D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Nick poured himself a glass of bourbon and offered Todd one, which he politely refused. “So, what do you think that means?”

“Renée had been listed as a missing person for days. I hadn’t seen her since June, about four weeks ago. There was no sign of a struggle at her apartment, so the insurance investigators assumed she had left town to avoid her debts. I assumed that she had found another job… But it looks like she was murdered, and her body was smuggled into my restaurant. It appears that the killer decided it was a good way to dispose of the evidence.”

“And that’s why you’re so worried about her family suing you,” Nick thought. “And why shouldn’t they? You might not have killed her, but you cooked her.” To Todd he said, “So you expect me to solve a murder that happened over a month ago, with no body and no crime scene? That’s impossible!”

“If you do it in a week, I will pay you five thousand in gold, plus your normal commission, and a gift certificate from my restaurant.”

Nick grabbed Todd’s hand and pumped his arm. “I’ll need half the money up front… You can keep the gift certificate.”

Nick sat in his office, smoking his breakfast. He had a pile of matchbooks and a new pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes on his desk. The marijuana cigarettes were very popular, due in part to their animated spokesman, a fish with dreadlocks named “Bob Marlin.” They were available in “original” or a variety of flavors: chocolate, strawberry, and PCP.

A motorcycle rumbled into the parking lot and, a moment later, a tattooed twenty-something man in a blue jumpsuit strolled into his office. “Oh, hey! You’re that detective! I saw you in those newsfeed photos.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he protested, throwing up his hands. “I’ve never been to Maryland, I don’t know how to use night vision goggles, and I certainly don’t own any snorkeling gear! Even if I did, those photos are much too blurry to tell it’s me.”

“You’re not the manhunter who put Quentin Fairbanks in the nuthouse?”

“Oh, those photos. Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I’m from Hermes Messenger Service. I’ve got a package for you.” The messenger handed Nick a locked, steel box and gestured for him to sign the electronic clipboard strapped to his wrist. Clearing his throat, the messenger held out his other hand for a tip.

“I catch thieves, murderers, and rapists,” Nick said, “and you bring people boxes. If I don’t get tipped, why should you?” The messenger scowled and jabbed his pinkie fingers at Nick’s throat. It was one of the newer obscene gestures, made popular by a recent shampoo commercial. The messenger stormed out of the office, and Nick closed and locked the door.

The box held a folder of information on Renée Flockhart: her home address, employment history, and student records from Yale and Ellison High School. There were also a few photos, mostly from a Christmas party at the restaurant. She had been twenty-six, five-foot-two, and gorgeous. She had worn her black hair very short, but it suited her well.

Under the folder was a black, drawstring bag filled with twenty-five hundred dollars in gold coins. On one side, the coins were engraved with their weight as certified by a local bank. The other side featured a portrait of Mitch Deslin, the recently deceased anarchist game show host.

Nick wanted to begin his investigation without alerting Todd’s employees, as any of them could have been involved in the murder. He decided to wait until nightfall. He sprawled on the floor in his office and dropped a sugar cube into his mouth. For a moment he was still, just listening to the sound of his breathing. The window opened by itself and a great cloud of insects floated into the room. The cloud shaped itself into a woman, naked, skin shiny and wet. She dropped to one knee, her hand reaching down to touch his face. She brushed his cheek and shattered into pieces, covering him in blackened moths.

His head began to clear. The window was closed, but the room was cold. Eight hours had passed by unnoticed. He poured a cup of coffee and walked out to the parking lot. Lighting another Cannabliss cigarette, he climbed into his car. It was a small, sporty model with all the standard features: navigational computer, Chameleon brand color-changing paintjob, and fade-to-black windows for sleeping on the go. It was also equipped with the new Schlock Products™ anti-theft alarm. If anyone opened the door without the correct key, it turned on the radio. This would startle the thief so much that he would be too nervous to steal the car. At least, that’s what the commercial said.

The restaurant was near the Columbia River, a few blocks from a park. It was a large, gray building shaped like an “L,” set far back from the road. The lot was small and poorly-lit, almost as if Todd Sweeney didn’t want anyone to notice the restaurant was there. Nick waited outside for a few minutes, watching the customers drive home. Finally, Todd came out and approached his car. He was dressed just as he had been the day before.

“Sweeney doesn’t seem like the type of person to wear the same clothing two days in a row,” Nick thought. “He must have had a closet full of identical gray suits, like some sort of incredibly dull superhero.”

“There are still a few of my employees on the premises,” Todd said, gesturing to the door, “but they should be gone fairly soon. You might as well come inside.”

“Hey, Sweeney,” Nick said as he climbed out of his car, “What’s the deal with this place? There’s no sign.” In fact, there was nothing to indicate that it was a restaurant at all.

“We sell human flesh at three hundred dollars a pound. Individuals with such specific tastes generally find us on their own.”

“Three hundred dollars a pound?” Nick sputtered, shaking his head. “What are these, famous corpses?”

“It is a very fair price, considering the rarity of donations. Besides, long pigs – humans – have very little meat in them. Granted, you can get some nice steaks from the upper leg, but not nearly as much as, say, cattle…”

As they crossed the lot, Todd gave Nick a brief lecture on butchering “long pigs.” The most difficult part of the operation was gutting, as the butcher could accidentally cut into the intestines and make a “rather unpleasant mess.” After that, the butcher removed the skin, cut it into strips, and sent it to the kitchen, where the chef deep fried it and sold it as a side dish. “Human rinds” were very popular, especially the barbeque flavor.

Although Todd and his staff always referred to the meat as “long pig,” he insisted that it was merely a colloquialism. The meat tasted nothing like pork. The flavor was actually closer to premium-grade beef or veal. The taste was similar enough that, if human meat were seasoned or sauced, it could be difficult to tell the difference. For this reason, he had all of the meat butchered on-site. Anyone who wondered if the restaurant served genuine human flesh could simply ask to watch.

After what seemed to Nick like an eternity, they stepped inside the restaurant. The walls were covered in hand-screened wallpaper and paintings that would have ended up on the walls of a hotel had the artist not added four extra zeros to the price tag in what was clearly a twisted practical joke.

“So, what do you name a restaurant for wealthy cannibals?” Nick asked. “‘Bone Appetite?’ ‘Homosoupian?’ ‘Cup of Joe?’”

“Are you quite done?”

“How about ‘The Canniballroom?’ Or ‘Soylent on the Green?’”

“My restaurant,” Todd snapped, “is called ‘Hand to Mouth.’”

Stepping into the lobby, Nick noticed the maitre d’ station. Talking to the air, he said, “Yes, I have a reservation for Donner, party of four… No, wait, make that three…”