Retaliatory Justice

by Tawa M. Witko

  “Go home, Masterson,” I hear from my door.

  “Yeah, I will in a minute,” I reply, not turning around from the board.

  “That wasn’t a request, it was an order. When’s the last time you slept?” Anderson asks.

  “Last night,” I lie.

  “Highly doubt that. Masterson, get the hell out of here. Go get drunk, get laid, do something. You are wound so tight right now that it makes you an ineffective agent.”

  I sigh and turn to him. He grins and motions with his hands for me to leave. I reluctantly walk passed him. I make my way to my car and start home, thinking about what he said. The reality is, I know that to a certain extent he is right. I am not doing anyone any good but I don’t have many options. Maybe I should get a drink, get laid, release some of this tension. I decide to make a detour to Jack’s place. On the way, I notice a car in my rearview mirror that seems to be following me. Yeah, I know I tend to be paranoid but what the hell. I do a few maneuvers, slipping into an alley not far from Jack’s. I see the car go by and wait several minutes before I start to ease back out. Maybe I was wrong. Damn it, I need to get some sleep but I’m so wired. Just one drink and then I’ll head home.

  “Masterson, man it’s been a few weeks,” Jack says, grinning as he sets a glass on the counter and pours me a drink.

  “Thanks, man,” I say, downing it quickly.

  As soon as my glass touches the counter, he is loading me up again. I take a peek around the bar and it’s pretty dead. Guess I’m not getting laid tonight after all.

  “You must have a difficult one,” he says as I down my second shot.

  “What makes you think that?” I ask curiously.

  He laughs and pours me another. “I can always tell because you stop sleeping and you have this sort of crazed look about you.” He motions his hands at me for emphasis.

  I try not to smirk but I do. He is right. The complicated cases fluster me if I can’t solve them quickly. And in this situation, I can’t do things on my own, which hinders me, but now that I think about it, maybe it really doesn’t. I work well with my team. I just need to learn how to tame my impulse to just do things without thinking.

  “I guess I’m gonna have to work on my tells,” I say with a chuckle.

  He laughs again and taps my shoulder. “Whatever it is, I am sure you will figure it out.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” I say as he walks to the other side of the bar to serve a couple who just came in.

  I stay at Jack’s for close to an hour, shooting the shit about nothing in particular since I can’t really tell him anything about the case I’m working on. But, it’s nice to just interact with someone. I already feel much more relaxed and am hopeful that I can make it through the night without dreaming.

  “I’ll catch ya later. I’m gonna try to hit the hay.”

  “Yes, get some sleep,” he jokes.

  As I drive home, I realize how tired I am. I should definitely sleep well tonight. I park haphazardly on my street and sort of chuckle as I step out of my car. I think I’m more wasted than I thought I was. I stumble up to my apartment and shove the key in the door, rubbing my eyes. I unlock my door and step inside and immediately feel a gun pressed at my temple. Okay, that sobers me up quick!

  “Do you know why I’m here?” A voice asks beside me.

  Shifting my eyes to the side, I see that it is Tony Martin. His dark eyes are pitch black, his face hard and menacing. Last night he seemed huge, but now I realize that he is actually gargantuan and intimidating as hell, like a rabid dog no one wants to go near. No one but me, that is. I’ll be dammed if this guy thinks he is going to pull a gun on me in my own damn house. I don’t think so!

  “You’re here because your boss pissed himself because he knows I’m close to nailing his ass,” I seethe through clenched teeth.

  He laughs and gets real close to me. “I could have easily killed you, and if you or any of your team comes at Enrico again I will.”

  “Screw Enrico and screw you,” I growl before I squat, turn and punch him hard in the gut.

  He lowers his weapon as I stand and swing my fist, hitting him hard in the face, twice. Now I don’t know what exactly I am thinking because this dude is as big as house. I duck back from him, figuring I am probably at least faster than he is; unfortunately, I had one too many shots of Jameson to be as effective as I would like to be. I stumble a bit and he hits me hard across my jaw. I rush him, hitting his torso as hard as I can but it’s like hitting my punching bag. I keep going though, in the hopes that I can wear him out, but he tosses me away from him like I’m a pesky little dog annoying him. I rush him again, taking him down to the ground. My fists slamming against him until suddenly I am being held up against my door, his hand tightly around my neck.

  “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”

  “Screw you, Martin,” I spit out before everything goes dark.

  10 Special Guests

  Dominique Walker

  July 1st

  After talking to Jackson, I did as he said for me to do. I avoided all three of them. It wasn’t too difficult since I didn’t see Marshall or Whitney anywhere near the restaurant, which I was thankful for. Phillipe, on the other hand, has seemed a bit on edge but he always offers me a smile before he ducks away. He also did as he said he would and provided me with a credit card Friday afternoon so I could use that for buying food and supplies. He seemed shocked that I didn’t spend all the money he had given me and that I gave him receipts with exact change back. I’m not sure what he expected but there is no way I was going to spend ten thousand dollars on food for four days and there was also no way I was going to ‘pocket’ the change. That would be theft! After I told Jackson and Santiago everything, I had laid down and, in the process, did some mental calculations, and based on what I saw, and the size of that vault, there has to be close to a million dollars in there. There’s no way we are bringing in that kind of money. No newly established restaurant brings in money of that magnitude.

  Jackson did run background checks on all of them and they came up clean. Too clean I think. There’s no record of any of them ever owning a restaurant before, there was no job history, no nothing. It’s like they were created, and, at this point, I have serious doubts that they are who they say they are. Of course, without a fingerprint match it will be impossible to know their real identities. Jackson has urged me to quit but I just can’t do that, at least not yet. I have only been executive chef here for three weeks. If I left now without any justifiable reason other than the bosses may or may not be involved in some sort of illegal activity, I would have difficulty getting another executive chef position somewhere else. Now that I know what it feels like to run my own kitchen, I want that, always. I need to just stick it out for a bit longer.

  “Chef Dominique, the line cooks are ready for your tasting,” my sous-chef, Mark, tells me.

  “Thank you, Chef Mark.”

  I walk through my line and taste everything, giving instructions to add or reduce certain ingredients. I still love doing the specials and, although it may be a bit unorthodox, I am on the line making them. But in reality, I think the other chefs appreciate that I will get right in there and help. I end at my seafood and okra gumbo, ladling a bit and tasting it while waving my hand over the large pot, allowing the aroma to filter through my nostrils. The smell of the crushed pepper, thyme, and bay leaves makes my mouth water. I can’t wait to serve this at tonight’s dinner service. I think people are going to enjoy it. Well, at least I sincerely hope they do.

  “Chef Dominique, may I have a word?” Phillipe asks, coming into the kitchen.

  “Of course,” I answer and turn to Mark. “Make sure everything is ready for the dinner service.”

  “Yes, chef,” he says before scurrying off.

  Phillipe steps out of the kitchen and I follow him.

  “I have important guests in the restaurant tonight. I expect that you will be preparing the meal.”

  “
Yes, of course, I can if you’d prefer that.”

  “I would.”

  I nod. “Do you have an idea when they may be coming?”

  “They are scheduled to arrive at seven. My colleagues and I will accompany them for dinner in the private dining room. There will be five of us and we will have your special of the day,” he says firmly before he turns and walks back towards his office.

  I watch his retreating figure for a moment. No wonder he is tense. So, Marshall and Whitney are around, they have just not been at the restaurant. I wonder what they were up to. Strike that, I don’t want to know what those two do when they are not here. I shudder at the thought. Okay, I need to get ready and not worry about things I don’t want to be a part of anyways. This is a means to an end. I want to stay here for as long as I possibly can before I abandon this pirate ship.

  “Let’s have a great dinner service everyone,” I say as I reenter the kitchen.

  “Yes, chef,” I hear from everyone.

  Everything is going exceptionally well tonight and my seafood and okra gumbo is flying off the shelf, so to speak. So much so that I put aside five generous servings for Phillipe and his guests just to be on the safe side. I glance at the clock and it’s ten to seven. Phillipe strolls to the kitchen entrance and makes eye contact with me, nodding his head slightly. I return his nod and begin plating the appetizers. Placing the bowls on the serving cart, I then grab the Chardonnay that has been chilling for the past half hour.

  “Stay calm, Dominique,” I remind myself.

  Swallowing thickly, I push the cart to the private dining room, which has a large table, suitable to seat twelve guests. It is decorated with linen table clothes and napkins and four small candle sets. The paintings on the wall include original works by some artist in Europe and fresh cut flowers serve as centerpieces. This will be the first time it has been used since Le Creole opened.

  “Chef Dominique, please come in,” Phillipe says, rising to his feet.

  The man who must be his guest rises and, reluctantly, Marshall does as well. I push the cart forward and see that the man and woman at the table are immaculately dressed. They are both dark skinned but don’t look African, perhaps Middle Eastern. I don’t know. He smiles at me, as does his partner.

  “I have personally prepared the meal for you all today. We will be starting with my special seafood and okra gumbo.” I start distributing the bowls in front of everyone. “It is made with oysters, crab, shrimp, okra, red and green peppers, and onions. I am serving it with rice and crispy French bread.”

  I motion to Marshall to determine if he would like to taste the wine. He raises his glass and I pour him a small amount. Once he’s tasted it, he nods and I serve to everyone else.

  “I selected a Joseph Drouhin Vaudon Chablis to balance the spiciness of the gumbo. Enjoy.”

  I exit the room and make my way quickly to the kitchen. The other chefs are watching me with some concern. No one knows who is back there and it’s not my place to tell them. In all honesty, I have no idea either since I wasn’t formally introduced. I motion for them to continue what they are doing as I finish preparing the entrée. Fifteen minutes later, I find myself back in the private dining room. I smile as I take their plates, seeing that they have eaten everything I gave them. I set them on the second shelf of the cart as I pick up their entrée plates.

  “For your entrée,” I begin as I place their plates in front of them, “I am serving you Chateaubriand Bouquetiere, a grilled tenderloin, sliced and served with Béarnaise sauce and accompanied by an assortment of vegetables including glazed carrots, asparagus spears, spinach stuffed tomatoes with parmesan cheese, and pan seared broccoli and cauliflower.” I once again show Marshall the wine and pour him a small amount to taste before serving to everyone else. “I have paired it with a Château Margaux to help bring out the bold flavors of the meat. Once again, enjoy.”

  My head is spinning, from nerves most likely. When I had walked in, everyone was so serious looking until Phillipe smiled and told me to go ahead and serve them. I lean back against the wall, leaving my cart in the middle of the aisle. Taking a few quick breaths, I push off and bump straight into a man hurrying into the hall but swerving to avoid my cart. I lose my footing and begin to fall as his arm swoops underneath me to catch me before I hit the ground. It’s a moment frozen in time.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking. Are you all right,” he asks in a voice so hypnotizing that I think it can’t possibly be real.

  “I’m fine, sorry, I’m really clum…” I pause and run my tongue over my lips as my eyes feast upon the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life.

  He has what looks like stitches on his left temple, but even with that he is gorgeous. His hair is short, military short, and I find myself wanting to run my hand over it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. His face has what looks like a day’s worth of stubble on it but not enough that I can’t make out his impressive jaw line. His nose is sharp and somehow fits his face perfectly but nothing and I mean nothing prepares me for his eyes. They are bluer than the sky on a summer day and I immediately want to get lost in them. They are drawing me to him. He blinks several times and the spell is broken. Suddenly it dawns on me that this area is off limits and I quirk my brow at him.

  “What are you doing back here?” I ask with authority.

  His lip curls into a sexy smirk as he looks down slightly, obviously getting caught doing something he shouldn’t. He raises his eyes to me and I let out some form of a whimper. I know I shouldn’t but it can’t be helped as I imagine that look on his face right before he takes me against a wall. My eyes widen at that thought. Oh shit! I don’t even know this guy and I have us having sex against the wall. I stand quickly and brush down my coat.

  “You can’t be back here,” I say forcefully, needing to gain my equilibrium as well as my authority.

  “I apologize, ma’am. I got lost,” he says quickly, glancing down the hallway towards the private room. “What’s back there?”

  “A private dining room,” I answer, scrunching my brows together before physically turning him around. He chuckles and it’s the sweetest sound in the world. Maintain focus Walker.

  “Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” he says between laughter. “I’m going.”

  He raises his hands in the air and I have to cover my mouth to try and contain the giggle I want to expel at his gesture. He glances over his shoulder but I’m not sure if he is looking at me or down the hallway, and then just like that, he is gone. I push the cart back into the kitchen, and before I realize what I’m doing, I am sneaking a quick look out into the restaurant to see if I can see him. Damn, I should have at least asked him what his name was.

  “Jesus, Dominique,” I mumble to myself as I begin plating dessert for Phillipe and his guests.

  The rest of the night goes extremely well. I serve my bananas foster for dessert, preparing it right in front of them, which earned a hearty clap from everyone. Well, Marshall and Whitney obviously clapped only because they had too. After I am finished with our ‘special guests’, I head back into the kitchen to help with the rest of our dinner service.

  “Have a good night, Chef.”

  “You, too, Missy.”

  I stretch and gently roll my shoulders. I’m still so wired but don’t want to stick around the restaurant, mostly because I’m not in the mood to deal with Phillipe’s advances. However, I’m also not ready to go home either. I stand outside for a moment and then decide to head across the street to the bar I sometimes unwind in. I think I’ll just have a drink and chill for a bit. The minute I step inside, I gasp. There he is. I chew on my lip nervously and muster the courage to approach him. I wander up to the bar next to him and see that he is nursing what looks like whiskey.

  “Can I get a Hurricane?” I say to the bartender and then glance at the man beside me. “Can I refresh your drink?” I ask casually, at least I hope it sounds casual.

  I see his lips twist into a smile as he tur
ns to me. He opens his mouth to say something but then stops and nods slightly. I’m bobbing a little to the music being played on the jukebox and tapping my fingers on the bar, trying to figure out what to say. Picking up men is most definitely not my area of expertise. I wish Santiago was here. He’d know what I should say to him.

  “So, did you eat at the restaurant or were you just snooping?” I ask casually.

  I can tell he is trying not to laugh at my question. Instead, he picks up his glass and takes a sip, smiling along the rim. There is mischief in his eyes and I wonder what he is thinking right now. Finally, he sets his drink on the counter and lets his finger trace along the rim of the glass. My eyes are immediately drawn to the action.

  “I ate there,” he finally says, causing me to meet his eyes.

  “And…” I draw out.

  He gives me a curious look as his brows scrunch together adorably. “And… what?”

  “Did you like it?”

  He nods. “I did.”

  The bartender sets my drink in front of me and I take a sip and tilt my head slightly. “What did you have?”

  “Um, the gumbo,” he licks his lips and my eyes are frozen on that spot. Good lord, this man is like one of those Lotharios you read about in erotic novels.

  “What do you do there, aside from policing the private dining hall?” he asks, bringing the glass to his lips again.

  I snort and laugh as I take a large sip of my drink. “I’m the executive chef at the restaurant. I actually made the gumbo.”