Edward Lee - The Chosen

««—»»

The valets scrambled. The red Lamborghini purred up into the entry court and stopped. The driver’s door didn’t open, it raised. Then a figure stepped out.

Vera, Donna, Dan B., and Lee watched discreetly from the double doors, peeking through the great front window into the court. “The valets are in the way!” Donna whispered. “I can’t see him!” Nor could Vera; she squinted between heads to catch a glimpse but only caught some vague dark shape. Just as vaguely, then, the shape claimed the valet stub and made for the entrance.

“Here he comes!” Donna whispered excitedly.

Lee scratched his beer belly. “Looks kinda short, don’t he?”

“And what’s that?” Dan B. squinted. “He gotta beard?”

“Come on, gang,” Vera complained. “It’s no big deal, it’s just some rich guy coming to dinner. Let’s get back to work.’’

The group disbanded. Vera remained in the kitchen cove, watching through the swingdoor window. She didn’t want to seem presumptuous; Feldspar knew that she knew he wanted to see her. Vera figured it was more professional to let the hostess seat him. When time came for this “interview” of “utmost exigency,” he would simply have to ask for her.

The hostess led him through the front dining room; Vera could only see his back. Dark suit, an unusual cut. Jewelry seemed to glitter on his hand. And Lee was right: Feldspar seemed short, as well as awkward. He slowly followed the hostess’s sleek shape as if walking with some equivocal caution.

No big deal, huh? Vera smiled to herself. If it’s no big deal, how come you’re standing here with your face glued to the window? Once again, the sense of mystery embraced her—it even titillated her. Who is this guy? What’s he want with me?

The hostess seated him at their best four-top in the window wing. Now Vera could only see him sideways from the rear. Stubby hands opened the menu. Feldspar seemed to study the entree list as if studying technical writing.

Was he disappointed? Let down?

Stop being silly, Vera suggested to herself. She went back to the hot line. Orders sizzled, tempting aromas sifted through the air. Vera looked off as the chef expertly pan-blackened two more orders of aged prime rib on the industrial eleven-inch burners.

“Relax, will you?” Dan B. Said. He spoke as he put an order of baby lamb chops up to go out. “You’re turning yourself into knots. Didn’t I just hear you say it was no big deal?”

Yeah, Vera thought. “I just hate being curious. What does he want? Why did he ask to see me?”

“He’s probably a wine distributor or something. Gonna drop a big check to impress you, then try to cut you a deal on whatever he’s peddling.”

Maybe. That sort of thing happened all the time; The Emerald Room’s wine list was coveted by every wine distributor in the county. Yet, for some reason, Vera felt certain that this was something else.

I’m sure that it is. But what?

««—»»

She’d kept tabs on him constantly, via the waitress. Feldspar had ordered the Flan and Calamari Italiano for appetizers, the smoked scallops salad, and Veal Chesapeake. He’d also ordered two snifters of Remy Martin Louis XIII, which cost seventy dollars a shot. The waitress had squealed when she’d come back to the kitchen.

“You look like you just won the lottery,” Vera remarked.

The waitress giggled. “Almost. His check came to one-eighty. He left me a hundred dollar tip!”

“I must be on the wrong end of this business.”

“And Vera. He wants to talk to you now.”

“Go get him, killer,” Dan B. chuckled.

Lee guffawed behind the dishwash conveyor. “Maybe he’s a pimp, Vera. Wants some new stuff for his stable.”

Assholes, she thought. Dan B. and Lee’s laughter followed her through the kitchen swingdoors. She felt foolish yet enthused. Outside, dinner was winding down. A Corelli violin sonata whispered beneath subtle dining room chatter and clinking coffee cups. In the window wing, a bulky shadow rose in silence.

“Ms. Abbot?” The voice was darkly genteel. A thick hand extended in greeting.

Vera smiled curtly, shook his hand. “You must be—”

“Feldspar,” Feldspar verified. “Please. Join me.”

Vera took a seat across from him. The table was clear now; a cup of coffee steamed between them. The candlelight seemed to blur her guest’s face.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the figure said. “I realize the hour, and how short time must be for you as the manager of this fine establishment. You are the manager, correct?”

“That’s right, Mr. Feldspar.” Behind him she could see the city’s late-night glitter through the window. Moonlight floated shard-like on the bay. It distracted her, making her avert her eyes from the man across the table.

Some manager, she caught herself. Managers were at least supposed to be interested in the satisfaction of their patrons. “How was your meal?” she asked.

“Preeminent.”

Now Vera could see him. He looked… odd, she evaluated. He seemed wide without being fat. He wore a black pinstripe suit—which looked like very good material—and a black silk shirt. No tie. The large pale face defied calculation as to age; he was old and young at once. His hair, as black as Vera’s, appeared oddly pulled back; an eloquently trimmed black goatee rimmed his mouth.

“Indeed,” he continued to compliment. “The finest meal I’ve had in some time.”

“That’s very nice of you to say. I’m glad you liked it. Would you like anything else? We have a wonderful assortment of homemade desserts.”

“Oh, no. No thank you. I’m not much of a sweets person.”

The moment held in check. Suddenly Vera felt childlike, looking at him in some kind of canted wonder.

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” he finally went on. ”A matter of—”

“Utmost exigency.”

“Yes, yes. A…business proposition.”

Maybe Lee’s right, she wanted to laugh. Maybe he is a pimp. Several big rings glittered on his squab hands. A gold cuff link glittered F in tiny diamonds, and about his wrist she unmistakably noted the Rolex.

He must have sensed her distraction. “Forgive me. Of course, this must be a bad time for you. What time are you off?”

Vera fought not to stare at him. She felt certain he hadn’t come here to make a play for her. They were strangers. A business proposition, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered against the distraction.

What did he say? ‘‘I, uh…I’m off at midnight.”

“Fine. Would you care to meet elsewhere, then?” His hooded eyes seemed to recede in some of their gleam. “Or perhaps you’d prefer not to meet at all.”

“Oh, no, I’d be happy to,” she agreed too quickly. But why had she said that? Why hadn’t she first asked what exactly it was he wanted? The thought never occurred to her.

Feldspar nodded. “At your convenience, but of course. I’m afraid, though, that I’m quite unfamiliar with this city. Where would you care to meet? I’ll need directions.”

She couldn’t keep her eyes off the sparkling jewelry on his hands. Her consciousness felt like a split thread, twisting as it unwound. The confusion made her tipsy.

“How lovely,” Feldspar remarked.

“Pardon me?”

“Your amethyst.’’ His eyes gestured her necklace. “I’ve always found it to be the most attractive stone, regardless of price. True beauty must never have a price.” Then he turned his hand and showed his own amethyst set into a large gold pinky ring. “Your engagement stone is quite beautiful too.”