Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [105]
Terry hung up. “How about some orange juice?” she asked.
Meadows nodded and started to talk.
“It’s tomorrow night,” she said solemnly. “Eight o’clock. And you were right. The reservations were in his name.” Terry opened the refrigerator and began gathering the breakfast items. Meadows could not see her face but he heard her voice.
“It was just like you said,” she murmured.
Meadows stood up and stretched so hard his elbow joints cracked audibly. He was wide awake.
THE YOUNG BLACK woman behind the counter beamed when she saw him. “It’s been awhile, Christopher.”
“Yes, Sally.” Meadows smiled back. “You look terrific.”
She shrugged. “I guess the jogging helps. Haven’t seen you on the course lately. You been in town?”
“In and out,” Meadows said casually. He started to mention the leg injury but thought better of it.
“What do you need?”
“There’s a Cuban restaurant on Twenty-seventh Avenue near Seventh Street. It’s called La Cumparsita. They are expanding the operation, and they’d like me to redesign the whole thing. Trouble is, they can’t find the working papers.”
“The owners?” Sally said. “Lord.”
“Well, it’s changed hands once or twice,” Meadows said, groping. “I guess the blueprints got lost in the shuffle.”
“Well, that’s what your friendly county building department is for,” she said. “Give me that address again.”
Sally was back in five minutes with a sheath of yellowed papers that curled themselves at the edges when she tried to set them on the counter. Meadows peeled through them until he found the contract documents.
“I can make a copy for you,” Sally offered. “Won’t even charge you the twelve-dollar fee.”
“It’s up to twelve?” Meadows said with mock surprise. “I think I can handle that, Sally, but does it still take two weeks to get blueprints duplicated?”
“At least. I can move you to the top of the waiting list.”
“You’re wonderful,” Meadows said warmly. “But I’m afraid I need these today.”
Sally looked puzzled. “Your clients are in a hurry, huh?”
“No, I’m in a hurry, Sal. This is going to be a real drag, and I’d like to polish it off as soon as possible. Get on to more exciting things.”
“I can’t remember the last time you did a restaurant,” she remarked.
“Oh, I just don’t brag about them like the other guys.” He carried the drawings to a long table at the end of the room and spread the blueprints out. To keep the corners from springing up, Meadows laid his briefcase across the top edge and a chipped glass ashtray across the bottom. He set an onionskin sketch pad on his lap and, with a finely sharpened No. 2 lead pencil, began to duplicate the working plans for La Cumparsita’s restaurant. He’d never had much of a gift for guessing dimensions, so he used a slide rule to ensure that his freehand plans were true to scale.
The blueprints were dated February 17, 1957. Meadows winced. There was no telling what random changes had transformed the interior since then.
It was just a hole in the wall, Meadows mused. Sixty by thirty, table space. A small bar running twenty feet along the east wall. The kitchen was like a cell, ten by thirty with an exit.
The drawings indicated rest rooms at the south end, with a fire exit in between. There was a small room, three by three, next to the women’s rest room. Meadows guessed it to be a pantry or janitor’s closet.
He duplicated every detail, including the dimension of the lot, the parking area and the front easement, which faced busy Twenty-seventh Avenue. When he was done, he carried the papers back to Sally.
“It was good seeing you again,” he said.
“You, too,” she replied. “I like your hair like that.”
Meadows felt himself redden.
“You want me to send the copies to your office?”
“What?”
Sally laughed. “I mean, you aren’t going to work from that, are you?” She motioned to the sketch in his hand.
“Oh…no,” Meadows fumbled. “This…this is just to fiddle around with until the blueprints come. I’ve been doing a lot of work at home lately.