Turn up the Heat

Hispanic woman in her sixties appeared with a vacuum in hand.
    “Hola, Belita,” said Snacker with a smile. “This is Chloe and Owen. Belita is one of our cleaning people. We couldn’t open without her. Come give me a sweet kiss, señora.” Snacker held his arms out and grinned.
    “Oh, Jason. I always have kiss for you,” Belita said happily. I always forgot that Snacker’s real name was Jason. It seemed that half of Josh’s friends went by names other than those on their birth certificates. Clearly not needing a second invitation, Belita wrapped her arms around Snacker and planted a big smooch on his cheek. “Okay. Now I work.”
    Snacker turned back to Owen and me. “You want that order now?” he asked Owen.
    Owen nodded. “Yeah. I have to get going soon if I’m going to make all my deliveries on time.”
    “Come on back to the office with me. I’ve got it written down there.”
    I wasn’t crazy about leaving Snacker and Owen alone together for even a second, but the coffee had run through me, and I needed to hit the bathroom. I left the two feuding boys on their own and went to the ladies’ room. Simmer’s restrooms had been totally remodeled when Gavin took over, and I wished that my own bathroom at home were half as luxurious as they were. The entire ladies’ room was tiled with hand-painted ceramic squares in rich earth colors, and the three sinks were made of copper and had coordinating faucets and knobs.
    Belita and a young Hispanic woman were busy cleaning up leftover lines of cocaine that had been neatly set up and then abandoned. When Belita looked at me, she seemed embarrassed. “Is Newbury Street sometimes.” She shrugged.
    I don’t know which I was more surprised to see: cocaine or leftover cocaine.
    When I returned to the kitchen, Owen and Snacker, to my relief, were not beating the crap out of each other. Each had, however, adopted a masculine-looking pose. Snacker was feigning casualness by leaning against a wall with both arms crossed, his chef’s coat unbuttoned halfway, and a pen tucked behind one ear. Owen stood square in front of his rival, both hands on his hips, his chin raised a bit, and his expression falsely calm. Owen was one of the most unaggressive people I knew. He looked ridiculous.
    “Have Josh call me when he gets in if you think of anything else you need,” Owen said. “I’ll probably leave the warehouse by nine, but I can always run back if you’ve forgotten something.”
    “Nope. We should be good with the list I gave you,” Snacker responded. “Hey, Santos. Can you start the stock for me? And Javier, start cleaning the walk-in when you get a chance, please.”
    Owen shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you mind if I use your fax machine quickly? Mine was down this morning. I’ve got a few more price sheets to get out to my restaurants. Hopefully that will get me a few more orders in for today.”
    “Yeah. Help yourself,” Snacker said without looking at Owen.
    Owen refrained from snarling and went to the office.
    A man’s voice rang loudly through the kitchen. “Linens! Got your fresh linens! Any takers?” A round, middle-aged man clomped his heavy boots across the floor. He carried a tall stack of what I knew were aprons, napkins, kitchen shirts, and bar towels, all cleaned, pressed, and wrapped up in plastic. “Mornin’! Got your dirties for me?”
    “Hello, my friend,” Snacker said. “Just drop those in the front and help yourself to the bags. I think they’re by the bar.”
    Once before, I’d been to Simmer early enough to see Josh open. He’d lured me there with the promise of a hot breakfast. Now, the thought of food made my stomach give an embarrassing growl. “Sorry.”
    Snacker laughed. “Hungry? I’ll make you something to eat. How about an omelet?”
    I wasn’t about to protest, so I followed Snacker over to one of the flattop grills and happily watched him beat eggs and fill my omelet with goat cheese, diced red pear tomatoes, prosciutto, and julienne of fresh basil. I grabbed a seat on a stool and scooted out of the way so that Santos and Javier could move back and forth across the kitchen as they carried pots of liquid and sharp knives. I was struck with the amount of work that went into opening the restaurant each day. The cleaning, the scheduling, the food preparation and cooking, the need to take inventory... The work seemed endless!
    Isabelle entered the kitchen, her dark curls pulled back from her face, her