Monster's Chef

by Jervey Tervalon

  “If you say another word . . . I swear to God I will shoot you.”

  I made the sign for dreaming. We’re in a dream, I signed over and over again until she lost interest at pointing the gun at my head.

  “You don’t think he’s a werewolf?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s go kill him.”

  I nodded and followed her to a passageway that led to a corridor that stretched for what seemed like a mile.

  “Where is it that we’re going?”

  “Home! Where the baby is,” she said.

  “Where is that?”

  She ignored me and pulled away. I did my best to keep up with her, but again it was hopeless. Comfortable running at a near sprint, Rita must have been in training for this. I had nothing left, and resigned myself to walking.

  I heard something behind me, faint like the rustling of leaves, then a deep-throated growl. I found renewed energy to continue running, saw an open door glowing like a light to the next world.

  “Hurry!” Rita yelled from the doorway.

  That sound behind me now was a roar of anguish.

  Fear picked up my feet, lifted my knees, pumped my arms, filled my lungs; I flung myself forward as if I was at the tape at the end of a race and stumbled through the doorway. Rita slammed the heavy metal door behind me, and soon afterward something struck it, growling and thrashing.

  It was a relief to be aboveground and to feel the cooler air coming off the ocean, but from the northeast, as far as I could see, everything was on fire.

  “Come on,” Rita said. But I stood there, astonished at the approaching destruction and the sound of it, the explosions.

  “That’s Monster’s Lair going up,” Rita said over her shoulder as she headed to the bluffs. She knew where she was going, but I hoped it didn’t involve trying to climb down a steep cliff onto the rocks below.

  “Over here,” she said.

  I was certain now that Monster had bought all this property for just this kind of contingency, the need for avenues of escape.

  She walked along a worn, narrow trail bordered on both sides by clover and wildflowers. The path gently sloped into a forest of oaks, and in the center was a high stone wall, and behind the wall, a picture-perfect cottage looking as if it should have been made of gingerbread. There, half concealed by giant hollyhocks, oblivious to the ash floating about, stood a big-boned woman with intricately braided blond hair. Behind her on the ground in a wicker baby basket was a squawking, red-faced little blond boy.

  The woman saw us coming and scooped up the boy and disappeared into the house. She returned clutching a shotgun.

  “Stop! You are trespassing,” she said in heavily accented English.

  “Who are you?” Rita asked.

  “You are trespassing!”

  “Listen! I want my baby!”

  Heidi didn’t seem to understand Rita, or maybe she did because she pointed the shotgun at her.

  “Let me explain it to you. That’s my baby and you will have to kill me to stop me from taking him.”

  Rita started down the path past the huge hollyhocks, the great sunflowers, the trellis covered with the butter-yellow blossoms of a climbing rose to the quaint, artfully painted Home on the wooden gate.

  The woman fired the shotgun, and the baby wailed. Rita dropped to the ground and crawled for cover behind a blooming jacaranda tree.

  I didn’t have cover to hide behind. I stood there, hands at my sides, expecting to be shot. I imagined being ripped apart by the pellets, bleeding to death on a bed of primrose. I didn’t care; she could shoot me, kill me, I didn’t care. The baby and Rita, that’s what mattered, but the woman wasn’t interested in me. She calmly positioned herself to get a better shot at Rita.

  I picked up a good-size stone and hit her flush in the back.

  She moved the barrel of the shotgun in my direction. Rita rushed her and hit the woman in the head with the butt of the gun, knocking her to the ground, and scooped up the baby.

  I grabbed the shotgun from the grasping hands of the woman and followed after Rita and the baby. With the baby pressed against her chest, Rita flew down narrow wooden stairs that led to a small dock and to a motorboat anchored there.

  I untied the motorboat and climbed on board.

  “I’ve never piloted a ship,” I said.

  “I have. We’re going to Santa Barbara. I have friends there.”

  “Monster can find you. You need a shelter, someplace he can’t get to. Asha can find you a shelter. She’ll know how to get you free from Monster.”

  Rita laughed. “Don’t need to worry about me. I don’t intend to run from Monster. I want all this. I want everything he has, and I will get it, and that still won’t be enough for what he’s done.”

  Rita hopped onto the boat, placed the baby inside the cabin; that’s when I saw the black figure of the giant dog running headfirst down the bluffs.

  “Start the engine!” I shouted to Rita.

  It took a long frantic moment or two for the engine to engage, long enough for the giant dog to land on the dock.

  I grabbed the shotgun and aimed. The dog leaped and I fired. I was sure I’d hit it, but the dog kept coming, undeterred and pissed, too close for me to get off another shot. I swung with the stock and whiffed.

  The dog lunged, knocking the shotgun from my hands, and sank its teeth into my shoulder and, with a yank, flung me off the boat and onto the dock.

  Rita rushed to face it, but it was on her in a flash, throwing her about viciously.

  I expected that it would tear her head from her shoulders, but unexpectedly it stopped and gazed at the sky.

  The sun, a gaudy reddish balloon, had risen above the haze, and the dog continued to stare at it, as though compelled.

  The dog coughed as dogs sometimes do, and lowered its head and opened its mouth wide until it became a gaping maw. It coughed hard and vomited prodigiously, and something long and black slid from within it, and then the dog was gone and there was Monster, wet and steaming as if he had just slipped from out of the womb, but his blinding white skin was gone. Monster was black now, black as a shadow. Black like the trespasser who he complained had stalked him all those years.

  I thought Monster was done, that the drugs had worn off; the gig was up.

  No.

  Monster was still possessed with the need to kill Rita.

  “You bitch. You hateful bitch! After all I did for you, you stab me in the back! What were you before I came and pulled you from the mud? You fucking trailer trash!”

  Monster had the build and the strength of an anorexic, but his ego was oversize.

  He charged Rita.

  With one punch she knocked him to the deck and began to beat him with all the unrepressed energy of someone freed from bondage.

  “The baby! The baby is crying,” I shouted, hoping to coax her off of Monster, but she seemed intent on bashing his head in.

  “Stop it, Rita. You can’t be killing people,” Thug shouted.

  I glanced up to see Thug walking down the stairs, smiling as though this insanity was a pleasant night at the club.

  I picked up the shotgun and pointed it at him, but he didn’t seem concerned.

  He lifted Monster from the deck, cradled him as though he was the frailest child.

  “Monster isn’t all that. Y’all treat him like he’s the one, the devil or some shit. Sure, he’s done some really wrong shit, but you know, he don’t deserve this. He don’t deserve to die. He’s done some good too. You know that. And he gave me another retainer and met my number.”

  “You can talk, Thug, but he didn’t steal your baby,” Rita said, anger erupting in her voice.

  Thug smiled easily.

  “Please, Rita. Don’t act like you the innocent victim. Your ass signed on with Monster just like everybody else. You wanted to get paid and you got paid. You a rich woman and you’ll be a rich woman all your life because of Monster. You just wanted it all, just like
all you white people; you want it all, not just your fair share. You want it all.”

  Thug turned and started up the stairs with Monster.

  “Where are you going with him?” I asked.

  “Away. Monster isn’t gonna be judged by these fools. Maybe the Congo. He likes the monkeys and elephants. Yeah, maybe the Congo or Poland. They love him in Poland. Plenty of blonds in Poland.”

  Thug gave one last disarming smile and with a shrug disappeared into the smoke and haze of the burning world.

  FLOURLESS GLUTEN-FREE CHOCOLATE TORTE

  SUGAR TOPPING

  Confectioners’ sugar, as needed

  Instant coffee powder, as needed

  CAKE

  6 egg yolks

  1 egg

  1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

  1 cup butter

  2 cups dark chocolate morsels

  13 egg whites

  Make the topping: Use equal parts of confectioners’ sugar and instant coffee powder, enough to dust the finished torte. Blend the sugar and coffee in a food processor or spice grinder until well combined. Set aside.

  Make the cake: Prepare molds or a cake pan by spraying with Pam, lining with parchment paper, and then spraying again with Pam. Preheat the oven to 325°F.

  In a mixer bowl fitted with the wire attachment, whip the egg yolks, egg, and 2 tablespoons sugar for 7 minutes; pour into another bowl and set aside. Melt the butter and chocolate morsels in the microwave or over a double boiler; set aside, keeping warm. Clean the mixer bowl and the wire attachment. Put the egg whites and 1/3 cup sugar in the mixer bowl and, using the wire attachment, whip to make a meringue with medium-stiff peaks. Do not overwhip.

  Whisk the warm chocolate mixture into the egg-yolk mixture. Do not allow the chocolate to set. Quickly but gently, fold in the meringue. Pour into the prepared molds or pan. Bake at 325°F for 12 to 15 minutes. The torte should be slightly gooey in the center but not liquid. Cool it in the refrigerator to set it before turning it out of the pan.

  Put the coffee sugar in a sieve and dust it over the chilled torte.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LAST I HEARD RITA HAD BECOME ONE OF the richest women in Santa Barbara County; even after all the lawsuits she was worth easily a hundred million. She lived in even more seclusion than she had before with Monster, but she was as discreet as Monster was outrageous, living behind high walls in the cottage near the ocean that Monster had used as a day care center for the boy. She never had Monster’s Lair rebuilt. Instead, she sold the land to another über-entertainer who fancied herself queen of the world.

  I visited Rita once, at her request, to have her sign papers in person for our business venture before I returned east.

  I didn’t know what to expect because I’d heard the press and the lawyers representing those boys, the blond automatons, had descended on her, ready to tear her to shreds as the inheritor of Monster’s fortune. Supposedly, Monster died in the great Santa Ynez fire, and all those allegations of child endangerment, murder, and uncategorizable perversity vanished with him. As Thug would have said, it was all good. Far as the world knew, Monster’s sins had been burned away, cleansed by his horrible death, and fans returned to his catalog with renewed passion.

  Bullshit as that was, it wasn’t up to me to get the record straight that Monster had not died but had escaped with his freedom and much of his fortune.

  Anyway, Rita handled the aftermath expertly. She settled with everyone who had a claim and wanted to settle; and those who didn’t she sicced the dogs on, producing documentation, proof that the parents were pimping their kids to Monster.

  It was always about the money.

  Rita knew the score, so she walled herself away with the same rings of concentric security that Monster had. Her Security crew didn’t look like Mormons in jumpsuits but like locals: jeans and cowboy boots, Lakers caps and cell phones pressed against their ears.

  Her little boy played in the idyllic English cottage garden, chasing butterflies. Rita came out of the house with a glass of lemonade for me and kissed my cheek. Now that the troubles of Monster were over for her, she wore her hair long and had gained some weight, and looked the better for it: a beautiful, relaxed woman who had everything she needed in this world and the next.

  “You look wonderful, as beautiful as the first time I saw you, when you pretended that you couldn’t speak.”

  She laughed.

  “I probably couldn’t. I was too depressed to say anything to anyone.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said to her as I opened my briefcase and brought out the numerous papers that needed her signature.

  “Yes, I want to. You helped me get my boy back.”

  I watched as Rita, my silent partner, signed the paperwork for the lease on a restaurant on the Lower East Side that would mark my return to the restaurant world.

  “You know, I heard something about Monster.”

  “You should call the police,” I said, alarmed.

  “No, there’s no need. He’s changed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I guess it’s not that big of a change. He’s no longer a man, if he ever was. He’s a woman now. And he runs a children’s theater in Poland.”

  “Jesus! He must make one ugly-looking woman. Have you seen a picture?”

  “No. I’m not that interested.”

  “So, it all worked out. Monster has his freedom and the youth of Poland to work with, and you have what you need, and I have a restaurant to run,” I said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “How is it with your wife?”

  “It’s good and she’s pregnant.”

  “You’re a lucky man to have something to go home to.”

  “Yes, I do feel lucky. Everything worked out the way it should have. We’re lucky people.”

  I didn’t mention my struggle to control my drug addiction. I guess all the trouble with Monster started all that up again, though it was always there, right below the surface. Elena recognized that now and helped me stay sober, keeping an eye on me as if at any moment I might fly away like a wayward pigeon finding his way back to the cocaine roost. But I wouldn’t let that happen. I would hold on to this life, this good life, never turning it loose. Elena was with me; I could hold on to her at night, feel her swelling belly, and I’d rather die than lose what I had with her.

  “Yeah, we’ve been very lucky, fortunate or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Isn’t it lovely to think so?” Rita said as she looked out at the beautiful world Monster had made possible for her, as the baby cried forlornly, snatching at butterflies too far from his grasp.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’D LIKE TO THANK MY MOM, LOLITA Teresa Villavaso, who’s given me much love and material to write about, and my dad, Hillary Louis Tervalon, who took me to the beach or the park or anywhere else I ever wanted to go when I was an indulged boy. I want to thank my lovely, brilliant daughters, Giselle and Elise, who like to eat my cooking and never wash a dish; and Sammy, my stepson, the little naked boy from Shanghai. I want to thank his mom too, for bringing all that happiness with her, and it’s hard to thank Mary Blodgett and Carlton Calvin enough for hosting our wonderful wedding reception, and for their perpetual kindness. I need to thank my buddy JGold from way, way back, back beyond that—getting handcuffed with you on Beverly Boulevard was a laugh because LAPD didn’t shoot us—and Tracy Sherrod, my Goddess Editor, so glad to be back with you. My thanks to Jon Gray, Malcolm Livingston, and Lester Walker, with respect and admiration for what you do and what you all bring to the table.

  And I need to thank my crew of misanthropes and disreputable types: Mr. Eric Chow, Mr. Tim Stiles, Mr. J. Michael Walker, Mr. Bernard Ng, Mr. Ed Webb, Mr. Andrew Ramirez, and my friends from back in the CCS days, Bob Blaisdell, Max and Elaine Schott, Caroline Allen, and Elizabeth Wong from the Disney Screenwriting days. Robin Tiffney—thanks for the advice and cookies. And lastly, Biscuit, for helping me get in shape and for the pleasure of picki
ng up his droppings each and every day.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JERVEY TERVALON is the author of five books, including the bestselling Dead Above Ground and Understand This, for which he won the New Voices Award from the Quality Paperback Book Club. He edited the anthology The Cocaine Chronicles. He was a Remsen Bird writer in residence at Occidental College and a Disney screenwriting fellow. He is the director of the Literature for Life project, an online literary magazine and salon, and the literary director of LitFest Pasadena. Born in New Orleans, he now lives in California and teaches at the College of Creative Studies at UC Santa Barbara.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  ABOUT THE CHEFS

  CHEF LESTER WALKER hails from Co-Op City in the North Bronx. While at the School of Food and Finance, he became inspired to feed his culinary passion and won a C-CAP cooking competition, which awarded him with a scholarship to Johnson & Wales University. His skills place him among the best chefs in the country, as evidenced by his Food Network Chopped win. You can catch Chef Lester melting faces as one of the founding chefs of Ghetto Gastro.

  CHEF MALCOLM LIVINGSTON II is a Bronx native. After graduating from the former Culinary Art Institute of New York City, he became the youngest kitchen staff member at Sirio Maccioni’s Le Cirque. After making his rounds among New York City’s elite dining institutions, Malcolm landed a post at wd~50, where he continues to lead innovation as the pastry chef. He is listed among Dessert Professional’s 2013 Top Ten and a 2014 James Beard Rising Star Chef nominee. Chef Malcolm is a founding member of the Ghetto Gastro culinary collective.

  ALSO BY JERVEY TERVALON

  FICTION

  UNDERSTAND THIS

  DEAD ABOVE GROUND

  ALL THE TROUBLE YOU NEED

  LITA

  LIVING FOR THE CITY

  NONFICTION

  THE COCAINE CHRONICLES (COEDITOR WITH GARY PHILLIPS)

  GEOGRAPHY OF RAGE: REMEMBERING THE LOS ANGELES RIOTS OF 1992 (EDITOR)

  COPYRIGHT