“Funeral of an old friend,” Asanti said, presenting her passport.
“Same,” offered Sal. “And nothing to declare,” she said, wishing again there was a way to take her gun easily from country to country.
The lady smiled suddenly, and said as if she hadn’t heard the word funeral, “I hope you enjoy your stay. If you have a chance, check out the restaurant scene. Thistle on the Moor is the best restaurant in the city.”
“Country,” interjected the customs official next to her, a young woman with a severe bun and small gold earrings.
“Probably the world,” their customs official agreed.
“All right, then,” Sal said, feeling oddly uncomfortable with this sudden endorsement.
They walked out of the customs area and into the terminal.
“Do we have a sense of what we will be dealing with?” Sal asked as they walked.
“I’m starting to think I do. Father Hunter was convinced it was benevolent magic. The Orb wasn’t clear on the perceived threat, which is one reason I wanted to deal with this as independently as possible. If we can just shut it down before the team finds out, that would be best.”
“You’re saying we don’t really have a plan?”
“That is what I am saying,” Asanti said, hefting her bag higher on her shoulder.
“We should have at least brought Grace,” Sal said. “I don’t have any weapons.”
“If it’s good magic then you shouldn’t need weapons,” Asanti said.
They stepped out into the cool Glasgow afternoon and looked for the taxi line. Each cab sat idling, each of them advertising the same restaurant on their doors. Purple, lavender, and black letters welcomed visitors to Glasgow and suggested they try Thistle on the Moor restaurant.
“This Thistle place is kind of prominent,” Sal said. Asanti pursed her lips and nodded.
They got into the lead cab and Asanti gave the cabbie the address.
“That’s a popular part of the city,” the cabbie said. “Got the best restaurant there.”
“Thistle on the Moor?” Sal asked, taking a shot in the dark.
“Oh, you’ve heard of it?” He turned in his seat, causing the cab to swerve slightly. “The food is legendary. I’d suggest that you go, but you need to book a few months ahead of time if you want a table. I got the missus a reservation for our anniversary. Thirty years next November!” he said proudly, turning back to face the road.
“That’s great, congratulations,” Sal said, looking out the window. They passed a bus, upon which an ad for Thistle on the Moor beckoned her to visit.
“Be careful, though. The reservation system isn’t respected by everyone, and people line up every night hoping to grab themselves a table. The line usually ends up in a fight,” the cabbie said, cutting off the bus and causing the bus driver to blow her horn.
“Every night? A fight in front of this restaurant?” Sal asked, turning back to him.
“Pretty much, yeah,” he said.
“And this isn’t a big deal? Where are the police?”
“That time of night? They’re usually in line for Thistle on the Moor.”
Sal sighed and looked at Asanti. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and say that Father Hunter’s niece is a chef? And that the ‘business’ she lives above is a restaurant. And that the restaurant is Thistle on the Moor. And now we know where the ‘beneficial’ magic is going.”
Asanti nodded grimly. “Your assumptions are correct. I had hoped it was simply a good restaurant. But now I am thinking otherwise.”
“A good restaurant with limitless marketing funds? Come on, Asanti! When I searched for Glasgow online, Yelp reviews for Thistle on the Moor were the top hits! There’s some serious manipulation to pull people into this restaurant, and it’s getting bigger. It’s going global now. Nightly fights? The more people that come to this restaurant, the more violent it’s going to get.”
“The sorcerer’s apprentice,” Asanti whispered. “It’s wonderful when magic can be used to drum up business, but no restaurant can handle feeding the world when it tries to knock the door down.”
“Scalpel in a toddler’s hands,” Sal said, truly understanding the meaning.
Now that her hypothesis was set, Sal could see the influence of the magic everywhere. People wore primarily shades of purple, lavender, and black, and any public advertising space was for Thistle on the Moor, except for a Glenfiddich billboard currently being covered by a Thistle on the Moor ad.
“You’re in luck; it’s not open yet so the street isn’t closed,” the cabbie said, pulling up to the curb on a corner where a line had begun forming. “The traffic usually starts locking up about an hour before the restaurant opens, and driving through there is a nightmare. Good luck, and try not to get caught in the riots.”
“Riots? Don’t the cops do anything? I’d think they would close the restaurant if it’s causing that many problems.” Sal said in disbelief.
“Shut it down? It’s the best restaurant in the country!” the cabbie said, acting as if she had suggested canceling Christmas.
He retrieved their bags and put them on the curb. “Have a lovely visit, ladies, and do try Thistle on the Moor if you can. It’s a nice part of the city, if very busy. I don’t come to this part of the city unless I’m trying to get into the restaurant.”
“And how often is that?” Asanti asked.
“Oh, about every other night,” he said. He tipped his cap and pointed at a healing scratch over his eye. “Got that the other night after the fights started. But one person with reservations got sent to hospital, and I got his table.” His eyes gleamed with excitement.
“That’s great,” Sal said with forced enthusiasm. “Thanks for the advice.” She paid the cabbie, who grinned widely at her, gallantly tipping his hat again.
Sal grabbed both of their bags from the sidewalk and put one over each shoulder.
“I’m glad you thought to exchange some money at the airport,” Sal said. “I didn’t know some cabbies didn’t take plastic.”
“I think we’re a block away from the restaurant and Father Hunter’s apartment.” Asanti led the way across the street so they didn’t have to push through the hungry crowd.
The crowds were indeed getting thicker on the sidewalk. One block down from where they had come in, police were in the process of cutting off the street entirely because the sidewalk foot traffic had begun to spill into the streets. Their cab had only just been able to squeeze in before cops put up barriers.
“Looks like we got here right in time,” Sal said. “That guy wasn’t kidding.”
“Nor about the popularity of the restaurant,” Asanti said, pointing across the street.
Thistle on the Moor was a tiny restaurant, with glass windows facing the street on two floors. Thistles had been painted on the glass, but they were starting to wear in some places from people touching the windows and leaning to get a better look inside. It was on the corner of a block of shops, but every other shop around was closed. An alley ran along the right side of the building.
“You’d think they would close down for a death in the family,” Sal said. “If Father Hunter was as close to his niece as you say he was, shouldn’t she be in mourning or something?”
“Not if the magic is driving her to keep it open,” Asanti said. “And it’s pretty tiny for so many advertisements. This is starting to make sense.”
Sal and Asanti stood on the side of the crowded street opposite the restaurant. Sal shook her head at the throng of excited people. “Having worldwide ads for a tiny restaurant is beneficial magic?” she asked. “This is beneficial like eating cake for every meal is beneficial.” Her opinion of Asanti’s mentor was falling rapidly, but she wasn’t going to talk to Asanti about that right now.
Asanti pulled out her phone. “I’ll give his niece a call to see if she’s there or taking time off.”
Sal wondered what a harried hostess would do if the chef demanded that she juggle the reserv
ations to accommodate a family friend.
Asanti smiled when she heard the voice at the other end of the phone. It made her voice sound friendlier even though her eyes grew cold. “Hello, Mary Alice? It’s Asanti, yes, lovely to talk to you too, dear. . . . Yes, in fact I just got into the country for the funeral. Will you be having a wake?”
She paused and allowed the woman on the other end to talk. “The funeral for your uncle. Father Hunter?” Sal looked at Asanti, startled. Mary Alice had forgotten about her uncle’s death?
“I see,” Asanti continued. “And your restaurant remains open? Don’t you think you need time to mourn? You should really take some days off.”
Sal could hear sobs coming from the other end, but couldn’t make out any words.
“Of course this is what he would have wanted, I completely understand. But since you’re not closing, and I’m in town, would you happen to have a table open for two? I’ve heard wonderful things about your restaurant and would love to visit. You can find some room for me and my friend, can’t you? . . . At the bar? Tomorrow night? That would be just fine, thank you so much.”
Asanti put the phone back into her large purse. Her smile had faded completely. “Yes, she’s been possessed. We must figure out what’s going on before we move on her.”
“Let’s get to the hotel before this crowd gets bigger,” suggested Sal. “We can get some rest and deal with this tomorrow.”
3.
“Don’t you think we should have called for backup?” hissed Sal as she followed Asanti across the street to the front of the line. Perhaps it was because they were closer, but the gathered crowd looked larger than the previous day.
“Not yet. We need to see what we’re up against,” Asanti said. “You can handle yourself in a fight, can’t you?”
“Yes,” Sal said. “Although I haven’t gone up against a full riot on my own before.”
“You’ll make do,” Asanti said. She didn’t make eye contact with the people in the line as she stepped up and knocked smartly on the glass door.
A wide-eyed young man in a white apron unlocked it and stuck his head out. Sal noticed he kept his booted foot at the bottom of the door, propped to stop the group from pushing it open.
“Good evening, sir,” Asanti said, smiling again. “We are special guests of Chef Hunter. Yesterday she assured me she would find room for me at the bar tonight.”
The busboy opened his mouth, looking as if he were about to protest, but then shut the door in their faces and locked it quickly. He turned his back to the door.
“That didn’t go well,” Sal said. “What now?”
Asanti shook her head and pointed at the busboy, who was clearly listening to something from the kitchen. He turned and opened the door again, looking quite pale. “Of course, ladies. Won’t you come in? I’ll get the bartender and some menus.”
They entered, with howls of protest sounding behind them.
The interior was, well, wrong. Sal couldn’t put her finger on it. The decorating was lovely, with black and purple flowers on every table. Sal quickly counted at least fifteen tables downstairs, with a few two-top tables around the bar. Each table also held small candles, already lit and flickering.
The hostess met the busboy with the menus, shooting Sal and Asanti a frightened look. Her black hair was twisted into a bun atop her head, some strands coming free, and her dark skin was pale as she looked at them briefly, then back at the busboy. He whispered urgently, pointing at the kitchen and then back at them.
“We’ve made an impact already, wonderful,” Sal said.
“That was done even earlier, look,” Asanti said, gesturing behind Sal at the window facing the street. Their early entrance hadn’t gone unnoticed and people had begun hammering their fists on the glass, then started hammering their fists into each other.
“It’s early tonight, goodness,” said the hostess, approaching them. She wore a sharp black suit and limped on her right leg slightly. “It is the price of fame, I fear. Chef Hunter has instructed me to bring you some smoked trout as an appetizer, and the bartender will be here soon to take your drink orders. Can I get you anything else?”
“Glass of water?” Sal asked hopefully. The woman nodded.
The bartender, a short man of about twenty, arrived, tying his apron around his waist and looking at them as if he wished he could throw them out. “Ladies, what can I tempt you with?” he asked, forcing a smile.
Asanti ordered a Dark Island Reserve beer, but the bartender said they were out. She ordered a white wine instead, and Sal figured she would let the airplane vodka leave her system before she did anything else. Especially if she were suddenly playing Grace’s role with the fighting. And she didn’t know what she was fighting.
Sal’s water arrived and she saw a small lipstick smudge on the glass. She snapped her fingers and looked around the room again. The flowers in the vases were slightly droopy. Not dead, but clearly not fresh. The candles burned low. The tablecloths were stained here and there, and one table had crumbs on the tablecloth when the restaurant hadn’t even opened yet.
The bar looked to be out of gin in addition to Dark Island Reserve beer, a local favorite according to the signs behind the bar, which seemed odd for the beginning of the night.
“This restaurant looks as if it’s mid-shift,” Sal whispered to Asanti as the bartender searched for a corkscrew for Asanti’s wine.
“What do you mean?” Asanti asked.
“The restaurant hasn’t opened yet,” Sal said. “But the place looks like it just closed, not like it’s about to open. They’re out of a Scottish beer and gin, and the place is dirty.”
Asanti looked around with fresh eyes, slowly nodding as she saw what Sal saw. “It’s like they have too much going on. They can’t hold the basics together.”
The hostess opened the door and chaos flowed in.
• • •
Once the customers came in, they changed. All of them were eager, some of them sporting injuries from brawls outside, but they all smoothed their clothes and calmly followed the hostess to their seats, where each person whispered to a lover or a spouse, or entertained a small group. The waitstaff came forward, looking, like the restaurant, as if they were at the middle or end of the night, not the beginning. The bar filled with people waiting for their tables, and the place was like any other nice restaurant bar Sal had ever been to. People discussed football and politics and news and told work anecdotes. Beside them, a woman was breaking up with her boyfriend and he was trying not to cry. Across the bar, two men were arguing about whose turn it was to buy the football tickets. Nothing turned violent or frightening, not like outside, where people still fought to get in.
Drinks began to flow and Sal and Asanti paused to eat their appetizer.
Sal frowned as she chewed. “Something else is weird.”
Asanti raised an eyebrow.
“The food is good, but not amazing,” Sal said, leaning in to whisper. “It’s not worth fighting over.”
Asanti opened her mouth as if to protest, but Sal stopped her, holding up her hand. “I’m not putting the place down, but I figured the food had to be orgasm on a plate to cause this kind of fuss. I was even a little worried we might fall under the spell if we ate it. But it’s just standard nice restaurant food. Where does the magic come in? Is it all marketing magic?
Asanti considered what she had said, chewing slowly. “We need to talk to Mary Alice,” she said. “I just wanted more information before confronting the poor girl.”
The “poor girl” looked to be orchestrating a slave-driving restaurant with a worldwide reach, but Sal allowed Asanti her fluffy illusions. “I agree, we need to see the back of the house. They aren’t likely going to allow us to go straight back. I think we’ll need to access it through the alley.”
“Let’s go,” said Asanti.
Asanti covered the drinks and appetizer, leaving a tip for the bartender.
“I thought you don’t tip in Europe?�
�� Sal asked as they left, sidestepping a guy kneeling on the sidewalk, holding his stomach where it looked like he had just been punched.
“I think that boy needed it,” Asanti said. Sal couldn’t disagree.
• • •
The line had gotten more or less structured after the restaurant had opened. Police at either end of the block halfheartedly tried to control the crowd. Sal looked back inside; the hostess dealt with the crowd in a harried way, but still worked efficiently. Her eyes flicked frequently to the line out the door, as if she were expecting something.
The bar was now packed, as was every table. Each person who bypassed the line dressed in the restaurant’s purple and black. They each had a purple thistle pinned to their breasts—just like everyone who ate at the tables. People with reservations must get these, Sal figured. She frowned. She was still hungry. It was an insistent hunger, one that usually led to unwise food decisions, like when she went too long without lunch and would settle for the closest fast food she could get to.
The line’s order then dissolved in an instant. The crowd was buzzing like a hive, watching those with reservations with envious eyes. But one person, a man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper thinning hair, looking wealthy and important in a gray suit (but still in the walk-ins line), reached out for a woman’s arm with one hand, and his other hand went for the thistle pinned to her dress.
The crowd acted as if it were a stick of dynamite just looking for a spark. The woman cried out and punched the man immediately, and her partner leapt at him, knocking him to the ground. The line broke, some people rushing for the door, others trying to stop them. Fists flew, kicks lashed out, angry voices rose.
Instinctively, Sal looked to the police. They were already present—she figured the situation would be calmed instantly. But the bored-looking officers were now wading into the fray, adding to the chaos, looking for their opportunity to get in the front door.
In Sal’s experience, people reacted in one of two ways to riots. They either ran into it, the energy of the crowd pushing them on, or they ran away in fear. This riot had only the first kind. The gender, age, or race of the people involved didn’t matter—everyone on the block seemed to be running forward to fight for a table at a restaurant.
Bookburners: Season One Volume One Page 15