by Ted Neill
“Sam, good to see you man,” Rodger said, hugging him.
“You too,” Sam said. He hugged Mrs. Coleman. “Happy Birthday, Sally,” he said.
“Oh, Sam. How did you remember?”
He kissed Sally Coleman, patted the youngest children, Teresa and Jonathan, on their heads. He asked them if they were going to be good tonight and handed them boxes of crayons and paper placemats to color on. He liked the Coleman kids. They were always well behaved: they didn’t make too much noise or run between the tables; they had never spilled anything. Sam shook hands with Dave Coleman, their teenaged son, and put his arm around him on the way to their table. Feleketch was waiting there and had already had set out the booster chair for Teresa. She and Sally exchanged hugs and kissed on both cheeks.
“How’s life, Sam?” Dave asked. Sam had noted that how’s life, was the cool greeting these days among teenagers.
“Can’t complain.”
“Looks busy.”
“Yeah.”
“Got a big party coming in?” Dave was looking at the Shroders’ empty table.
“Yes, Vicky Shroder. She’s at your high school, right.”
“Yeah, valedictorian. Looks like they’re a little late,” Dave said. He must have noticed the candle’s burning down low. Perceptive kid, Sam thought.
“Yeah, almost forty-five minutes, now that I think about it.”
“Traffic is pretty bad out there. There’s a big accident on route fifty,” Dave said.
“Well that must have them delayed. Enjoy your dinner, young man.”
There were more people at the door, but all the tables were filled. Feleketch came up alongside Sam.
“Should we take the Shroders’ tables apart?” She was holding the server book with both hands. She had long elegant fingers. He knew if she was asking, it was probably all right to break the tables up. She wouldn’t have asked unless they had waited more than enough time. But Sam, for once, was not sure.
“Not yet. Dave Coleman said traffic is bad on fifty. We should blow the candles out though.”
“Got it,” she said and made a swift turn back onto the floor.
Sam told a new set of customers that came in that it would be a twenty-minute wait. They looked at the full restaurant, then their eyes landed on the empty table for fifteen. They said they’d be back another time. Other customers came in; some waited, some did not. Sam looked outside. Maybe he would see the Shroders. They’d probably be in a big hurry by now, crossing the parking lot in a big crowd of relatives, members from every generation.
He didn’t see them.
The rush was in full swing. Sam brought out a basket of rolls, because Jose was too busy running food. The tray of food resting on his palm formed a big T with his forearm. Sam poured water to help Fatima, the busgirl, because she was clearing tables. Sam checked on the young athletic couple, the college students on the two-top. They were both drinking soda. So Feleketch had carded them. Good. Sam poured some water for them, made some easy small talk, got them laughing, then noticed his brother Roy peering at him through the swinging door of the kitchen. Sam excused himself and floated over to him.
“What’s up?” Sam asked.
“We’re almost out of peppercorn vinaigrette.”
“None in the fridge?”
“Nope.”
“All right. I’ll get some from the catering van. It’s too busy to send anyone.”
On the way to the door, Sam saw that Mr. Sanders was signing his credit card receipt.
“Mr. Sanders, thanks for coming tonight. And thanks for bringing your lovely wife.”
“Oh, we’re not leaving yet. We’re still nursing some coffee.”
“I have to run to our van to get some dressing. By the time I get back you’ll probably be long gone, off to bigger and better things.”
“Aw, Sam. Angelo’s is the bigger and better thing,” Mrs. Sanders said.
Sam could have hugged her right then. Her words kept his mood buoyed as he stepped off the curb into the lane outside the restaurant. The van was on the far side of the parking lot, close to the main road and the parkway. Sam had done this on purpose. With Angelo’s Italian Restaurant & Catering Services plastered on the side, it was free advertising. A billboard he didn’t even need to pay for.
The parking lot was packed. Angelo’s and the other restaurants, the Thai place, the pizza parlor, the ice cream shop, were doing good business. Two ambulances went past on the highway, their sirens blaring. Sam turned his body sideways so he could walk between two cars’ side-view mirrors. Such passages were becoming slightly more narrow for him these days. He checked the front of his shirt and brushed off some greenish-yellow pollen. This time of year, it stuck to everything.
He got to the van. He climbed in on the passenger side because the driver’s side door was parked too close to the shrubs planted near the curb. He found a bottle of vinaigrette in the back. He also grabbed some extra bread baskets. He sat down on the passenger seat, just for a moment. He felt a drop of sweat run down his cheek. It itched, but he did nothing. It picked up speed as it went around his chin and down his neck. He stopped feeling it when it hit his collar. He imagined the moisture spreading out into the fibers of the shirt.
Something was on his mind, but he had pushed it away in the flow of customers and the turning of tables. It hid just at the edge of his consciousness for a moment before he remembered it with a start.
Feleketch.
Why was it that three people that night alone had said something about . . . them? But there wasn’t a them. They were colleagues. He was her boss, of all things. He’d never use that position for something untoward, especially not for Feleketch. He’d have words with any man or boss of hers who would try something like that. He felt a rush of protectiveness for her, followed quickly by a sense of affection that he tried to ignore.
He did know he looked forward, each day, to coming into work because she would be there. Sundays, her days off, he had always liked least. But by attending the Coptic service, he had found a way of seeing her. It felt strange to go a day without seeing her. They’d meet after the Coptic service for the lunch with other members of the church. Sam had met Feleketch’s family, her mother, her brothers. The two of them often were the last to leave the church hall. But he had always just stayed to help clean up the tables. That was what he was used to doing. He worked in a restaurant after all.
But she had stayed all those times too.
He wondered why.
A helicopter passed low overhead. A news chopper, or maybe a medivac? Going to that accident on fifty. He realized he had been daydreaming for too long. He had to get back to the restaurant. Personal thoughts were for personal time. He slammed the van door and began walking at a clip. On the way, he expected to see the Shroders, finally, arriving with their guests in a long procession. He pictured their daughter Vicky in a white graduation gown, rushing in with armfuls of presents and flowers.
Maybe they had meant to come in at seven o’clock?
Sam passed between two cars. A family of five was walking into the restaurant. Sam switched the baskets and bottles around in his hands. He wouldn’t reach them in time to greet them. Feleketch would do it for him, maybe even better than he could. What was the word that customer had used? Luminous. Daniel had called her what? Spellbinding.
Sam would have to go over to the table and make small talk with the family of five when he got back to make up for not greeting them. Funny, what Jake Jackson and Daniel had said about him being cool, of all things. Was that how people saw him? He didn’t mind, just had never taken something like that for granted.
Sam entered, the fifteen-top for the Shroders waiting still. The candles were blown out. It was already a $1,500 loss for the night, easy.
“What happened to the Shroders?” Daniel asked when Sam got behind the bar.
“Stood us up, I guess.”
“They never called?”
“Never.”
&nbs
p; “That’s not like them.”
Daniel turned to make Harold another Crown and Seven-Up. Sam didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t speak. Feleketch and Fatima were bringing out Mrs. Coleman’s birthday cake, Feleketch’s face lit in the warm glow of the candles.
Spellbinding.
Sam walked over to the light dimmer and turned down the lights. Feleketch turned in place, waving her arms, and soon the whole restaurant clapped and sang along to Happy Birthday.
It was like a family, he thought.
Or maybe like a symphony, Feleketch the conductor.
Sam noticed that while he was out the Stevensons had arrived. They were a retired, silver-haired couple. They were very good friends of Sam’s, some of his oldest customers. He brought them a plate of bruschetta, on the house.
“Have some no shows?” Mr. Stevenson said. He pointed to the Shroder table.
“Apparently. Apparently, they thought no one else would want those seats,” Sam said, bitter.
“Wow, Sam. You, angry? I’ve never seen you angry. You’re always so cool and laid-back.”
“Yeah, that’s what people have been saying,” he chuckled as he shook the folds out of the napkins and set them across the Stevensons’ laps. “It’s just a rotten thing to do. Ends up costing us.” he said, looking at the Shroder table.
“Some places would charge them, you know,” Mr. Stevenson said. “They take your credit card number when you call now, and if you don’t come in, they charge you for a meal anyway.”
“That’s a good idea. A very good idea. I should have thought of it.”
Sam went to the bar and took two menus, handing them to the Stevensons. They thanked him and ordered half a carafe of Chianti. Sam gave the order to Daniel. Then he and Jose pulled apart the Shroders’ tables and reset them. The candles had burned too long. They would not be able to use them again. A waste.
Sam walked over to the bar, threw away the candles, and retrieved the carafe for the Stevensons. He stared across the room at the three empty tables they had pulled apart, with five settings each, five plates, five glasses, seventy-five pieces of silverware, ninety with the butter knives. It wasn’t one big table now, but it was unlikely they would turn them all before they closed.
He really could charge them. Maybe he had an old receipt in the back.
Of course, he did.
“I can’t believe they didn’t show up for a reservation of fifteen people. You think everything is all right?” Daniel said, changing the coffee filters.
“They’re just rich. They think they can walk all over anyone,” Sam said, squeezing a wine cork in his hand. “People are just lousy,” Sam said. “Just lousy.”
The Jacksons were leaving. Sam waved good-bye to them. He hadn’t the energy to walk over and say “good luck” to Jake. Poor Jake had finally taken off his graduation robe. Then Sam thought better of it and walked over. He shook Jake’s hand. The rest of the Jacksons were leaving. He walked out with them.
“Mafioso, you say?” Sam said, ribbing Jake.
“Totally, man.” Jake slapped his shoulder. Sam laughed and turned to his parents.
“Try to avoid route fifty. Apparently, there’s a big accident there.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Mr. Jackson said.
Sam went back inside. The tables were messy, with sticky plates, half-drunk drinks, empty butter wrappers, and crumpled napkins. But all of the disorder meant money flowing into the register. All the tables had been used, all except for the three by the windows. Fifteen seats’ worth. Not even a single turn on them for the rush. Sam’s face felt hot. He tugged at his collar.
He would charge the Shroders, Sam decided. He would charge them right now. It would help him feel less angry. He walked back to his office, opened the door, and switched on the light. He rolled open the drawer of the filing cabinet and looked through the credit card receipts for the past six months. He found that the Shroders had been there twice just last month. They were good customers. But not tonight. He copied down their credit card number. Their phone number was there too. He could call them, but he decided he didn’t want to talk to them. He would just charge them. This would be Angelo’s new policy.
He took a spare menu he kept by his desk for phone orders and found the most expensive dish, fourteen dollars, then the least expensive, at seven. He averaged them, then included the price of salad. He was sure everyone would have ordered a salad. He multiplied by fifteen—for every person that would have been there. He decided not to include appetizers. He thought this was very generous on his part. Then he calculated soft drinks and then wine. They probably would have had red wine; everyone drank red wine now that doctors said it was healthy. They would have had champagne, of course they would, it was graduation, their daughter was valedictorian. But she was also underaged, so they would have had non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider too.
Couldn’t forget the cake cutting charge. Twenty-five dollars.
He calculated the tip. Feleketch averaged around twenty-two percent. Not bad, but for a fifteen-top she would have deserved twenty-five.
“Sam.”
Feleketch was at the door of his office, as if his very thoughts had conjured her. The house phone was in her hands. They were trembling.
“Feleketch, are you all right?”
“No. Sam, it’s the Shroders.”
“Oh, did they finally call? Don’t tell me they were nasty to you?” he said, ready to include appetizers for every setting if that were the case.
“No, Sam. Vicky, Mr. and Mrs. Shroder, they’re all dead. They died in the car accident. The one on route fifty.”
He dropped the check he had been holding, as if it had burned his fingertips. But it refused to disappear. Instead it remained on the center of his desk, an accusation.
“Dead . . . but I just spoke to them this morning.”
“Sam, I’m sorry,” Feleketch said.
Sam stood up. He didn’t want her to be worried for him. He didn’t deserve that. But he was worried for her. He knew her, her nature. He knew she was hurting. He went around his desk but stopped short of her. As a boss, as the owner of the restaurant, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next.
She stood, staring at him, her hands clasped over her heart. Her elbows were pulled into her sides. She looked up into his face, small and vulnerable.
Roy burst through the kitchen door, stopping beside Feleketch. “Fele, you going to run these orders?”
“Cool it, Roy,” Sam said. “The Shroders are dead.”
“What?”
“That was why they didn’t call,” he said, one hand on his hip, the other pinching his forehead, the pads of his thumb and index finger pressing on his temples.
Feleketch wiped away a tear. Roy put an arm around her. She sniffed and put her head on Roy’s shoulder. Sam wondered why he had not just done that. Why had he hesitated?
“I was just talking to them this morning,” Sam said as the noise of the kitchen, the bar, the dining room seemed to recede.
Roy shook his head, stepping back to the kitchen. The entrees would not wait. “Just sort of reminds you,” Roy said. “Cherish the people you love while you have them.” He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, his fingers splayed on the swinging door just below the window. “Love you, brother.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Roy’s eyes darted from Sam to Feleketch, then back to Sam again. Feleketch was not looking at Roy; she was looking at Sam. Sam swallowed, standing close to her in the doorway. Feleketch wiped her eyes and started to turn. “I’ll get those entrees for Roy.”
“Wait,” Sam finally said. “Wait, Feleketch. There is something I need to say to you . . . .”
18.
The Houseguest
“Society’s improved at every level, and culture spreads now even to the Devil,”
—Goethe, Faust Part One
Martin Finch came home one evening to find the Devil in his living room. The Devil was not exactly what Martin had expe
cted the Prince of Darkness to look like, but then again, he had never given the subject too much thought. The Devil wore a suit with wide lapels, shimmering with layers of gold sequins. The fitted suit jacket rested over a red silk shirt with a ruffled collar and sleeves. The shirt was accented by a gold tie, the knot fashionably loosened, with a tie pin set in the center. The pin was obsidian with two little red horns of ruby and (what appeared to be) platinum sunglasses set over an unsmiling face with a lit cigarette etched next to the mouth.
The Devil’s own face was immeasurably pale, although he had striking, high cheekbones, accented with a bit of blush, not unlike a drag queen might. His pupils were large and black, surrounded by very bloodshot white. His hair was slicked back with what appeared to be styling gel or oil so that his horns were prominent. The horns themselves were unquestionably authentic. They were a deep red, layered and cracked, just as an animal’s might be. But they were also cared for, bearing the high gloss of a recent polishing and fresh, clear shellac.
Gold beams of light stabbed out into the room from his sequined jacket and matching cowboy boots, much like the light might reflect off a disco ball at a club. The room was thick with the smell of sulfur. It was not from the source Martin would have imagined. But before we go any further, we must explain about Martin and his evening, pre-Prince of Darkness.
Martin Finch was a wealthy hedge fund manager. His father had been a wealthy hedge fund manager, and his father had been a wealthy hedge fund manager. Martin was thinking about his accomplished genealogy that night as he drove home in his Alfa Romeo. Martin Finch had reached a comfortable plateau of wealth and luxury that was now, for the most part, permanent. He had too many aggressive investments to count, the security of a number of low-risk funds that continued to accumulate, and a quite sizable nest egg that was diversified, sheltered, and only promised to grow. Then he had his equity, not to mention cash savings, the interest able to support him.