Chapter 3 Stock And Store

She found a spot just inside a narrow alley two blocks down, close enough to the street to deliver the goods but tucked away enough that nobody would notice. She killed the engine, grabbed her jacket, and walked the rest of the way.

Golden Basil sat squeezed between a surf shop and a place that only sold candles, its window fogged from the kitchen behind it. The smell hit her from the sidewalk, lemongrass, chili, something caramelizing in a wok — and her stomach growled loud enough that a passing couple glanced over. She laughed it off and went in.

She didn’t sit this time. Just ordered a plate of pad thai to eat standing at the counter while she waited, the noodles slick with tamarind and just spicy enough to make her eyes water, and decided somewhere around the third bite that this was easily the best thing she’d eaten all day. When the woman behind the counter asked if that would be all, Charlie shook her head and gave her the numbers instead — sixty portions of pad thai, forty of green curry, and as much mango sticky rice as the kitchen could turn around in a few hours.

Le Petit Quai was a different kind of stop. Smaller, quieter, candlelight instead of neon, the kind of place that made her feel underdressed in jeans and a jacket. The maître d’ — silver-templed, sharp-suited took her order with a polite, careful blankness that cracked slightly once she got to the numbers.

“Fifty portions of the duck confit,” she said, “fifty of the steak frites, and however many crème brûlées your kitchen can manage.”

He studied her for a beat too long, a single eyebrow lifting just so. “For a private event, mademoiselle?”