Man-Killer: Gina Cototi Cases, Book I by Lawrence Kelter

Author:Lawrence Kelter [Kelter, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2024-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

A celebrity calamity like the one I’d caused draws a lot of unwanted attention, a hell of a lot. Paparazzi and scandal sheet reporters arrived in droves, filling the street with social media piranha and internet jackals. They are the true scavengers and were looking for carcasses to feed on.

The restaurant was forced to close for the day. The proprietor, Sato-san had no choice but to comp everyone’s meal and apologize profusely, over and over again. That’s a tremendous amount of conciliatory bowing, enough to warrant putting an orthopedic surgeon on retainer. All told, the concession would cost him tens of thousands, a great deal to pay for one upchuck-coated executive assistant, who was possibly an unpaid fashion intern.

Following the event, we were all out on the street, de Laurentis and his group, Timone, Sato-san, most of his patrons, and me. We were waiting for the ruckus to die down, for the vultures to fly off. I don’t know why so many of the customers hung about afterwards, but they did. Best I could figure was that they were all in shock. An attorney in the crowd was threatening a lawsuit. Only in a litigious society like ours could a lawyer drag a restaurateur into court over a spoiled lunch. Crazy as it seemed I’d heard stranger. Coffee drinkers suing over scalding themselves, and beer drinkers suing Budweiser because getting stinking drunk didn’t help them to get laid. The list goes on and on.

De Laurentis was furious, beyond furious. Somehow, in the infinite wisdom of the universe, his Bugatti had, in fact, been stolen. It was as if someone had announced open season on boosting exotic sports cars. I thanked my lucky stars that we’d been beaten to the punch. And that I hadn’t caused self-inflicted internal hemorrhaging as a result of my Visine-consuming stunt. Self-poisoning wasn’t normally part of my investigative repertoire, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Timone wasted no time speaking with every reporter that would listen. Pointing an accusatory French-tipped finger at me, he repeatedly ratted me out, his accent growing heavier along with his growing flair for the dramatic. “That horrid woman, that wretched poser, she tried to pawn herself off as Mr. de Laurentis’ assistant. But I said to myself—I said, Timone Macapagal-Magsaysay-Cohen, this woman is not who she represents herself to be. She is a con artist, a charlatan, and a phony. Do not let her in Sato-san’s restaurant. You are the senior host. It is your duty to keep out the riff raff. Turn her away, Timone. Show her the door. But she got sick to her stomach. And out of the goodness of my heart I let her use the restroom. You see, it’s true what they say, ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’”

Sato-san was pacing back and forth outside his establishment. His countenance was frightening, his eyes wild, his nostrils flared. A complete set of 4th century Japanese Gusoku armor was displayed in his restaurant. It was priceless, which was probably the reason for the eatery’s exorbitant prices.

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