Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  And then I can’t get a word in edgewise for the next twenty minutes.

  I hold the phone out away from me for a good ten of them and Gordon giggles at my irreverence, but boss man is loud enough that I can pretty much catch everything with the receiver two feet away anyway.

  It’s when I hear the word Riker that I stand at attention. Yank the phone back to my ear.

  Well played, Roger. I’m listening.

  “…and so we can’t think of a better place to have Sean’s launch party.”

  Sean.

  Like Roger Van de Kamp is on a first-name basis with one of the biggest, most controversial names in politics right now.

  “Miss Carter, are you there?”

  I clear my throat.

  “Oh, yes yes. I’m here. Does Mr. Riker—um—Sean—know about this?”

  “He actually requested it. Your location has been earning quite a good reputation. A lot of the authors, big and small names, who’ve done events with you have had nothing but positive things to say about the experience, about you. You are garnering quite the street cred.”

  I choke on a snicker at Van de Kamp saying street cred.

  Not like I can really get away with saying it either. Who am I kidding?

  “But this book—” I stammer.

  “I know.” His tone is dismissive and singsong all at once. “It’s controversial. But you know what that translates to, Blanche?”

  I picture Sean Riker’s gaunt face. The smug smile he wore during his last television interview—the one that had members of the camera crew throwing down their headsets and walking out.

  “He’s a bigot, but he’s a high-profile bigot. I get it. Asses in chairs,” I say. “But it still makes me want to take a shower thinking about giving such a disgusting person a platform. Selling his books.”

  “I understand completely, and you’re entitled to your opinion.” His tone is firm yet considerate. “I also know you’re a professional, and you’ll handle this with tact and decorum.”

  And that’s the end of the conversation.

  * * *

  Ansley absentmindedly sifts through the photos on my mantelpiece. Finding her way through years of good times: Isla and me with the girls from that time we went to the zoo, an ancient shot of all of Delta Gamma taking over an entire staircase at our last formal, and one of Gordon and me at the store from the first week I was manager.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Her voice is soft. Hurried.

  “I’m sure,” I say, organizing the CIA shit we need for tonight’s endeavor.

  I’m not sure.

  Last night, I spent two hours trying to convince Ansley she could do this.

  Dominic had been messaging for the better part of the afternoon and seemed like perhaps he’s working with more brain cells than some of the guys I’ve dealt with in the online world; so, when the Italian stallion asked Ansley out, I threw caution to the wind and set it up.

  I figure we might as well get her out there sooner rather than later so I can see exactly what we’re dealing with here.

  So, am I sure? Absolutely not.

  But I don’t let her see that as I hand her the Bluetooth earpiece, and she places it into her right ear.

  “I’ll only chime in if you get stuck, okay?”

  She nods furiously, and I arrange her hair in a final fluff so it’s covering any sign of our surveillance mission.

  I smile. “You’re going to be great.”

  After a test run of me across the apartment, in a different room, down the hall, I’m feeling confident in the technology, at least.

  Pulling off this kind of sitcom caper is quite another story.

  Fingers crossed.

  When we arrive at the gastropub, everything is just as pretentious as I imagined it would be. Oversized chandeliers hang at all intervals but shed very little light on the area over which they preside. A plethora of deconstructed dishes adorn the paper-scrap-clipped-to-a-clipboard menu.

  And I’m not buying the British accent on this bartender either.

  I didn’t love when Dominic had suggested this place for his first date with Ansley because it’s just too uppity for my tastes, but I know I have to remember—those are my tastes, not hers. I appreciate the effort on his part, though. The aesthetic. Choosing a place like this shows he appreciates the finer things. That he’s not intimidated by the prices—and maybe that he’s no stranger to pretention himself.

  But the date hasn’t even begun, so I reserve judgment.

  Gordon agrees to come with me because this isn’t really the type of establishment where I can go and just drink alone and gawk at other patrons, like I do when I’m people watching. They’ll notice.

  “If you’re buying, I’m in,” he says. “I’ve been dying to try it anyway.”

  When Ansley approaches the hostess—Dominic says he made reservations—we learn Bachelor Number One hasn’t arrived yet. The girl seats Ans at a table that’s across the restaurant from our spot at the bar. It’s out of regular earshot, but I’ve got a good side view of the table if I look in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Testing,” I hear Ans whisper as the waiter approaches.

  I give not the most nonchalant of thumbs-ups and feign a stretch to cover it, and this elicits a snarl from Gordon.

  “Are you going to be this awkward all night?” He’s already two sips into his martini.

  “Probably.” I grin.

  Dominic arrives twenty minutes late, and I spend the majority of that time trying to pacify my concerned client. I tune Gordon out completely, which he seems to be fine with, and I watch the reflection in the mirror like it’s a new show to binge.

  “Wow, you look beautiful.” Dominic sweeps his arms open as he nears the table.

  Ansley stands, and although her mouth opens, nothing comes out.

  “Guess I’m on,” I whisper to G.

  “Aww, thank you. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” I say into the mic. “Glance at your nails,” I add more quietly.

  She repeats and does as she’s told as though we’d rehearsed how this was going to go, and Dominic tilts his head back and chuckles. “I should have messaged. I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

  “Oh, I’ll think of something,” I say, and Ansley’s delivery is on point.

  After the first round of drinks is delivered, scotch for him, vodka tonic for her, they settle into standard conversation. She’s able to answer his getting-to-know-you questions with relative ease—What do you do for fun? Where did you grow up? Tell me about your job, etc. I don’t have to intervene at all for a good thirty minutes, which is encouraging, because I’m not sure this wiretapping situation is for me. I had thought it was going to feel more Mission Impossible, but all it’s doing so far is inducing sweat from me. Gordon’s being a good sport because I keep shoving his face full of stuffed olives, but I don’t think I could withstand chaperoning dates like this for too long. Hopefully Ansley will come around.

  “So, what looks good?” Dominic peeks over his menu at Ansley, who’s been silent since the waiter went over the specials.

  Her mouth parts, and I watch as her eyes grow large, anxiety leaking its way into her very demeanor.

  “What’s the matter?” I whisper. When she doesn’t snap out of it or give any other kind of indication that she hasn’t just had a pulmonary embolism, I add, “Meet me in the bathroom.”

  At this, she gives an almost imperceptible nod at Dominic and smooths on a smile. “Would you excuse me a minute? I need to go to the little girls’ room.” She gives his knuckles a gentle graze as she stands, and I admire her one-eighty as she tries to get a grip on whatever it is that’s wigging her out.

  She turns the corner, and I round on her when we’re both out of Dominic’s sightline. “What’s up?”

  “It’s just—” She’s shaking her head. “I’m not seeing much I can really eat on that menu. Did you look at it?”

  “No?”
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  “This is weird, but—I’ve got a bad stomach. Reflux, when I’m stressed. It’s just sensitive. Not something I like to talk about too much and I generally just eat around it so I don’t have to be a pain.” She opens her purse to reveal a giant container of antacids it’s clear she’s already broken into.

  When my initial response is a blank stare, she dives into the container and scarfs another handful, just for good measure, it seems. Crunches away, and she inhales deep. Gives a long, breathy exhale, like she’s just taken a hit of the good stuff.

  “Hmm. I haven’t checked it out yet, but maybe you can pick out something bread based? Some cheese? Are you lactose intolerant?”

  “I can probably handle bread and cheese.” She snickers. “I’ll do my best.” Tentative lip chew.

  I put a hand on each of her shoulders. “You’re doing great. Playful and polite. Haven’t knocked anything over yet.”

  She gives an appreciative nod.

  “You like him?”

  She shrugs and leans into a small smile. “Maybe?”

  “Go get ’em, tiger.” And I send her out before me.

  When I get back to my spot next to Gordon, he’s engrossed in conversation with Fake Accent Fred now, so I’m able to peruse this menu and see if I can find something blandish for my girl.

  Escargot.

  Chicken liver pâté.

  Roasted bone marrow.

  Quail.

  Eek—I see what she means. Each item is fancy as hell—exotic—or if not, it’s garnished with something slimy or spicy, or still alive.

  “Glad you’re back,” Dominic says when she returns. He raises his near-empty glass in the server’s direction. “I ordered us a couple of plates to share, if that’s all right.”

  I see her swallow with her whole body.

  “What, um—”

  “Super stoked—I got us the beef tartare and the calf brains. Pretty wild, huh? I love trying crazy stuff. Don’t you?”

  She sits back in her chair. Voice drops to a delicate timbre. “Well, I, um—”

  She doesn’t meet his gaze, starts folding and refolding her napkin on the table. Slowly.

  “You don’t eat meat?” he asks.

  She looks up. “It’s not that. I have a—” She glances toward the bar, toward me. Clears her throat. “Doesn’t ‘tartare’ mean it’s not cooked?”

  He scrunches his face in a question mark. “No, I don’t think so?”

  “Yes, it fucking does,” I say.

  She flinches, I think at the fire in my tone. “Call him on it. Why’s he lying? Or does he just not know words?”

  “That is what it means,” she says. Her tone is firm.

  He laughs. “Okay, so what? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  He tries to make it sound playful, but there’s something about his whole demeanor that seems condescending.

  “Tell him you don’t eat raw meat.”

  She does.

  “What about sushi?” he asks.

  “I’m boring with sushi,” she replies, “but I do eat it. I’m just more of a California roll kind of girl than, say, tuna ahi poke. I can eat unagi, though. That’s eel. That’s exotic adjacent, no? And it’s cooked.”

  He gives an impatient blink, but smooths it away with a smile. “Have you ever tried this stuff?”

  “Calf brains? Um, no.” She crosses her legs in the opposite direction.

  He gives a chuckle. “Okay, that’s fine. That’s kind of out there. We can order something else if you want. But you’re trying the beef tartare.”

  I snort. “Yeah, since he took the liberty of ordering for you without even asking,” I mutter.

  “If you say so.” She gives a tight smile and doesn’t respond further except to tip the last swallow of her drink down her gullet and make eyes at the server.

  Like PLEASE GOD ANOTHER.

  When the waiter obliges, she orders the pimento cheese ball—good girl—and then the conversation begins to ease back into his job. He’s in software. I’m listening, but it’s one of those jobs I don’t quite understand, even without drinking this eve.

  Things have just started to return to a point of lighthearted conversation when the server reappears with their appys.

  Dude is about to set the beef tartare in front of Ansley, but she dismisses it away with a flick of her fingers. “Just put everything more toward the middle,” she says, a grimace breaking through and betraying the smile I can tell she’s trying so hard to keep on her face.

  Dominic’s eyes light as he takes in the dishes at hand.

  “What is that?” Ansley scrunches her nose at the plate.

  “This?” He picks up a roundish thing and inspects it. “It’s a quail egg. See, you crack it over the meat”—he does so—“and voilà.”

  Her eyes just bug.

  He picks up a pork rind—yes, this dish is served with pork rinds—and stirs the yolk into the raw meat. I can actually hear the wet sounds squish like canned cat food through the Bluetooth. These earpieces are pretty amazing! And my own stomach turns.

  I watch through the mirror as Dominic offers her a rind.

  A rind covered, essentially, in whipped raw meat.

  “No, thanks,” she says, once again flicking up a wrist.

  His smile grows wider. “Try it.”

  “That’s okay,” she answers, pulling back. Rubbing at the back of her neck.

  “Come on.” He scoots closer.

  “No, I’m—”

  His tone pivots from friendly to annoyed in an instant. About-face. “You won’t even try it?”

  It’s louder than it should be.

  The couple at the next table must feel the tension emanating off my girl and her date because they exchange worried looks. This Dominic doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t—I mean—my—” Ansley’s all over the place.

  “It’s so good. Seriously.” He takes his own portion, mm-mm-mmm-ing all the while, licking his fingers clean. Ansley watches him with a concerned stare.

  And the heat’s back on her as he shoves another loaded-up rind in her direction.

  “You will not be disappointed. I promise.” He’s still smiling.

  She bites her bottom lip again, tentative fingers reaching out.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say into the mic.

  Gordon turns toward me. Glances up at the mirror.

  Dominic’s halfway across the table—unrelenting in his offer—and so, regardless of what I say, Ansley presses on.

  She reaches out and accepts the beef tartare from Dominic’s insistent fingers, and crunch.

  The sickly sound of dried pig skin scraping against teeth.

  I wince.

  “Well?” Dominic’s tone is bright.

  He’s munching away on another, and Ansley’s just nodding along, face pinched in such a way that tells me she’s saying a silent prayer to the gag reflex gods to just hang on for Ten More Seconds.

  Finally, she’s able to swallow it down and she reaches for her water glass, immediately emitting an ahh of relief once she’s rinsed the appetizer away.

  “See? Wasn’t that great?” His tone is expectant. His posture, aggressive.

  She just looks at him and pushes a tight smile across her lips.

  He changes the subject to politics, and I urge, “Rule Number 5,” but this Dominic doesn’t seem to pick up on the social cues that Ansley’s laying down. First of all, that she’s been downing her second drink; second of all, that she’s turned slightly away from him; third, that she actually says, “I just don’t really like talking politics on a first date.”

  This part makes him chortle. “I get that. Especially if yours are different than mine. But imagine how boring it would be if everyone were the same.”

  She gives a polite snort. “This is true.”

  They clink glasses and he presses on, picking her brain over her stance on the legalization of marijuana. Health care. Without my help, she’s pretty di
plomatic, saying, with her job at The D.C. Daily, she tends to stay out of the political aspect of things because she realizes her role is not to inject biases. It’s to stick to the facts. As a result, she remains fairly balanced. “Middle of the road,” as she puts it.

  Dominic finally seems to accept this and then it’s on to favorite movies.

  Thank God.

  After a while, out comes the rest of their order, the calf brains and the cheese ball.

  Ansley’s a ball of uncomfortable laughter as they set it down in front of her, but this time Dominic is careful to tell the server the brains are his.

  “I won’t make you try this,” he says.

  “Great, thanks,” I reply into the mic, ice etching its way into my tone. Ansley keeps it more even than I do when she repeats, so it’s difficult to get a read on just how she’s feeling about the whole situation.

  “But aren’t you glad you tried the beef tartare? Just admit it was amazing.”

  And something about his condescending tone, the fact that he won’t let this alone, the fact that he kept nudging her, picking at something she was obviously uncomfortable about until she was forced to just eat the damn stuff even though she didn’t want to—just to shut him up—lights my insides on fire.

  What is this guy’s problem?

  She ignores the question and moves on with her own. “I’m not trying that,” she says, eyeing the lump of tissue on his plate. “Have you ever had calf brains before?”

  “Where’s your sense of culture?” He does some finagling with his fork as he prepares to take his first bite. “I’ve never had this, no. That’s why I’m psyched to try it! I make it a point to try everything once. Oh!” He puts down the fork and starts fiddling with his phone. “Check this out.” He flips the screen toward her. “This is me in Thailand last year. I went there with a couple of buddies of mine. Here we are eating cow’s testicles.”

  He erupts into merriment and, really, with what seems like being genuinely pleased with himself.

  “This is what makes you cultured and adventurous? Eating cow’s balls?” I ask, and Gordon looks at me in horror. Twists around to see what the hell is going on, and I yank him back so he doesn’t blow our cover.