Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Guarding the doors to this level’s impressive glass-prismed mall entrance was an older-looking man in the process of instructing a couple of muscular fellows sporting slicked-back hair, matching charcoal suits, and gleaming black shoes with pointed toes. The muscular two stood nervously, feet braced, hands clasped behind their backs. As the older fellow addressed them, they rolled their massive shoulders and tilted their heads overattentively. I was pretty sure the three weren’t policemen. For the threat of riots, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department would certainly send officers in plainclothes as well as uniforms. But no matter what they were wearing, sheriff’s department deputies never acted so obviously like hired goons.

I glanced at my watch again: ten-thirty. “The mall’s open, right?”

Julian’s cap of blond hair fell sideways as he tilted his head to get a better look at the suits. “Actually, yeah. It opens at ten usually, but earlier day after tomorrow because of the food fair. Most of the stores don’t get busy until the afternoon, Claire says. Those dudes look like they’re from Mignon Cosmetics or Prince & Grogan. Or maybe they’re from some private security company.”

“I guess they’re supposed to look tough.” I turned off the ignition and pulled up the parking brake. “Maybe they figure they’ll be a deterrent if they act like they’re wearing shoulder holsters. That ought to tick off the Beastly Bulletin folks.” I couldn’t remember what the law regarding carrying a concealed weapon was in this gun-loving part of the country. Coloradans don’t like to conceal their weapons. In fact, they seize every opportunity to be exhibitionistic about them.

Outside the van, the foul, overheated garage air hit us like a slap. We’d have to hustle to get the food into a cool spot. In this heat, anything could wilt or grow bacteria. I opened the van doors, surveyed the undisturbed array of spa dishes, and wondered if the muscle-bound security men in the matching suits would go for the roast hot pepper, if I laid a few jalapenos on top and sprinkled them with cayenne.

As we began to unload the vegetables, shouts erupted from near the garage entrance to the mall. Julian and I exchanged a worried glance, hoisted our loads, and began to walk rapidly toward Stephen’s Shoes. Twenty feet away, the security guys were hollering at several demonstrators who had suddenly appeared, waving large placards. Laden with trays of broccoli, I couldn’t see if the activists were carrying anything else. From my vantage point, the demonstrators’ ages and gender were indeterminate. They uniformly sported long, unkempt nests of hair above their logo’d T-shirts, torn blue jeans, and sandals. I couldn’t hear what everyone was yelling, but I could guess it had to do with preserving small gnawing mammals with cute tails.

“Feel all right?” Julian murmured as he whacked open the service-entrance door with his sneaker and held it for me to pass through.

“Yes,” I said uncertainly. The shouts had increased in volume. “Maybe the security guys, or whoever they are, can run interference while we bring in the supplies.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt.

Julian moved to the shoe-store door and opened it wide. We quickly carried our culinary burdens past rows of brightly colored pumps and air-cushioned cross-trainers. Curious customers and gaping store employees allowed boxes of sandals and sailboat shoes to drop from their hands as we hustled past. They acted as if they’d never seen a catering duo lugging eighty pounds of food past them before.

The store manager, a tall fellow with sandy-red hair, came to our side quickly and murmured conspiratorially, “I know about the routing for the banquet.”

I wondered if he was going to ask for the password to cross enemy lines. “Sorry,” I whispered from behind the broccoli. “This’ll just take a few minutes.”

As the manager moved across the store’s carpeted floor to reassure his customers, Julian said, “I don’t know if those security guys will be able to protect us going back and forth.” He glanced back at the garage. “Just for safety, we’d better make all our runs in tandem instead of alternating.” He nodded knowingly to show how much he was learning about food service.

I didn’t return the nod. It looked as if more people had joined the altercation outside. Julian was right, though. When two caterers work an event, one usually hovers over the delivered food while the other brings in the rest of the supplies. If you leave platters out anywhere before serving time, people will take the mere presence of edibles as a sign it’s time to start consuming them, no matter how impenetrably the food is wrapped. Perhaps there would be a bar at the nightclub where we could stash all the courses below eye level.

We came out the main entrance of the shoe store and turned to enter the august beauty of the renovated main hall of Westside Mall. In the late sixties, when it opened, Westside had been a splashy, hugely successful shopping center. But Westside Mall had gone bankrupt like an F. Scott Fitzgerald hero: gradually and then suddenly. The Denver papers had been full of accounts about stores going out of business during the first phase of the oil recession. It wasn’t long before the whole mall ended up repossessed as part of the savings-and-loan mess. After several years of vacancy, the management of Prince & Grogan, a department store chain with its headquarters in Albuquerque, had agreed to provide the anchor for a redone, upscale mall. A complete face-lift of the old shopping center and construction of the multilayered garage had transformed the former shopping haven into a glitzy series of fancy stores and chic boutiques.

But Arch had mourned the loss of the old Xerxes’ Magic Shop. As I stepped across the threshold of the Hot Tin Roof Club, I imagined my son would be awed at the unquestionably magical transformation of the old store he’d loved so much. Gone were the rows of masks, the shelves of top hats, the glass counters filled with tricks. The walls of the enlarged space were painted silver and black. Under high-intensity spotlights, chrome buttons and table edges glistened. An array of overstuffed furniture had been upholstered in black leather. A slender woman with elaborately teased hair and a sheath as diminutive as Claire’s nodded in our direction and motioned us past the hostess stand.

We moved uncertainly out of the service entry and through the new foyer. Despite the fact that it wasn’t quite eleven in the morning, a palpable air of excitement filled the place. Lively music pumped out of overhead speakers. About thirty women had already arrived and were bustling about. One was setting up a slide projector. Another pulled down a screen. Two more checked on the audio system and the podium. Whether the high-pitched voices and feverish rushing around were the result of nervousness over the upcoming event—the unveiling of their fall line—or the presence of the demonstrators outside was impossible to determine. I saw Claire briefly. She seemed to have forgotten us as she giggled and squealed and moved from group to group of chattering females. On one long table, three rows of brightly colored corsages were arrayed. Some women already had them on. Others were in the act of pinning them to their stylish outfits. My guess was that the flowers had something to do with the fall colors we were about to see. I wouldn’t have minded having a corsage, I thought absentmindedly as I moved toward the bar with the heavy tray of broccoli. On the other hand, was there such a thing as a bittersweet-chocolate-colored orchid? With raspberry-colored roses to complement it? Probably not.

A sudden banging and shouting outside caused a momentary hush to fall on the bevy of scattered women. Launching into a new song, the music from the speakers blasted into the silence, overwhelming any sounds of a disturbance. I cursed silently when I thought of all the food Julian and I still needed to bring in past whatever had erupted outside.