William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Five minutes. That’s all I want.”

“Five minutes of what?”

“Talking. Like this. Right here. I ask questions, you answer.”

“Is this going to be some kind of kinky Cosmo test thing?”

“Nope. Just regular gabbing.” He lowered his chin. “I’m a very lonely person.”

“Why do I not believe that?” She looked at him for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, it appeared to be against her better judgment. “All right. Go for it.”

Loving laid the license across the top of the Kahlúa, completely covering it. Gripping the glass firmly, he turned it upside down so that it and the license were on top of the Bailey’s shot. Slowly and gently, he slid the license to the side until there was a gap between it and the rim of the glasses. The Kahlúa began to flow through the gap into the bottom glass. And then, like magic, the Bailey’s began to flow upward into the top glass. When the two liquids had totally changed places, Loving closed the gap and flipped the top glass upright again.

“That’s amazing,” Sheila said, truly impressed.

“Yeah,” Loving agreed. “Makes a mess of your driver’s license, though.”

“So I suppose I have to talk to you now, huh?”

Loving returned her smile. “Life is tough sometimes.”

Ben readjusted the weights to add twenty more pounds. “So you got a new flavor formula?”

Rothko appeared impressed. “You know about this stuff?”

“I’ve had the short course. I’ve toured Prairie Dog Flavors’ facility and talked to some of the chemists.”

“Then you understand. When I started my operation, I couldn’t afford that stuff. My food tasted like what it actually tasted like.”

“Horrors.”

“Well, it explained why my place was such a flop. You can’t compete with the big boys at Burger King and Mickey D’s if your food doesn’t give customers the same buzz. And I couldn’t afford the buzz. Then I got lucky. My grandfather died.” He paused. “Wait, that doesn’t sound very good, does it?”

“I think I know where you’re going.”

“He left me some money. Not a fortune, but enough. I spent every penny getting myself a secret formula. Something new. Something better.”

“And it worked?”

“Like a dream.” Rothko grabbed his towel and wiped his brow. “Have you ever eaten in one of my shops?”

Ben hedged. “Well…”

“That’s all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll just explain. Every business needs some kind of marketing angle, something to differentiate them from the competition. At Burger Bliss, our gimmick is that we’re the high-class outfit. Better-quality food. Sit-down restaurant food delivered with fast-food efficiency.”

“How did you come up with that?”

“Like most great ideas throughout history, it was born of sheer necessity. I had a great-tasting product, but that wasn’t going to help me unless I could get people in my store. I couldn’t underprice McDonald’s. Who could? So I had to convince people my food was worth a little extra.”

“How did you go about that?”

Rothko shifted to the next machine and started working his triceps. “We advertised that we used a higher-quality meat-which is true. And with the chemicals, my burgers tasted more like beef tenderloin than hamburger. We didn’t bury it under mustard or ketchup or secret sauces. We let people taste the meat.”

“And this worked?”

Rothko smiled. “Ten years ago I opened the first Burger Bliss. There are now three hundred and forty-three Burger Bliss restaurants in forty-eight states and three foreign countries. Burger Bliss is on the Fortune 500 list and is actively traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Our corporate profits are in the billions.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Yeah, I’d say it worked.”

“So the key was the flavor.”

“That was one of them, certainly.”

“You’ve worked with these flavor people, then. Do you think it’s possible there could be rivalry between the chemists?”

“Let me put it to you this way, Ben. The fast-food industry makes over one hundred and ten billion dollars annually in profits.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“There’s huge money to be made in this business. Huge. And it all hinges on flavor.” He moved to a stationary bike and started pedaling. “Of course there’s competition among chemists. They all want to be the one who invents the next Big Mac.”

“Because that man’s going to be the king of the lab?”

He looked at Ben levelly. “Because that man’s going to be rich.”

Loving’s five minutes turned into a little over a half an hour. Sheila glanced at her watch a few times, but otherwise, she didn’t seem to mind, which Loving attributed to his personal charm. And perhaps the fact that he offered to buy the next three rounds of drinks. In that time, he told her stories and anecdotes, never revealing who he worked for, and regaled her with every bad joke he’d heard in the last year. He even explained that since Kahlúa is denser than Bailey’s and the empty space in the glasses is finite, the Bailey’s is forced upward when the Kahlúa comes rushing down.

“So they put this new guy in as editor in chief,” Sheila explained. “He decides which writing assignments I get and which I don’t. And he’s totally clueless. I know in a heartbeat he’s not from Oklahoma.”

“How could you tell?”

“Well, he kept telling me that, now that he was here, there was all this stuff he was going to do. He never once said ‘fixin’ to do.’ “

“A dead giveaway.”

“When he talked about Durant, he actually pronounced it Duh- rant , instead of Doo -rant, like everyone else around here.”

“And let me guess. He didn’t pronounce Miami ‘Mi-am-uh,’ and he didn’t call Oklahoma City ‘the City.’ “

She nodded. “And he didn’t even know where to begin with Eufaula or Okemah.”

“Good thing you don’t have clients in Gotebo,” Loving replied. They both laughed.

The bartender arrived bearing gifts. “Here’s your appetizer, ma’am.”

“Great.”

Loving took a whiff and tried not to gag. “What is it?”

“It’s an assortment of their best. Calamari, sushi, eel. Won’t you share it with me?”

Loving hesitated.

“We can eat it right here. That way we can continue talking.”

Loving drew in his breath. Ben Kincaid, you owe me so bad…

“All right,” Sheila said. “Let’s start with the eel.”

Loving survived the consumption of the appetizer plate, and as much as he hated to admit it, actually enjoyed much of it. The secret, he realized, was not to let Sheila tell him what it was. Better not to know. Just eat in blissful ignorance.

The conversation continued merrily along. Loving kept her going, deftly moving from one subject to the next, guiding without appearing to guide. But none of it was idle chatter. Without ever asking a direct question, Loving managed to draw out enough information to write a small biography of Sheila Knight.

After they finished the appetizer plate, he decided it was time to give her a little push-in the direction of Erin Faulkner.

“Must be tough to lose a friend like that,” he said sympathetically.

“It was hell. Living hell. I’d known her all my life, practically.”

“And then she’s gone.” Loving shook his head. “You two must’ve had a lot of happy memories.”

“We did.”

“ ’Specially when you’re young, just kids. No worries, no responsibilities. Nothing bad ever happens when you’re a kid.”

Sheila fell silent. Should he push a little more, or just ride it out? He chose to remain quiet, and a moment later, his patience was rewarded.