Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,2
uniform. “Find another bottle of Chardonnay and fill up this beautiful lady’s glass. Pronto!”
The man dashed off.
“I’m impressed.” I smiled, watching Frankie in action. He was a good guy, despite his questionable past with the Mafia. “Did you have to bring your own staff?”
He nodded. “I put on da whole show, but they paid my asking price witout blinkin’, so the profit’ll be nice. Can’t thank you enough for tellin’ Jorge about me. He said he’ll have more work for me if the studio likes what I did tonight.”
Jorge Borrego was the director of ACL’s DC office. After I received the invitation to the preview, I’d contacted Jorge and requested a tour so I could write about the ACL on my website. He’d only mentioned his troubles with his current event caterer in passing, but I jumped on it like Charlie Sheen to a Hollywood hooker.
“I’m glad I could help,” I said. “Where is Jorge by the way? I haven’t seen him all night.”
“Last I saw, he was giving someone a tour of the building.” He flashed another wide grin. “Hey, didya like the candied yams? That was a new recipe for me.”
“Like them?” I rubbed my belly. “I inhaled them. The whole meal was delicioso.”
He scanned the room, which was populated primarily by local TV and print media folk along with a few studio execs. Hollywood celebs were virtually non-existent except for an actor who played a bit role in the movie we were about to see. “Anyone famous here I should know about?”
I shook my head. “Mostly no. That’s the director over there.” I pointed to a ruggedly handsome, sandy-haired, late thirty-something man in jeans and a black t-shirt. “Andy Baugh. His brother, Kurt, is also a director. He’s sitting at my table.” I pointed. “He’s the one with the bad tan job sitting next to the scumbag with the black hair plugs.”
“Whoa, that is a bad tan. He looks orange. Both brothers are famous?”
“They’re more famous for their sibling rivalry than for their films. They’re trying to out-do each other—at least that’s how Entertainment Today reports things.”
“So they don’t get along like dose Fargo guys?”
“The Coen Brothers?” I shook my head. “No. More like the Corleone Brothers—Michael and Fredo.”
He nodded. One of my favorite things about Frankie was that I could always talk The Godfather with him, and he got it. “Which one is Michael?” he asked.
“Kurt.”
He shook his head. “Poor Andy.”
“I know,” I agreed. “The advance buzz on the movie we’re seeing tonight is bomb with a capital B.”
“So you tink da brother is here to support or gloat?”
I’d been wondering the same thing since I found out he was sitting at my table. “I don’t know, but I sure would love to get a chance to talk to him. Supposedly he’s working a deal with Steven Spielberg.”
Frankie grabbed my arm and started walking. Before I could argue with him, we were standing next to Kurt Baugh. Frankie extended his hand to the surprised director. “Mr. Baugh,” he said. “Pleased ta meetcha. My name is Frankie Romano and I’m your caterer this evening.”
Kurt flashed a friendly, pearly-white smile and took Frankie’s hand for a shake. “Thank you, Mr. Romano.”
“Did you enjoy your meal this evening?” asked Frankie.
“Very much,” Baugh nodded. “You put on a nice spread. I’ve attended screenings here before, and this was the best food ever served.”
Frankie was about to respond when Randolph Rutter jumped in with his two cents. “Your timing is fortuitous, Mr. Romano.” His emphasis on the title ‘Mr.’ carried a tone of sarcasm. “I was about to ask for you. My candied yams were cold. I don’t like cold yams.” He pushed them around on his plate as if to prove some point. “I’d like some more—preferably warm this time.”
“Cold?” Frankie looked horrified. “That won’t do. I’ll fix dat for ya.” He was about to leave me standing there looking like a goon, but luckily remembered why we’d come over in the first place. “Mr. Baugh, before I get those yams for dat gentleman there, I’d like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine, Barbara Marr. She’s a fan of yours, though she wouldn’t tell you that, ’cuz she doesn’t like to be too pushy. But she found me this job here tonight, so I wanted to return the favor somehow.”
My face must have blushed sixty shades of red during Frankie’s little soliloquy. I didn’t know if I should kiss him or ram Randolph’s cold yams down