Edward Lee - The Chosen

He set the little timer for thirty minutes and placed it on the cheap fiberboard bookcase, like the kind you buy at Dart Drug for twenty bucks and put together yourself.

Lemi figured that any five pieces of furniture at The Inn probably cost more than this whole place.

He heard the shower turn off. Zyra always took a shower after a job; she had a way of making a mess of herself. I like to watch the blood go down the drain, she’d told him once. It’s sort of symbolic, isn’t it? Zyra went off on these bends every once in a while—weirding out, but the way Lemi saw it, all women were weird. He couldn’t figure them. You do what they tell you, and then they’re pissed off that you didn’t assert yourself. You assert yourself, and then they’re pissed off that you’re overbearing and selfish. Lemi was grateful he didn’t have to worry about romance. I’d go fucking nuts, he concluded.

Zyra traipsed in naked, slipping into her panties. “You turn on the gas?” Lemi asked.

She only nodded. She seemed dreamy, or contemplative. Lemi squinted at her.

“What did—” He squinted harder. “How come your belly’s stickin’ out like that?”

And it was. Zyra was a hardbody—trim, toned, and zero body fat. But right now that lean stomach of hers protruded almost like she was four months pregnant, and wouldn’t that be a kick? Zyra the murderer mother. The Factotum would shit right there on the chancel floor if one of his girls got knocked up.

“I drank his blood,” Zyra said very softly, rubbing the tight belly. It was sticking out so tight her amethyst might pop out. “It makes me all warm inside, and full. I kind of like that idea. Even though he’s dead, there’s some of him still alive in me, like I’ve taken him into me, like he’s become part of me. You know?”

Lemi rolled his eyes. “Quit blabbering all that philosiphal shit and get dressed. We gotta slip.”

“That’s split, Lemi. Not slip. Jesus.” She pulled on her jeans, top, and coat, having to leave the jeans unbuttoned against the grossly distended stomach. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, peering quizzically at Ellen.

“She passed out.” Lemi chuckled. “I guess my TCL was a little too much for the gal.”

“ T-L-C, you stupe,” Zyra complained yet again, regarding Lemi’s continued ignorance of colloquialism. “Tender loving care. There’s no such thing as TCL.”

Lemi didn’t care. He hoisted the reedy black-rooted blonde over his shoulder. “Let’s split, okay?”

“Go warm up the van,” Zyra suggested. “I’ll get the guy.’’

“No need to. Just leave him. Let him burn up with the place.”

“But why?” Zyra objected. “It’d be a waste.”

“We don’t need it.” Lemi began to walk toward the door. “The Factotum says we’re all full up on meat.”

««—»»

One step at a time , Vera thought, running her finger down the rezz list at the hostess desk. Sixteen reserva tions. And that didn’t include the walk-ins. It was only seven thirty and the dining room was half-full. Things weren’t great, but they were sure getting better.

Donna whizzed by with a tray of covered main courses for a four-top in the corner. When she came back, Vera asked, “What’s the kitchen done so far?”

“Twenty-two, and about half of them are walk-ins,” Donna responded as she automatically tabulated a check. “The grilled Louisiana andouille is going like mad, and so is the banana-cream pie and the Michelanglo Peppers. This isn’t bad at all. I’m actually pulling some serious tips.”

“Good. If this keeps up we might have to hire a part-time waitress.”

“Over my dead body,” Donna said. She crammed a wad of bills into the tip jar. “Did you read the book?”

“Yes,” Vera close to groaned. “Ghosts from an insane asylum. The whole story was just so silly.”

“Silly, huh?” Donna shot her a wicked grin, then headed back to the kitchen. Was she chuckling?

She’s a trip all right. Vera just smiled. As far as she was concerned, Donna could believe in ghosts all she wanted, so long as she remained a proficient waitress.

Vera took a minute to slip to the ladies’ room, ever mindful of her watch. In little more than an hour, Feldspar would be coming in for dinner. With me, she thought. Or would he? Suddenly she felt afret. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe something else came up. Then she smirked at herself. You’re worrying like a little high school girl. And she was: inventing catastrophes. Still, she couldn’t deny the subtle excitement, not just that he wanted to have dinner with her, but she couldn’t wait to probe him out over today’s surprise visit by the chief of police. Or perhaps she was so bored of late that she was also inventing her own intrigues. Nevertheless, another thing she couldn’t deny were her own suspicions regarding The Inn’s financial success—or what Kyle and Feldspar claimed was a success. Is that what they were? Suspicions? Don’t be gullible, Vera, she reminded herself. What did she have to be suspicious of? A country bumpkin cop walks in spouting unfounded implications about money-laundering and ill-gotten gains, and now she was thinking the silliest things. Certainly a cop of Mulligan’s low caliber was no reason to suspect Feldspar of improprieties.

She surveyed herself in the long mirror, checked her hair, made sure her earrings were straight. Quit fussing! You look fine. Actually, she looked great. She wore a flowered pink-white silk jacket, rather low cut, and a white chiffon skirt. Her amethyst necklace sparkled keenly; she always wore it now—since Feldspar had complimented her on it so many times. She easily admitted to herself that she was out to impress Feldspar— via her job performance, her insights, even her looks. But what she still had yet to discern was… why? Do I want to impress him as my boss, or as something more?

The dinner shift seemed to pass in scant minutes. Every single table complimented The Carriage House as they left. From Vera’s end, everything clicked: Donna’s service was outstanding, Dan B. turned out one superior entree after the next, and the place was running without a hitch. But tonight, in a sense, was the trickiest test so far. She could please customers, sure.

But can I please the boss? she wondered now.

He hadn’t been in for dinner before, which seemed strange. He was a connoisseur and probably a snob. He smoked cigarettes that cost five dollars a pack and drank $300-per-bottle wine like it was Yoo-Hoo. A man like Feldspar, ultimately, was never easy to please. Now Vera began to wonder, or even fear, what his impressions would be.

“Shit!” she whispered, glaring at her watch. “I knew it. He’s not going to show.”

Donna laughed beside her. “Vera, it’s only thirty seconds past nine. What’s wrong with you?”

“I—” I don’t know, she thought. But it was only thirty seconds more before the shadow slid across the entry.

“Good evening,” Feldspar greeted. Vera noted the crisp gray suit, and black shirt with no tie—exactly what he’d worn the night she met him. He smiled at her. “I believe we have a reservation.”

“Is there a particular table you’d prefer, Mr. Feldspar?” Donna inquired, assuming the role of hostess.

“The choice is Ms. Abbot’s.”

Vera chose the furthest four-top in the east section, well removed from the few diners who remained. It flustered her at once: Feldspar still called her Ms. Abbot, and of course she still called him Mr. Feldspar, as he’d yet to bid otherwise. Donna seated them, as she passed them their menus, Feldspar said, “Perrier-Jouet, the flowered bottle.” He glanced to Vera. “Yes?”