Devil's Food

by Anthony Bruno

  Loretta knew he meant the juice bar. Liquor wasn’t served at Rancho Bonita. Loretta had a yen for a glass of red wine, a zinfandel or a pinot noir, anything to calm her nerves. She also had a yen for penne a la vodka, a big piece of chocolate layer cake, and a cappuccino. That would really soothe her nerves. But she wasn’t going to get that here.

  “May I suggest the avocado daiquiri? It’s our special tonight.”

  Loretta stared up at the waiter. He’d actually said it with a straight face.

  “I’ll have a cranberry cooler,” Martha Lee said.

  “And for you, ma’am?”

  “A large orange juice.”

  The waiter lifted a clipboard and wrote down their orders. Loretta couldn’t figure out why he had a full-size clipboard until she noticed that there was a calculator attached to it.

  “Shall I take your orders now so you can tally, or would you like your drinks first?”

  Tally? Loretta thought. Tally what?

  “I’m sort of hungry,” Martha Lee said to Loretta. “Shall we order now?”

  “Sure.” But Loretta still wanted to know what this tally business was all about. “You go ahead. I’m still deciding.”

  “All right.” Martha Lee pointed to the menu as she ordered. “I’ll have the mushroom pâté . . .”

  The waiter scribbled in his pad, then punched numbers into the calculator.

  “. . . the arugula salad . . .”

  More scribbling, more punching.

  “. . . and the pasta prima vera.”

  The waiter scribbled, then punched. When he got the tally, he smiled down at Martha Lee and nodded approvingly. He turned to Loretta, who couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he was adding up their bill at the beginning of the meal, especially since Martha Lee had already told Jasmine that they were eating on Roger Laplante’s tab.

  “And for you, ma’am?” the waiter asked.

  “I’ll have the shrimp bisque . . .”

  Scribble, punch.

  “. . . the Caesar salad . . .”

  Scribble, punch.

  “. . . and the vegetable lasagna.”

  Scribble, punch, beeeep! The calculator went off like a mini–car alarm. Loretta could see heads turning behind the palm fronds, people murmuring, coughing into their fists.

  What the hell’s going on? she wondered.

  The waiter bent forward and whispered, “I’m afraid you’ve gone over.”

  “What?”

  Martha Lee leaned over and pointed to the calorie counts in Loretta’s menu. “You’ve gone over 600. That’s all you’re allowed.”

  “What do you mean that’s all I’m allowed?”

  “I take it no one explained our policy to you,” the waiter said.

  “It’s my fault,” Martha Lee intervened. “I apologize, Mrs. Marvelli. Intensive guests get a video when they first check in that shows them how to order. You see, how it works is, the calculator beeps whenever you go over 600 calories. Mr. Laplante came up with this idea himself.”

  The waiter elaborated. “It’s an incentive to teach our guests how to order sensibly when eating out, ma’am.”

  “Like negative conditioning,” Loretta said, struggling to keep a lid on her temper.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

  “It’s like giving a rat an electric shock when you don’t want him to eat the food pellets.”

  “Oh. . . . Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am.”

  “It’s no problem,” Martha Lee said quickly. “Why don’t we just start all over again?”

  Loretta watched her face, looking for signs of ridicule.

  “Ma’am, may I suggest you substitute the mushroom pâté for the bisque and take a half-portion of lasagna?”

  “I don’t like mushrooms.” Loretta was getting angry.

  And I want a whole portion of lasagna, she thought.

  “All right then,” he said, reading the menu over her shoulder. “How about starting with the celery tart, then the Caesar salad—but without the dressing—and the whole-portion lasagna?”

  “How about with the dressing?”

  “Very well. We’ll give it a try.” He punched in the calories.

  Beep!

  More murmuring behind the palms.

  Loretta could feel her face burning.

  “How about if we—?”

  Loretta overrode him. “How about if we just skip the appetizer?”

  “All right.” He went to work on the numbers.

  Beep!

  Louder murmuring. Loretta wanted to die.

  “You do realize, ma’am, that your orange juice is included in the tally?”

  At the next table an incredibly fat man with a shiny bald head was stuffing spinach leaves into his mouth as he peered through the potted palms, staring at her. He wasn’t the only one staring.

  Loretta wanted to walk right out, but everyone was looking at her now. “All right,” she said, struggling to control her voice. “Let’s try this: the miso soup . . .”

  She hated miso soup. Dirty water with slimy tofu cubes floating in it.

  “. . . the spinach salad, no dressing . . .”

  To Loretta, having salad without dressing was like driving a car without oil. It just didn’t go.

  “. . . and the red-pepper-and-kale stir-fry on quinoa.”

  She wasn’t even sure what the hell quinoa was.

  He tallied it all up, smiled, and nodded.

  Humpty Dumpty at the next table stopped staring at her. Loretta glanced up at the other diners. No one was paying attention anymore, thank God. She knew this would work. If she ordered the most disgustingly nutrocious foods on the menu, things that would normally have been her absolute last choices, she’d stay under the limit. She knew from experience.

  I wonder if I have enough calories left for a plain cup of tea, she thought. Maybe a hair shirt and a whip to go with it.

  “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” the waiter said before he left.

  Loretta and Martha Lee smiled pleasantly at each other, sipping from their water glasses, but mentally Loretta was painting vertical bars over Martha Lee’s face. She had to get back to Martha Lee’s office to Xerox that cocoa invoice.

  The other diners started to murmur again, and Loretta immediately thought she’d done something else wrong. But Humpty Dumpty at the next table wasn’t staring at her this time. She followed his gaze to the maître d’s station. A tall man in a peacock blue sports jacket was standing with Jasmine. He had his back to the dining room, but when he turned around, Loretta found out what all the whispering behind hands was all about. It was Roger Laplante, Mr. WeightAway himself.

  He looked weirder in person than he did on TV, she thought. His skin was an unnatural caramel color, and his peaked hairdo looked like well-browned meringue. The weirdest thing about him was his eyes—they were too close together. It made him look like a dog that couldn’t be trusted.

  Suddenly Loretta remembered the $2,800 this place had rooked her out of the last time she was here. That figure was permanently imprinted on her brain, like a cattle brand.

  Across the room Jasmine was pointing to their table, and Laplante fixed his beady eyes on them. His expression was hard to read as he approached. It was somewhere between urgent concern and where-have-you-been-all-my-life. Loretta remembered that about him from his infomercials. His facial expressions never quite matched what he was saying.

  He came up to the table and looked at Loretta but talked to Martha Lee. “I got your message, Martha.”

  “Good,” Martha Lee said.

  Loretta’s heart was thumping. Message about what? she wondered.

  “This is Mrs. Marvelli, Roger. She’s a guest here, and she’s been dying to meet you.”

  Loretta tried to act awestruck and hoped she was convincing. “Mr. Laplante, this is a real pleasure. I see you on television all the time.”

  And I always turn you off, she thought.

>   “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. . . .”

  “Marvelli,” Martha Lee prompted.

  “Yes,” Laplante said. He was giving her a funny look. Loretta couldn’t read him at all. Was he on to her, too?

  “Mrs. Marvelli was over at the cube, hoping to find you there,” Martha Lee said. “That’s where I found her.”

  “Really.” His beady eyes widened as much as they could. “That was awfully naughty of you, Mrs. Marvelli. Guests are asked to stay out of the office complex. Only because there are no classes or beauty treatments there,” he added quickly.

  “I know,” Loretta said, trying to be contrite, “but I am a big fan of yours, and I just thought—well, you’ve been such an inspiration to so many people, I was hoping maybe a little of that would rub off on me if I got to meet you.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

  Laplante pulled up a chair and sat on the edge of it, getting up close to Loretta ‘s face. “I understand how you feel, Mrs. Marvelli. I really do. But you’re not alone. You do understand that, don’t you?” He laid his hand over hers. She fought the urge to pull it away.

  “I do understand, but sometimes—you know—it’s hard.”

  Loretta looked into his face, pretending to be fascinated with him, but the only thing she could focus on was the over-poweringly minty smell of his breath and the touch of his hand on top of hers.

  The waiter returned, poker-faced now because the big boss was at the table. He set down the drinks and appetizers, and Loretta was miffed as soon as she saw the portions. Her orange juice was in a regular-size glass. She’d expected a tall glass. After all, it was dinner. And her miso soup came in a gorgeous hand-painted blue-and-white bowl that was about the size of a teacup, and it wasn’t even full. She looked over at Martha Lee’s mushroom pâté. It was a gray-brown square, smaller than a Chunky.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Laplante?” the waiter asked.

  “Yes. The carotene cocktail, Caesar salad, and lasagna.”

  “Yes, sir.” The waiter went back to place the order without writing it down.

  Loretta glared at his back. Why hadn’t he used his little bleeping calculator for Laplante’s order?

  She stared down into her soup. There was a odd-looking green thing in it. It looked like a leaf, but it was perfectly square.

  “Please don’t wait for me,” Roger Laplante said. “Go ahead and eat.”

  Loretta picked up her soupspoon and noticed that it was was half the size of a normal soupspoon. The forks and knives were small, too. She’d forgotten about that. Another WeightAway innovation. With smaller utensils, you had to take more bites, creating the illusion that you were eating more than you actually were. “Feel full on half the intake.” That’s what it said on the box that WeightAway flatware came in. She’d bought a set when she first went on the program. Another goddamn rip-off.

  Martha Lee picked up a tiny knife and spread some pâté on a pale, brittle cracker. She took a bite and raised her eyebrows. “Very rich,” she said. “I don’t think I can finish all this. Would anybody like to try some?” She lifted the edge of the plate.

  Roger gave her a disapproving scowl and waved it off. “No sharing. It makes the tally meaningless.”

  “You’re right; you’re right,” Martha Lee said. “It’s just that I hate to see good food go to waste.”

  “Better to throw it out than carry it around on your body for the rest of your life,” Laplante declared.

  “You’re right, Roger. You’re right,” Martha Lee agreed.

  Loretta looked at skinny little Martha Lee out of the corner of her eye, a minispoonful of miso broth poised in front of her lips. She wanted to throw up on the two of them.

  She took a sip of miso soup, trying not to stare at that green thing floating in her bowl. She wondered how the hell she was going to get away from these two.

  And how she was going to get back to Martha Lee’s office.

  And how she was going to survive this meal.

  After dinner Martha Lee went back to her office and booted up her computer. She’d left “Mrs. Marvelli” with Roger to let them get acquainted over roasted-grain coffee substitute. When dear Loretta had gone to the bathroom, Martha Lee told Roger that she was pretty sure Loretta was an undercover agent from the IRS and that he should keep her busy while she did some checking. Roger started to hyperventilate, but she convinced him to chill out and just keep Loretta occupied for a while.

  After leaving the restaurant, Martha Lee had gone straight to the front desk to get Loretta’s husband’s MasterCard number from her registration. She was checking with an on-line credit agency now to see if she could get a history on the Marvellis.

  Staring at the screen, she picked out two more cheese curls from the open cellophane bag in her lap. You could starve to death on the portions they serve around here, she thought as she crunched down on the curls. She felt as if she’d only had a half—hell, a third of a meal. Thank God she kept a private stash of real food in her desk.

  As she stared at the blank blue screen, she wondered how Roger and Loretta were doing. Roger had poured on the charm during dinner, but Martha Lee hoped he didn’t go overboard. If he paid too much attention to Loretta, she’d know that they’d figured out who she was.

  She glanced over at the upright files on her desk and frowned. She still hadn’t paid the Alvarez bill yet, and now she was afraid to. What if the IRS had some way of tracking wire transfers? They might block it, thinking that Roger was siphoning money out of the country. She could overnight a check to Luis, but it would take a week for the check to clear. A lot could happen in a week. The IRS could barge in and freeze their assets. Even if they didn’t come crashing through the doors with their guns drawn, they would examine the books, and they’d find a recent payment for ninety tons of cocoa. Roger would hit the ceiling when they confronted him with it. He’d deny ever having authorized such a purchase, which was true.

  Then the shit would really hit the fan. The finger would be pointed right back at her. And if she knew that little worm Roger, he’d swear he didn’t know anything about anything, that it was all her doing, that if anything illegal was going on at Weight- Away—and there was plenty—ole Martha Lee must be the one who was responsible. And knowing Rog, she knew he could make that story fly. He was very persuasive that way. And it wouldn’t take the feds long to figure out that Martha Lee “Sykes” was really Martha Lee Spooner, ex-con and current parole violator. The feds would nail her ass to the wall, and ole Rog would slide on by, slick as ever.

  The computer screen suddenly came to life, words appearing behind an invisible cursor racing from left to right and back again. Martha Lee crammed two more cheese curls into her mouth and let them dissolve on her tongue as she read the credit history, wading through the unfamiliar abbreviations.

  It gave Frank Marvelli’s Social Security number and his address in Point Pleasant Borough, New Jersey. It said he was married, but it didn’t give his wife’s name.

  Damn! She shoved two more cheese curls into her mouth and scrolled down.

  According to the credit history, this Marvelli guy wasn’t real quick about paying his bills. He was a month or two past due on his Sears and Macy’s accounts, his Sunoco card—she scrolled down again—Exxon, Mobil . . .

  Hang on.

  She leaned forward and read the Mobil listing more carefully. There were two cards listed on that account, the second one to a “Marvelli, Renée.”

  Who’s this Renée? Martha Lee thought. It should be in Loretta’s name. Unless this Renée was a daughter. But was Loretta old enough to have a daughter who could drive? Doubtful, but maybe the kid was from a first marriage.

  Martha Lee scrolled back up to the top of the file, to the abbreviations she didn’t understand. She took a closer look and found “Dep/ F 11.” Dependents/ Female, age 11?

  An eleven-year-old wouldn’t have a gasoline credit card. So who was this Renée?

  Martha Le
e scrolled back down to where she’d been and kept reading. There were two more department store accounts. She scrolled down again, and her eye caught an unusually high dollar amount: $8,989.13. The creditor was Shore Medical Center. She kept reading. “Marvelli, Renée/ int cr 3/ sem-pri 16.”

  This Renée had been in the hospital. Three days in intensive care, sixteen in a semiprivate room.

  Martha Lee scrolled down to the next entry. “Atlantic Anesthesiology Group—prep rad mas—20% co-pay, $277.”

  The woman had had a radical mastectomy. Jesus.

  Martha Lee read the next entry: “Fine and Douglas, Radiologists—18 ses—20% co, $1,787.58.”

  Radiology treatments. Martha Lee scrolled down again. More unpaid medical bills. And all for Renée Marvelli. She clutched her own breast at the thought of a radical mastectomy. Poor woman. She was one sick puppy.

  But what about Loretta the chubbette? Even if Loretta was a nickname, there was no way she could be Mrs. Renée Marvelli. They didn’t make implants that big. People on radiology waste away to nothing. This Loretta was a long way from wasting away. A long way.

  Martha Lee crunched down on another cheese curl. Loretta was the spy, all right. She had to be. Shit. . . .

  She glanced over at her uprights, biting her bottom lip. She was going to have to risk wiring the money to Luis. Loretta had been in here. The copier had been turned on. No telling what she’d made copies of. The ledgers that Martha Lee was supposed to have fixed for Roger were in her desk drawer. That’s probably what Loretta wanted. But there was no telling how much she’d Xeroxed. Loretta could hide a goddamn phone book in her cleavage.

  “Martha! Martha! Are you here?”

  Shit! It was Roger. He was coming down the hall, yelling for her like a maniac.

  She glanced at the photo of Becky on her desk, and her heart sank. When the hell was she going to get a chance to wire that money? Oh, Jesus. . . .

  “Martha!”

  Oh, frig you, you big douche bag, she thought, glaring at the doorway. She crumpled up the bag of cheese curls and shoved them under her desk, wiping her fingers on the seat of the chair.

  “Martha!” Roger appeared in her doorway, white as a ghost. “Is she the one? Is it that Loretta?”