The Cash Route Under the Restaurant

Chapter 03 - The Cash Route Under the Restaurant

Enzo denied everything.

Through counsel.

Naturally.

Roman did not threaten him.

That would have been satisfying and stupid.

Police and federal financial investigators took the camera records, David’s phone, and the cash-transfer logs.

The envelopes turned out to be restaurant proceeds.

Not Laura’s.

Cash from six nightlife businesses moved through the loading dock before being deposited into vendors that supplied Caruso-owned properties.

Laundering.

Old-fashioned.

Boring.

Effective.

Roman knew the businesses.

He did not know the route.

That was not innocence.

It was management failure with legal consequences.

Naen learned this from the newspaper, not Roman.

She preferred that.

When she returned to work, Roman was not there.

Good.

Claire had been named acting manager.

David remained suspended and under investigation.

Tips suddenly increased eleven percent because “service adjustments” disappeared.

The staff became angrier than grateful.

Correct.

People prefer finding out exactly how they were stolen from.

At lunch, Claire handed Naen an envelope.

“What?”

“Back tips. Preliminary.”

Naen stared at $612.

“That much?”

“Apparently.”

She sat.

Six hundred twelve dollars was Leo’s antibiotics, rent late fee, electric bill, and maybe groceries that contained fruit not shaped like dinosaur nuggets.

David’s theft had not been abstract.

It had been her milk.

Her subway card.

Her sleep.

That night Roman came in.

His lower-leg bandage was smaller beneath his trousers, but he still used the black cane.

Naen saw.

“Better?”

“Leg?”

“Yes.”

“Two more weeks.”

“And the stab wound?”

His gaze sharpened.

“You remember everything.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Better.”

He sat at the bar after closing.

Naen was rolling silverware.

“Why are you here?”

“To speak to Claire.”

“She left ten minutes ago.”

“I know.”

Naen stared.

He smiled faintly.

“Then?”

“To speak to you.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard the question.”

“I’m tired.”

“Fair.”

He started to stand.

Pain crossed his face.

Naen hated that she noticed.

“Ask.”

Roman sat again.

“Did David ever ask you to carry envelopes?”

Naen’s hands stopped.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Maybe five times.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“What kind?”

“Sealed. Office to loading dock.”

“Who collected?”

“Different men.”

“Could you identify them?”

“Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you think it was strange?”

“I worked in a restaurant where rich people paid six hundred dollars for wine. Everything was strange.”

Fair.

Then she remembered one man.

Gray wool coat.

Silver ring shaped like a lion.

Roman’s face changed.

“Enzo.”

“You’re sure?”

“My uncle has worn that ring since I was ten.”

Silence.

“Did you ever meet him at Laura?”

“No.”

“Then he knew staff could move money without you noticing.”

“Yes.”

Roman looked tired.

Not physically.

Something older.

“My father used restaurants the same way.”

Naen continued rolling silverware.

“Did you?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Her hands stopped.

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

“Still?”

“No.”

“Why stop?”

“Risk. And I wanted the legitimate side clean.”

Naen looked at him.

“That sounds like accounting, not morality.”

Roman almost smiled.

“It started as accounting.”

“And then?”

“Still learning.”

Good answer.

No redemption speech.

He continued:

“When I took over, I shut down cash routes through hospitality.”

“Apparently not all.”

“No.”

“Did Enzo keep them because he needed money?”

“Maybe.”

“For what?”

Roman looked toward the kitchen.

“Influence.”

Not personal greed.

Worse in some ways.

Enzo had been financing crews Roman had cut off.

Protection collections.

Union leverage.

Illegal lending.

The old structure under the clean one.

Roman thought he had modernized.

Enzo had simply moved the rot downstairs.

Naen asked:

“Why were you in the alley?”

Roman took time.

“Meeting an accountant.”

“About Enzo?”

“About missing vendor payments.”

“Same money?”

“Maybe.”

“Where is the accountant?”

“Safe.”

She stared.

“Meaning?”

“Alive. With lawyers.”

Better.

Then Roman said:

“Do you know bookkeeping?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Community college before Leo.”

“What program?”

“Hospitality management.”

“Finished?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Her face closed.

Roman stopped.

“None of my business.”

Good.

He learned fast.

Naen stacked silverware.

“Leo’s father died.”

Roman went still.

“Eli.”

She looked at him.

“How—”

“Walker. Emergency contact file.”

She stared.

He corrected immediately.

“HR audit records. I saw the name.”

Not private investigation.

Still uncomfortable.

“What happened?”

“Warehouse accident.”

Roman’s hand tightened around the cane.

“What warehouse?”

Naen frowned.

“Why?”

“What company?”

“North River Logistics.”

Roman’s face changed.

That was enough.

“What?”

“Naen.”

“What?”

He looked sick.

“North River was ours.”

Silence.

Caruso Logistics subsidiary.

Eli Walker had died when a loading platform collapsed four years earlier.

Naen stared at him.

“You knew the company.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know the accident?”

“I don’t know.”

Wrong answer.

“You don’t know whether a man died in your warehouse?”

Roman’s face hardened at himself.

“There were many sites.”

“Of course.”

She stood.

“Naen.”

“No.”

“Let me check.”

“That is what I am afraid of.”

She walked away.

Roman stayed.

At midnight, he opened four-year-old legal archives.

North River Logistics.

Fatality: Elias Walker, age twenty-seven.

Settlement to surviving partner and child?

No.

Naen had received nothing.

Why?

The file said independent contractor.

No liability.

Case closed.

Then Roman found one memo.

Safety inspection three weeks before the collapse.

Platform support failure noted.

Repair delayed.

Approval to delay signed by:

ENZO CARUSO.

And beneath it, electronic acknowledgment:

ROMAN CARUSO.

Roman stared at his own name.

He did not remember signing.

That did not mean he hadn’t.

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For the first time since Naen saved his life, the danger between them was not something his enemies had created.

It had his signature on it.