Allison (A Kane Novel) by Steve Gannon Page B

there in no time.  That is, unless you don’t like Italian,” Mike added with a mock frown.  “In which case we can forget the whole thing.”
    “No, I love Italian,” I conceded, finding Mike much nicer than I remembered.  And he had helped me get the job at CBS.  Plus Brent would be there too, so going to a restaurant with Mike wasn’t really a date.  “And I am hungry,” I added.  “Actually, I’m starving.”
    “Good.  I like a girl with a healthy appetite.”
     
    Following a short stroll down Hilgard Avenue, Mike and I pushed through the doors of The Gardens, a brick-and-tile throwback to earlier days of Westwood.  As Mike spoke to a young woman at the hostess station, I let my eyes roam the restaurant, pleased by the changes that had been effected since I’d last visited.  Years ago the ancient building had housed an upscale hamburger palace; now, despite encroaching high-rise office towers and multiplex theaters, the interior of the renovated one-story structure seemed delightfully rustic.  Directly ahead lay a spacious room with a domed skylight and a thirty-foot tree rising from the center, its sprawling limbs shading tables set with high-backed wicker chairs.  On either side, bricked archways accessed smaller dining rooms that I remembered had originally been patio gardens, while to the left lay an airy, four-sided bar with intimate tables ensconced in alcoves ringing the room’s perimeter.
    “You said this place was casual,” I whispered when Mike finished talking with the hostess, again wishing I had worn something more appropriate.
    “It is casual,” Mike replied.  “Besides, even in hip waders and a trench coat you’d be the best-looking girl here.  C’mon, let’s sit in the bar area.  They can serve us dinner there right away.”
    Pleased by Mike’s breezy compliment, I followed him into the bar.  The hostess, a pretty young woman with a dazzling smile, seated us in a window alcove that looked out on the streets of Westwood through a wisteria-covered trellis.  “Your waitress will be here shortly, Mike,” the hostess said, placing menus on our table.  “Want anything to drink while you’re waiting?”
    “Thanks, Brooke.  I’ll have a beer.  Make it a Red Hook,” said Mike, glancing at me.  “What would you like, Ali?”
    “A Coke.”
    “A Coke and a Red Hook, on the way,” said Brooke, shooting Mike another smile as she departed.
    “Are you a regular here?” I asked, having noted that the hostess wasn’t wearing a name tag.
    “I used to be,” Mike answered, opening his menu.  “A lot of guys from the station hang out here.”
    I opened my menu, finding that in addition to a selection of reasonably priced pasta dishes, The Gardensboasted a tempting variety of other entrées.  “Speaking of work, you said you first got to know Brent when he was at Channel 2?”
    Mike nodded.  “He got his start at KCBS as a local reporter.  He’s moved up in the world since then, not that he needs the money.  His dad’s the president of Preston Development Company.”
    “Preston Development?  The company that builds those Orange County housing tracts?”
    “That’s the one.  PDC’s one of the biggest construction outfits in the Southland, and they’re not just building condos and single-family homes any more.  Despite our occasional real-estate downturns, now they’re putting up shopping malls, light-industrial parks, and office buildings.  With no exaggeration, it’s fair to say that Brent’s family is filthy rich—private jet, mansion in South Pasadena, vacation homes in Sun Valley, Hawaii, and New Mexico.  The guy’s always had the best of whatever money can buy, though you would never know that from the way he pushes himself.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Mike paused before answering.  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said after a moment.  “I admire the way Brent has ascended the ranks at CBS.  With the exception of using his dad’s