But looking at the empty dining room of her restaurant, which was about to open its doors for the first time ever, she felt an anxiety that was very close to genuine fear. What if the dining room remained empty? What if none of her friends actually showed up? What if they all drove together and got stuck in some monumental traffic jam?
There was sure to be a critic or two coming tonight as well. They would note the totally empty dining room and the whole thing would be over before it even got started.
All right, she thought, let’s get it under control, Nicky. She circled the small room, with its bare oak timbers and old world plaster. It was a rustic setting, with wide plank floors and soft linen window treatments. She’d kept the tables fewer in number than the room would allow, which she knew was bad business. Conventional business wisdom said you were supposed to cram as many as possible into the space. But she hated restaurants where you couldn’t move your arm for fear of elbowing another diner in the ribs.
With her restaurant, she decided she was going to create a place
she
would like, and eliminate all of the things she hated about other restaurants, whether it was technically good for business or not.
She crossed the dining area and stood in the wine cellar as she called it, even though it was actually a small anteroom off the dining room, and it was stocked with her favorites. She’d handpicked them, going not for flashy names but for regional vintages that she’d explored herself.
She thought back on that period in her life. It had been after she sold her first and only interview to People magazine – it had been a business decision. She hated opening up her private life, talking about what had happened between her and Jeffrey Kostner in those dark woods, but she needed the money for her dream. It had been $800,000 for a two-day interview.
The money had put her through a grueling education at the Culinary Institute of California, followed by a long sojourn through Europe and Asia, healing her mind and body while educating herself on local and regional cuisine.
The little bit of money leftover had been just enough to start the restaurant.
She made her way into the kitchen.
The smell of food being prepped met her like a gentle wave. Lemon. Garlic. Onion. The slight heat of the ovens. She had a staff of four. Most were friends from her graduating class at the Institute. Combined with three wait staff, a hostess, and herself, it was a small affair. But then again, that was the point.
Everything she had worked so hard for was now riding on the success of Thicque.
She had chosen the name of her restaurant as a joke. It was a French bastardization of the word Thick - which is where she liked to be nowadays. Right in the thick of things. She still never felt all that comfortable alone. So she surrounded herself with other chefs, food, customers, and more than a few sharp knives.
"Nicky, where's the sole?" Paolo Gerrar was her sous chef, a young understudy recently graduated from the Culinary Institute of Nevada.
"The walk-in. Below the eggs," she said.
“Who’s ready to kick some ass?" a man said behind her.
Nicole turned to face Jay Lucerne, her business partner and unofficial co-manager of the restaurant. They had met years ago in culinary circles and Jay had put up 49% of the money for the restaurant. It was the way Nicole liked it; he had almost as much at stake as she did, but ultimately she had control. Control was something very important in her life, although she and her therapist were working to let a little bit more of it go whenever possible.
"I’m ready," Nicole said.
Lucerne smiled. He was a round little man dressed impeccably as always. Nicole knew that Lucerne had approached the director of the Institute to find out who was the top chef in her graduating class. Nicole’s name was at the top of the list. Lucerne had introduced himself and a friendship had developed, ultimately resulting in their business venture.
He came over and Nicole gave him a hug, liking as always the feel of his taut little belly.
Nicole closed her eyes and did a silent prayer. After all she’d been through she desperately wanted the night, and the restaurant, to be a smashing success.
9.
Dinner was roast beef, mashed potatoes and soggy green beans. Brent Tucker looked down the long dining room table at his wife. Mrs. Brent Tucker looked nothing like the slinky, raven-haired hottie he’d married fifteen years ago. No, the woman sitting opposite him and their four children looked like her mother – tired, pudgy and unattractive. At times like this, Tucker couldn’t believe that he’d ever had the temerity to stick his dick inside that flabby bag of body odor.
And what had it gotten him? This crummy house that always smelled of mildew, these four little fuckers with their incessant yelling and crying, and a dead-end job that would guarantee twenty more years of the same goddamn thing.
Tucker looked at his plate with dread, and let the comments from around the table merely scratch the surface of his consciousness.
"And then Mr. Backman said if I don’t do well on my math test-" one of the little shits was saying.
"Asparagus always makes me feel too full," another one said.
“You’re full of it all right,” a third said.
Tucker stood up, collected some dishes and went out to the kitchen. He put the dishes in the sink and walked quickly from the kitchen up the stairs to his study. He shut the door and threw the deadbolt to secure his privacy. There was no way any of “them” would be able to intrude here.
He went behind his desk and sat down in the big, brown leather chair. He reached into the desk and pulled out a key, swiveled in his chair to a small cabinet and unlocked it.
He pulled out a thick manila folder and spun back around to his desk. He dumped the contents of the folder onto his desktop.
Driver’s licenses, necklaces, rings, a few clips of hair and a tooth lay in a small jumble on his desk’s leather blotter.
The driver’s license pictures showed young women with blonde hair and blue eyes who all looked vaguely similar.
He slowly spread the collection out, one by one, and with his other hand, unbuckled his pants.
Soon, Tucker could no longer hear the voices of his family just one floor below.
10.
Mack
Ellen Reznor ordered a chilled glass of chardonnay and Mack chose a bottle of Heineken. The restaurant was a good one, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., but close enough to Maryland’s seafood suppliers to guarantee the freshest fish and clams in the city.
“You kicked ass today, Mack,” she said. “I wish you had kicked Whidby’s ass, literally.” Mack smiled. She raised her glass and Mack clinked it with his beer bottle. “It’s the new me,” Mack said. “Very restrained.”
“I like the old Mack,” she said. “You’d have been calling Whidby a worthless cocksucker-“
The waiter cleared his throat over Reznor’s shoulder. She smiled at Mack and he thought how some things never changed. Ellen Reznor was legendary for choosing the absolute worst time to make the absolutely most inappropriate comment.
Mack ordered another round. “The problem is, Whidby’s a politician, and one way or another, they usually win.”
Reznor raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I like the new you,” she said. “He’s not a pussy is he?”
The waiter came back with their drinks and they both ordered the catch of the day. Bluefish with a roasted corn relish.
“How’s Janice doing?” Reznor said.
Mack sighed. His sister had been diagnosed with Korsakoff Syndrome, a debilitating neurologic condition caused by thiamine deficiency which in turn is caused by chronic alcoholism. Mack’s sister had basically drank a good part of her brain away.
“Some days are better than others,” he said. Talking about his sister always dimmed his good mood. Mack had known about his sister’s drinking problem, it was a family tradition, but he hadn’t known just how bad it was. Maybe if he hadn’t been so consumed with his job, maybe if he hadn’t been so slow, like figuring out Jeffrey Kostner-“
“Mack,” Reznor said. He blinked. “Did I interrupt some internal self-flagellation?” she said. “Let me do it. I’m thinking of becoming a dominatrix. I could make some extra money, maybe even get laid once in awhile.”
He let his negative train of thought go and they began trading old stories and anecdotes, things the other had long forgotten, and laughed. After they’d eaten and the dishes were cleared, Mack asked the questions he’d been wondering about.
“So are you seeing anyone these days?”
It was a touchy subject with Reznor and always had been since her husband walked out on her years ago. It was about the only topic that could occasionally stifle Reznor’s biting sense of humor.
“I’m between boyfriends, and unfortunately I’m not talking a ménage a trois,” she said.
He was tempted to ask a time-related question. As in, had she been between lovers for a matter of months…or years? But he held it in check.
“And how about the new Mack?” she said. “Does he have a column of young women’s panties hanging from the flagpole over his Florida estate?”
“No panties, no flagpole,” he said.
She brushed away a stray crumb from the linen tablecloth. “Do you still keep in touch with her?”
He knew she was talking about Nicole Candela. The woman he had tried to protect and failed. He had gotten very close to her on the case. According to some in the FBI, the relationship had become “improper” and that sentiment had played no small part in Mack’s decision to ultimately leave the organization.
“No,” Mack said. “I keep an eye on her, though. She’s opening a restaurant in L.A.,” he said.
“Good for her,” Ellen said. “She’s a survivor.”
Mack nodded.
“Yes,” he said, and drained the rest of his beer. “Yes, she is.”
Every time he thought of Nicole, he felt a cool flutter in his chest. And every time, he tried to determine if it was fear or just the feelings for her that had never gone away. He wasn’t sure why, but tonight, it definitely felt like fear.
11.
Blue Blood
He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and admired his forehead. Hell, he admired his whole head. It was a Kennedy head. That proud, strong forehead, the short hair stylish and swept back.
The face was good, too. Patrician, he could say with no small amount of pride. Sharp, hawk nose, bright blue eyes, and thin lips that somehow appeared sensuous, with vague promises of sheer pleasure if properly applied.
Douglas Hampton took his eyes off of himself, no easy feat, and redirected his attention back to the road. It thrilled him. Here he was in his Armani suit, silk, but tasteful. Not goombah silk. Italian loafers. Cartier Roadster watch. All of it, the whole package, right down here in the ghetto.
He could practically hear the 20 inch tires of his BMW crunching over used hypodermics. This part of town was so nasty leaves didn’t hang from the trees – used rubbers did.
Drug dealers and bums and dirty cops.
And hookers.
Lots of hookers.
The best part was, they came running to him. They saw the car, the clothes, the Kennedy head, and they could smell the fucking money. The scent of it poured from the tinted windows in great, phosphorescent waves.
They fought over him, sometimes.
Once, he added fifty bucks to the price for the winner of two hookers who were already nearly at blows (so to speak) over him. The fight had been bloody and fierce. In fact, the winner was such a mess, that he had driven off without paying either one.
Welcome to the hood, bitches.
Now, he turned onto a side street, then came back around to the best corner in this area. Where the pimps placed their Grade A merchandise.
And that’s all he was interested in. The crack whores did nothing for him, other than turn his stomach. He had no desire for the skanks whose skin and teeth were already ragged and shedding from crack or meth or hard time on the streets.
No, he liked them young.
Young and fresh and ripe, like a good piece of fruit.
Seedless fruit. He giggled a little, giddy with anticipation.
The Beemer’s halogen blue headlights automatically turned on their axis as they sensed the turning of the car itself, and illuminated his favorite spot for sweet young flesh.
She leapt out at him like a sailfish nailing a trolling lure.
White miniskirt, white tank top, blonde hair, and white skin. A pale smear in the dark shadow of hopelessness.
He didn’t even have to speak. He simply pulled up, rolled down the passenger side window and popped the lock.