“Thank you, sir, how was your meal?”
“Excellent.”
“The Angler’s one of our popular ones.”
“I can see why . . . looks like things are pretty quiet today.”
“It goes up and down. On Sunday no one gets in without a reservation.”
“That so?”
“All the Hollywood people show up—they’re over at their beach places for the weekend. Barbra Streisand sits in that corner. She’s tiny. We get chefs, too, like the guy who runs La Poubelle. They bring their kids. I keep telling Marvin to raise prices, but he won’t.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Old habits. We’ll probably be closed down by next year anyway. Marvin’s not healthy, and they keep after him for the land. It’s worth a fortune.”
“Too bad. I’ll have to come here more often while you’re still open.”
“You do that. I could use customers like you.” She laughed. “Live around here?”
“Just moved in,” I said. “Near the county line.”
“On the beach?”
I nodded.
“Ooh, that’s pretty. I pass by there on the way home to Ventura. Own or rent?”
“Rent.”
“Me too. Only the millionaires own, right?”
“Better believe it. Been working here for a while?”
She pulled on a jowl and grinned. “It shows, huh? But I won’t tell you exactly how long, so don’t even ask.”
I smiled back. “So what’ll you do if it closes down?”
“I don’t know, maybe catering. All those chefs, there’s always something comes up. Not that I look forward to that.”
“You don’t like catering?”
“Big hassle. Used to do it years ago. Friend of mine—she worked here too—used to get catering jobs for herself and anyone else who wanted them. Good money, but a big hassle.” She winked. “Marvin never liked our moonlighting. We did it behind his back.”
“I’m thinking of throwing a housewarming party, could use a good caterer. Who’s your friend?”
She shook her head. “She doesn’t do it anymore. Got rich—owns her own business.”
“Lucky her.”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of business gets you rich nowadays?”
She smiled at me. “You’re living on the beach, what do you do?”
“Psychologist.”
“Oh.” She winked again. “So maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Don’t worry, off duty,” I said.
“You know,” she said, “I wouldn’ta tagged you for that. I figured you for a lawyer or the music business or something.” Fingering her apron pocket, where the tip had gone.
“I used to play in a band,” I said. “Cocktail lounges. I know what it’s like to depend on people’s generosity.”
“Ain’t that the truth. And most of the time, people aren’t. That’s what I hated about catering parties. You see people at their worst; to them you’re a stick of furniture. And no tips. One collective service charge. If the boss isn’t honest, you’re sunk.”
“Was your friend honest?”
“Which—oh, her. Yeah, honest enough.”
“You must have seen some interesting parties, though. Working around here.”
She reached for a cigarette. “Mind?”
I shook my head. She lit up.
“Maybe to some it was interesting. All it was to me was serving and clearing and people sticking their hands in my face.” She shook her head and looked back. “Want more coffee? Maybe I’ll have some myself. Marvin’s in the john, as usual.”
“Love the company,” I said.
She got the pot and another cup. Sitting down opposite me, cigarette fuming, she poured for both of us.
“It’s been real nice working here,” she said. “So close to the ocean.”
“How’re things in Ventura?”
“Dying. Who knows, maybe I’ll move. Got two grown boys, both in the army. One’s in Germany, the other’s near Seattle. Or Nevada. I like Nevada; things are booming there.”
“Your rich friend can’t help you find anything?”
“Nah, like I said, she’s out of it. She and her husband own a surf shop—nothing for me to do there.”
“Shooting the Curl?”
“Yeah, you know it?”
“I’ve passed by. Doesn’t look like a big business.”
“Believe me, it is. They’ve got a place right on the sand at La Costa—own, not rent—and that ain’t Spam salad.”
She took a deep drag as her eyes swung toward the window. “Here we go again.”
I followed her eyes to the beach. A camera crew was setting up, sound trucks and vans were parked in the background, and a couple dozen people were standing around.