a door. “In there,” she said, checking his name off a list and noting the time.
There was a Sharpie-lettered sign on the door: “Director of Food and Beverages.” Mike knocked and walked into an unfurnished reception room.
“Back here!” a voice called out.
Mike walked through the room to an office and found a man in a work shirt sitting behind a desk. “Mike Gennaro?”
“Yes, sir,” Mike replied.
“Take a seat.”
Mike took the only option, a paint-stained wooden chair with some of the caning missing from the seat.
“Sorry for the mess here,” the man said. “It’ll look more like a real office in a couple of weeks. The emphasis here is on finishing the cottages and suites first. I’m Tim Duggan, the food and service director for the hotel.”
“How do you do,” Mike said, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. He was wearing his best suit.
“I expect you’ve heard about this place,” Duggan said.
“Hasn’t everybody? I think every hotel manager in L.A. is convinced it’s going to cost him half his business.”
“We should be so lucky,” Duggan said. He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. “I liked your résumé,” he said. “Only two jobs in your whole life.”
“I’m nothing if not loyal,” Mike said.
“I’ve had dinner a couple of times at Franco’s, in Studio City. That’s your dad’s place, is it?”
“It is.”