Once a Mutt (Trace 5) Read Free

spread-gloom attitude.
    Trace fumbled around in the little drawer of the telephone table looking for a cocktail napkin with Eddie’s phone number on it. When he found it, he called the number in New Jersey.
    “This is Trace.”
    “I’m glad you called back,” Eddie said. “Did you hear what happened?”
    “No. Where’s my share of the profits?” Trace said.
    “We’re not even open yet. What profits?”
    “Then there’s nothing good that’s going to come of this phone call, is there?” Trace said.
    “Afraid not. You didn’t hear what happened?”
    “No.”
    “Last night we had a storm.”
    “We didn’t,” Trace said. “It was nice here. Sunny all day, evening temperature in the high sixties. It was beautiful.”
    “I wish it was that way here. We had a storm like you never saw.”
    “Why are you giving me a weather report?”
    “It’s important.”
    Trace knew something was wrong because he was starting to feel sober. “Go ahead,” he said. “What happened?”
    “The goddamn ocean came up and overflowed the place. We’ve got a lot of storm damage.”
    “Spread newspapers. Blot it up,” Trace suggested.
    “Can’t do that. We’ve got real damage. I had a contractor in today to look at it.”
    “How much?”
    “It looks like it’s going to cost fifty, sixty thousand dollars to fix.”
    “You’re not asking me for money, are you?” Trace said.
    “Of course I am. All the partners have to kick in some money. That’s the only way we can fix this place up and open up on time.”
    “How much?”
    “You’re a twenty-percent partner. I need ten, twelve thousand dollars from you.”
    “I don’t have it,” Trace said.
    “Get it. We need it to do the repairs.”
    “What do you think, I’m made of money?”
    “So we’ve got to pinch a little. We all do. When we get this restaurant rolling, the money’s going to come pouring in.”
    “The only thing pouring in right now is the freaking ocean,” Trace said.
    “Well, that’s the way it goes.”
    “When do you get the insurance money?” Trace asked.
    “What insurance money?”
    “For the damages.”
    “No insurance. It’s an act of God.”
    “Bullshit,” Trace said. “It’s an act of water.”
    “The insurance company won’t pay. They don’t do that down here.”
    “I hate insurance companies,” Trace said.
    “ You work for one, not me. Why do you do that anyway?”
    “Because I’ve been trying to change them from within,” Trace said. “It just hasn’t worked yet.”
    “If it had, we wouldn’t have to put up this extra dough,” Eddie said. “When do I get your check?”
    “A check I can send you right away. Ten thousand dollars I don’t have.”
    “I want a good check,” the other man said.
    “I hate you,” Trace said. “When the hell is this restaurant going to open?”
    “We’ve been delayed a little bit by the storm damage.”
    “How little’s a little bit?”
    “A month or so.”
    “Are we going to miss the summer season down there?” Trace demanded.
    “Not if you send me the twelve thousand,” Eddie said.
    “Ten thousand,” Trace said.
    “With room to grow. Send it right away,” the other man said, and hung up before Trace could say anything more.
    In order, Trace hung up the telephone, removed the modular plug from the answering machine, threw the machine in the kitchen garbage can, refilled his glass with wine, and sat down to try to figure out where to get ten thousand dollars with room to grow.
     
     
    When Michiko Mangini unlocked the door to the apartment and entered, two unaccustomed sounds assailed her ears.
    Trace was singing and something was sizzling in the kitchen.
    She looked down the length of the long living room toward the small kitchen at the rear of the apartment. Trace stood with his back to her, at the stove, singing an operatic aria at the top of his voice. As usual, he remembered only one line of the aria, so he sounded like a stuck record as he sang it over and