Devour, p.18
Devour, page 18
Jasmine forced herself not to vomit. Being that close to his mouth again made her want to pull his tongue out with a pair of pliers.
“I’m sorry. As you can see, the room is full,” she said expressionless before starting toward the front. “If you’d care to join—”
“I don’t want to wait,” he spat aggressively enough for her to recoil, then lowered his voice. “And I’m more than happy to pay you to find a seat for me,” he smiled through gritted teeth, slipping a hundred dollar bill into her hand.
As much as she wanted to shove the money down his throat, she chose not to make a scene, and feeling confident his tab would pay her salary for the week, she waved for them to join her at the bar.
“Please enjoy a splashy cocktail on me,” she glared, “While I have a table prepared for you.”
As they sat, Jasmine motioned to the bartender: On me. Walking away, she saw Michael looking through the open kitchen area. His expression asked, Everything okay? She nodded, then signaled one of her staff to deliver a table to the front window.
Within minutes, the table was dressed, the guests were seated, and the drama was over—for now.
41
Striking Poses
The Wagyu beef had arrived from Japan earlier in the day, and when it began flying off the grill just after six, Michael knew it was going to be a blockbuster night. He was confident they would do so well in the next 48 hours, he could close Sunday as hoped.
Passing through the kitchen for birthday candles, Jasmine slapped Michael with a high-five. “One helluva night out there, Boss,” she said, stopping long enough to grab some sparkling water.
“And you look no worse for the wear,” he winked.
He could not be happier. His restaurant was cranking with happy investors, his family was healthy and ready for adventure, and a new love life was hopefully launching.
Checking the time, he saw it was getting close to midnight. “I can’t believe Dalton is still here,” he said, looking through to the front of the restaurant. “That’s what, three and a half hours?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Disgusting is more like it. He’s ordered nearly all our best entrees. His date ordered whatever he didn't. And they’ve had enough to drink for four people.”
Finishing her drink, Jasmine set the tiny Perrier bottle aside. “Okay, here comes the home stretch. Shouldn’t last more than another hour. We hope.”
“I’ll join you,” Michael said, washing his hands. “Let’s see what our friend is up to.”
Turning to Scott who had been listening to their conversation, Michael said, “Hey Bro, we’re in the homestretch. Why not grab a break?”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Scott smiled, tossing a towel and grabbing his cell phone before heading out for a smoke and a Coke.
Leaving the kitchen, Jasmine lowered her voice. “Your brother’s a helluva hard worker.”
“Who knew?”
She wanted him to work out; however, since she had been around criminals a good deal of her life—thanks to her father’s profession—she was skeptical.
“Good to have him around. Although I think something’s up.”
She frowned. “What?”
“We can debrief later.”
Jasmine joined a couple who were regulars and there to celebrate an anniversary while Michael approached the bar.
“Hey Justin, would you get me a short Dalwhinnie?”
“Sure, Boss. 12 or 20?”
“12. And how about two Armagnacs. The ’79. And would you bring them to Table One,” he nodded toward the window.
“Copy that.”
As Michael approached Dalton’s table, they were laughing.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the world famous and my old pal, the head cook—oops, I mean, Master Chef Michael Rogan,” Dalton said with a fat tongue. “And meet my lovely date, Lady Mystic.”
“Just Mystic will be fine,” she said, extending a hand. “Hello, Chef Rogan.”
Taking her hand, he kissed it. “Bonjour.”
Michael could not help but notice the size of her hands.
“Seriously, Michael, this has to be one of—no, it is, without a doubt—the best meal I’ve ever had. In my life. Ever.”
As the drinks arrived, Michael offered a tiny bow. “Thank you, very kind. And as a gesture of my appreciation for your dining in our humble restaurant, one of our finer digestifs,” he waved for Justin to serve.
Mystic clapped her hands like it were the surprise of her life. Dalton nodded, “That’s really quite nice, Michael. Thank you.”
Taking his drink from Justin’s tray, Michael lifted his glass. “To your good health and hearty appetites. May both be forever plentiful.”
As they clinked their glasses, Dalton smiled and thought, you have no idea.
42
Homme Work
Dalton’s latest date—as exotic, gregarious, and engaging as she was—ended up being a genuine pain in the ass. She was a delight to the eyes and they shared a good many laughs, but her disgruntled attitude became tiring with her incessant complaints. Dalton had spent enough time around troubled people to learn that when they were not happy with themselves they made sure those around them were equally unhappy. Such was the case with Mystic.
Evidently, she had spent a better portion of her life tormented by the fact she had not been born into the family of her dreams. She had also spent several years disgruntled by jobs that never satisfied her. And her sexuality—as robust as it had been for the past decade—left her feeling less than. Hence, the reason Melvin became Mystic.
Melvin had grown up in a poor neighborhood, born to parents who did not have a great deal of motivation. Father was a shoe salesman; mother, an elementary school teacher—neither had ever wanted more than the mundane life they had created. Born an only child to an African-American father and a Caucasian mother with Latino ancestry, Melvin was an unusually esoteric, if not confused, child.
He parlayed his height into the expected: high school and college basketball. As a star athlete, Melvin dated plenty of pretty girls throughout school. While he managed to graduate with good grades that landed him a 9-to-5 job as an accountant, it was not enough. So one day after extricating himself from the norm of Fort Wayne, Indiana and into the seduction of San Francisco, California, he realized a dream of who he truly wanted to be: an eye-popping exotic dancer.
Dalton and Mystic had gone back to his place to take the evening to the next level. And while Mystic had no idea just how exotic it would become, Dalton had very specific ideas.
Given Mystic’s size, Dalton knew he would have to resort to his intravenous cocktail quickly in order to tame his sassy beast. Unfortunately, Mystic put up enough of a fight to leave a scratch across Dalton’s cheekbone. She would never make that mistake again.
After an earthquake of a migraine appeared and temporarily dampened both Dalton’s peripheral vision and his heightened libido, he pulled himself back around in order to conclude the evening in robust fashion. The most challenging part became transferring two-hundred pounds of dead weight from the master bedroom to the main butchery.
Showered and refreshed—albeit physically exhausted—Dalton caught himself smiling as he stared out at the valley below his house. He felt lost in time. His cravings had increased in both intensity and frequency—like a starving inmate, locked in solitary with no daylight or food in sight.
For a brief moment, he envisioned having to call the walls of San Quentin home. Having been around such environments for as long as he had, he tried to give it little thought. However, if or when he were to eventually be caught, he would have to manage his own death before suffering in the God forsaken place. He could likely withstand the solitary existence, but he could never tolerate the so-called food.
He had been troubled by a returning fear that his mind was eroding. He wasn’t sure if it was the cluster migraines, the tunnel vision, the constantly rumbling stomach, or just the fact that he was not feeling himself. Grabbing his cell phone, he pushed aside that worry and dialed a number. Waiting for someone to pick up, he imagined how he would put the finishing touches on his upcoming ruse.
“Hello?” growled the young man’s voice.
“Did I wake you?” Dalton asked.
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think it is, Scottie?”
The silence was punctuated by the sound of a Zippo lighter, followed by a long exhale.
“Those things’ll kill you, ya know,” Dalton sneered.
“What are you, the American Cancer Society?”
“Nah, just your old pal, the Warden.”
“Oh, the stiff from Arizona. The one they call Dickie Dalton because you’re such a prick.”
“That’s not very nice. Especially coming from someone who just wants to help you.”
Scott coughed a snort, “Yeah, right. I knew I’d seen you before…that day I came to your joint to visit my old man—the hateful fuck.”
“Nah, he’s a good guy.”
“Shit,” he moaned. “You didn’t grow up around him.”
“Yeah,” he let out an easy sigh, “But I’ve got plenty of experience in that department.”
Both men wondered what the other wanted.
And they waited.
“Hey, I got no beef with you,” Scott said between drags. “You coulda kept me from seeing him. If you wanted to.”
Dalton caught himself staring at his late-night snack plate of fried fingers—not chicken, of course. It was a dish he learned to recreate after watching a cooking show about strange meals from an underground channel he found on the Dark Web.
“So, c’mon, I gave you shit on my old man, you teed me up to Michael. Makes us even, right?”
Dalton contemplated doing something to Scott at that moment, just to get rid of his attitude, but he had other significant plans in the wings.
“For now. I’ll be in touch.”
Hanging up, he had a feeling of satisfaction knowing he had rattled the man’s tree. Looking at his reflection in the wall of glass separating him from the rest of his suburban existence, Dalton noticed how much larger his belly had grown. All he wanted was one meal that included all of his prized collectibles prepared by the best chef in the world and he did not think that was too much to ask.
Suddenly, another nauseating wave of headaches came crashing down, but this time Dalton blacked out.
43
Big Day
The early morning sky was punctuated with fog shrouding the red bridge like silken drapery. Before long, the sun would melt the clouds, making for another perfect NoCal day. The still of the morning was broken with the sounds of Michael and Natalie. His bare feet shuffled down the hallway toward the kitchen, while her waking moments were punctuated with music.
Michael had gotten in very late, and as much as he could have slept for several days, he knew Natalie’s last non-official day of school required a special breakfast. He decided on Belgian waffles filled with walnuts and covered with fresh strawberries, then topped with warm grass-fed butter and dark amber maple syrup. A side of Buffalo Gal’s maple-smoked wild boar, along with a French press and fresh-squeezed orange juice, completed the ensemble.
Graduation exercises would commence by early afternoon, followed by students celebrating. The day would wrap with his restaurant booked to capacity where he had created a special pre fixe menu for the families. Since a majority of the celebrating would involve booze, he had more than an ample amount of champagne on hand. As a bonus for his regulars, he commandeered a small fleet of town cars to get families home safely, compliments of the house.
Busy in the kitchen, he smiled at the familiar sounds, all of which were his favorites: sizzling meat, chirping birds, and his daughter’s voice sharing whatever was on her mind.
“Morning, Daddy,” Natalie said, hugging him from behind.
“Morning, Angel.”
Taking her place at the counter, she yawned, “I see sleeping beauty is still out.”
“Yeah, long night.”
“Not as long as yours,” she mumbled, opening the paper to the sports section.
He looked out the corner of his eye but left it alone. “Breakfast’ll be ready in about 15.”
“No rush. I’ll start with this,” she said, pouring a large mug of coffee.
“You excited?”
She blew the top of her mug. “Yeah, but kinda nervous, too. Not sure why.”
“It’s a big day; of course you would be. And I’m sure leaving tomorrow may have something to do with it. Right?”
“Uh huh,” she mumbled.
He spooned the waffle mix into the griddle and set the timer. Pouring a cup of coffee, he walked to the window.
“Dad?”
Without turning, he replied. “Yeah?”
Joining him, she mimicked his stance. “Am I ready for this?”
“For what?”
“To be an adult.”
“You bet you are, Angel,” he smiled. “You’ve been ready much longer than you think. Everything will be just fine. And it’ll all come easily for you. Just like things always have. As for Europe, I’m sure that adventure will erase any apprehensions you may have.”
Letting out a deep sigh, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thanks for always making everything better.”
“You bet.”
Natalie was in the shower when Kathryn entered the kitchen and Michael hummed a tune washing the dishes.
“Morning,” she said.
He jumped, then turned to say, “Morning.”
Pouring a cup of coffee, she said, “Sorry for startling you.”
“All good. How’d you sleep?”
“Good. After I finally got there,” she yawned. “How about you?”
He stared at the plate he was scrubbing, wondering if it was the time to discuss what was percolating in the back of his mind. “Like a pile of rocks,” he smiled. “When I finally landed a bit after three.”
She stared straight ahead—avoiding his gaze—and whispered through the steam of her coffee, “Hard day, huh?”
He felt heat rise in his chest, knowing what her tone meant. A couple could not be together as long as they had and not know each other’s ticks, tells, or touch points.
“You have no idea,” he shook his head. Putting away the last dish, he poured a to-go tumbler of coffee and joined her across the counter. “Not sure which is harder, the crush of the incoming storm,” he said, tossing a chin toward Natalie’s room, “Or knowing I’ll be without my girls for half the summer.”
She was quiet long enough for him to know she was editing herself. “We’ll miss you, too. You know that.”
He gave a half-hearted nod and circled the island. “I do,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Can I make you something to eat before I run her out,” he asked, knowing she would likely say no because of the time.
She shook her head. “I’m good. You have to run,” she said, patting his hand. “We’ll have plenty of time alone…when I get back.”
The awkward silence made him want to say something; however, he also wanted to leave quickly—both to get Natalie to school and to avoid unnecessary drama on such a memorable day.
Starting down the hall, he stopped and spun around, “How ‘bout if I drop her off, pick up one thing from work, and come back right after. We’ll need to leave around eleven. That work for you?”
He watched as she processed the question as if biting her tongue. “Sounds great. See you shortly,” she said, managing a nearly authentic smile. “Love you.”
Father and daughter skipped their Sausalito stop, motoring to make up for lost time. Getting to school on graduation day was less about classes, and more about cleaning out lockers and saying goodbyes. Life was going to be good for many of the graduates of San Francisco University High School, one of the most prestigious schools in the city, as many already had jobs waiting for them after summer vacation.
Approaching the school, both Natalie and Michael felt the significance of the moment. Pulling to the curb, he turned and smiled. She turned and cried. Holding hands, they did not speak for a long moment.
“It’s been such a good ride, Nattie. And I couldn’t be any more proud of you if I tried.”
She bit her lip. “You better stop this, or my mascara will run,” she laughed through tears. “IF I wore any.”
Laughing, they hoped to stretch the moment for as long as they could, but because of time, wrapped it up by sharing details of how the rest of the morning would go until he and Kathryn would show for the ceremony. Then, after a short kiss and a long hug, she jumped out, grabbed her bags, and headed in. With his window down, he waited for her daily salutation.
She was nearly to the steps—and Michael was about to pull off—when she turned and yelled, “See ya later, Popsadoodle!”
He waved, pulling from the curb to let other parents get in line. Swallowing hard, he took the next several minutes flashing from one memory to another—from the very early days of grade school to middle school and finally to these years at S.F.U. High.
After all the years and all the hundreds of breakfasts together and countless laps across the bridge, she had filled his heart with so much love, he could scarcely fathom life without her.
Graduation ceremonies ran like clockwork. Everyone enjoyed the festivities, and it turned out to be a contest between Michael and Kathryn as to who cried the most. Natalie, standing head and shoulders above many of her peers, was as beautiful as ever. When her time came, she strode across the stage with confidence, pausing long enough for Michael to grab a photograph as Kathryn stood to cheer. Natalie bowed as though she had just delivered a speech. It was a funny moment they would never forget. After an hour of photographs, hugs, and promises to keep in touch, the girls drove Michael to the restaurant so he could prepare for the incoming crowds. Next, they drove home to freshen up and share a celebratory cocktail before grabbing an Uber to the restaurant for dinner.
