Page 100 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

“Mitch, what’s going on?” I asked.

He always had on a game face. He never let anything get to him, at least that others could see.

“One of my busboys called in sick, and I had to let a bartender go today. I caught him stealing. I hate firing people. I fucking hate it.” He rested his head against the wall.

I couldn’t imagine how tough it was to manage a staff like that, of people who didn’t see this as a long-term gig. I’ve had to let people go and ask for resignations. It’s never fun.

“So begins the hunt for another bartender. I may be pulling double duty tonight.”

Cal stepped forward. “When I was living in Manhattan doing the acting thing in my twenties, I went to this course and got certified to be a bartender. I keep my license active just in case I needed a job between voiceover gigs. I can step in and help tonight.”

“So can I,” I said.

“It’s your party!” he said to me.

“Then that means I can do what I want to, and I want to help.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“As mayor, I will institute martial law on the restaurant.”

Mitch cocked an eyebrow at me, but he knew that I wasn’t backing down. “Okay.”

Cal and I followed him to the employee area. I took off my suit jacket and rolled up my sleeves. Not for a photo op or to show the populace I was one of them. I was doing it for a real cause, a friend in need. He handed me a black apron and put me on busboy duty. Cal went behind the bar to work his alleged magic.

“What are you doing?” Dusty asked when he saw me pick up a stack of used dishes from a cocktail table. “Aren’t you supposed to be mingling?”

“I’m helping out my friend.”

He watched me in silence. “Can I help, too?”

We flitted around the restaurant, cleaning up tables, bringing dirty dishes and glasses into the kitchen, going back and forth. I was still able to mingle with everyone there, but with a crate of dirty dishes between us. In fact, I liked it better than usual parties because I wasn’t standing around. I got to stay on my feet and stay busy. Mitch shook his head whenever I brought a new crate into the kitchen, but that was Mitch—always being modest. We had enough history that I could tell he was grateful.

“You really don’t have to do this. Especially tonight,” he said each time we crossed paths.

“I know,” I answered back every time.

As I was picking up a stack of dishes and clumps of cocktail napkins from a table by the window, Vernita approached with a photographer.

A perfect photo op. The mayor who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

I held out my hand to block the shot.

“Nope,” I said, shutting it down. “No pictures.”

“Are you sure? This would be a great picture for tomorrow if you win.”

What would it look like if Mitch’s restaurant was so understaffed that he needed the guest of honor to run cleanup? It might’ve made me look good, but Mitch would be mortified. His pride would be shot.

“Nope. I’m not doing this for a photo op. No pictures,” I said firmly. “The only thing people need to know tomorrow is that we held our viewing party at Mitch’s restaurant, and it was a great time. Great food, great atmosphere.”

Mitch flitted around the restaurant like he was a wind-up toy. He was moving so fast, checking on food, bringing out more, checking on how people were doing. I wondered for a second if he was cloned. How he managed this place day in and day out for damn near twenty-five years blew my mind.Didhe clone himself? Compared to owning a restaurant, being mayor was a piece of cake. Mitch was one in a million. I hoped he found dependable staff soon. He ran a tight ship, and it wasn’t for everyone, but the right people could learn a lot from him.

I also hoped he found a boyfriend, too, but that was another point for another day.

I came up to the bar to collect pint glasses and wine glasses that had been left there. Cal poured two women glasses of white wine. He had the dishtowel over his shoulder in full Sam Malone-mode and made small talk with them.

“How’s it going?” I asked him.

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