A Taste of the Nightlife

by Sarah Zettel

  “Delightful.” Brendan sighed.

  “Normally I would refuse. But it is plain that Ilona is involved in something dubious. I would like her to have a chance to extricate herself before she is hurt.” I found myself wondering how long Anatole had known Ilona St. Claire and under what circumstances.

  “So now we all have a dog in the hunt,” said Brendan.

  “And we all must follow where they lead,” said Anatole.

  I didn’t have a witty follow-up metaphor, so I just grabbed my bucket of blood and headed down to the walk-in. I would feel better with this locked away. I’d feel best with it poured down the drain. But even I knew that would be a bad idea.

  And I could always change my mind later if I needed to. At least, that’s what I told myself as I locked the door and climbed back up the stairs. This private reminder did not make me feel better. Neither did the looks I got from both Brendan and Anatole when I returned to the kitchen. Neither did the fact that I was forgetting something. Something important.

  Before I could think what it was, my cell phone buzzed against my hip. I pulled it out and saw a text from Chet. Two words. C3 call!

  My mouth went perfectly and absolutely dry. Total absence of water. Vamp dry.

  “’Scuse me one sec,” I croaked to the men, who were looking at least as unhappy about this interruption as they had about the blood. “I gotta do this.”

  I retreated out the back door into our alley with its stacks of pallets, milk crates and the bucket of sand we keep as an ashtray for the smokers. The alley had also been plastered with a solid sheet of Midnight Moon posters. I had a dozen copies of Joshua Blake staring at me as I hit Chet’s number with a shaking thumb. I stared back at those sad, dark, heavily made-up eyes while the phone rang, and some absurd little part of my mind started to wonder if somebody had it in for me.

  It was one of those ideas you shouldn’t start in with, because as soon as I thought it once, I thought it again and again.

  No. This can’t be about him. I swallowed hard. I chewed my tongue to try to work up some saliva. It didn’t help.

  The ring on my phone cut out, and I got Chet’s voice. “Hey, C3!”

  He sounded happy. No, elated. The last time he’d sounded this chipper was when he came back to tell me Anatole Sevarin was in the house.

  And look where that got us. I swallowed again. “Hey, Chet. What’s going on?”

  “I just got word. The P-Squad’s going to let us all the way back in starting tomorrow. We can open again!”

  I swear to God, the alley spun around me. I pressed my free hand against the wall, right over Joshua Blake’s aquiline nose. “How did you find out?”

  “A friend of mine knows a guy on the night shift. He called in a favor and got a look at the paperwork.”

  I couldn’t take it. It was too much. This was the news I’d been praying for. But as Chet’s words sank in, all I could see was that bucket of blood I’d just locked into the walk-in.

  “What friend is this?” I asked. Maybe it was Marcus the Nebbish. Maybe I could weasel a full name out of Chet, and then I wouldn’t have to go through this business with Ilona St. Claire.

  “Nobody you know,” said Chet. “Doesn’t matter anyway. We’re back! If we haul ass, we might even be open for the weekend.”

  Yes, yes, it does matter! I wanted to scream. You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? You’re trying to get into the walk-in so you can get rid of the blood!

  Of course, he could do that anytime. The kitchen was already open, and he had the same set of keys I did.

  Keys. That’s what I had forgotten. The walk-in was kept locked. Whoever had put what was possibly Dylan Maddox’s blood in that bucket had needed keys.

  “Charlotte? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m still here.” The words came out as a wheeze. I felt my fingers curl into a fist, scraping against the paper-covered bricks.

  “You don’t sound so good. And don’t say you’re just tired,” Chet added.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s . . .” It’s that you’re scamming me. You’re manipulating the accounts and sneaking around with vamps and witches and you won’t tell me what’s going on!

  “C3?” said Chet again.

  “Yeah?” I pressed my fist against Joshua Blake’s nose. Hard. Harder.

  “It’s going to be okay. I promise. Cross what’s left of my heart.”

  I smiled weakly. He sounded so much like the Chet I’d always known. My charming, earnest little brother, the boy king of Buffalo.

  “Chet . . .” This was it. Last chance. These next words would open doors back up, or shut them permanently. “I’ve been asking around about Dylan Maddox.”

  “Charlotte, is that a good idea? The cops are on it. Nightlife’s out of it. We . . . you should let this go.”

  “Yeah. Probably. But as it stands, I’ve got an appointment to go see Ilona St. Claire tomorrow night.”

  There was the tiniest hint of a pause before Chet said, “Who?”

  “She’s one of the vampires Detective O’Grady was asking about. Turns out she’s a good friend of Anatole’s.”

  “Charlotte, you’re not going alone into a vampire theater.”

  “Are you offering to come with me?”

  Again, that tiny sliver of a pause. “Look, Charlotte, I’m serious. This is a very bad idea. I’ve been asking around. She’s with the separatist movement. Hell, she practically is the separatist movement—”

  “Chet.” I banged my fist against the wall. It hurt and the wall didn’t care. “Jt tell me if there’s anything I need to know.”

  “There’s nothing, Charlotte. I promise.”

  He could have said that a hundred more times and I still wouldn’t have believed him. “Okay,” I said. “That’s all there is to it, then.” The doors were all closed and locked.

  “Now you promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  You first, little brother. “Okay,” I said, which could have meant anything. I wanted him to call me on it. I wanted him to insist he’d come with me, or keep me from going.

  “Okay,” he said. “Look, I’m going to start getting hold of the front-of-house staff. I’ll have a head count for you before dawn.”

  “Great. Talk to you soon.”

  “ ’Bye, Charlotte.”

  We hung up. I leaned against the wall of Nightlife. Slowly, my head fell back until I was looking up at the sky. I breathed deep, but that was a bad idea, because that particular alley smell of garbage and grease was too strong, and I was back in a different darkness, with the roll of bills clutched tightly in my hand.

  Is that enough? I can get more. I just want to see him. Just for a few minutes, that’s all. You can make sure I get to see him, right?

  “Charlotte?” Brendan’s hand touched my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I said, as if I needed to confirm my own name. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t suppose you would care to tell us what has you so upset?” Anatole stood on the threshold, holding the door open for us both.

  I looked at my phone dangling in my fingers. “Chet.”

  “Ah,” said Anatole. “I find I am not at all surprised.”

  “What’s happened?” Brendan asked. He hadn’t taken his hand off my shoulder, and I was pretty okay with that.

  “He says he’s gotten the heads-up from a friend of a friend that we’re going to be allowed back into Nightlife tomorrow. All the way in.”

  “And yet you sound rather magnificently unhappy.” Anatole leaned against the doorframe. “I will assume, therefore, that was not all he said.”

  “That’d be a safe assumption.” I stuffed my phone into my pocket and ran my hand over my hair. My braid was coming apart, with wisps and stray locks hanging out all over the place. Great. Now I had metaphoric hair. Just what I needed.

  “I will assume you’re not going to tell us what else he said.” Brendan sounded disappointed already.

  I closed my eyes, du
g deep, and came up empty. “I can’t,” I said. “Not yet. Tomorrow night.”

  Tomorrow night Ilona St. Claire would give me a full name to hang on Marcus the Nebbish, and the Nebbish would lead me to Pam Maddox. Tomorrow night I would know exactly what Chet had done.

  I just had to hold on until then. I could do that much.

  I had to.

  16

  Once again I caught a cab home in the wee hours. Both Anatole and Brendan stayed to see me g in safely and give the driver my home address. It was like they thought I’d go chasing off after a clue or a suspect or something. The truth was, I couldn’t afford it. I could barely afford the cab. These late-night Nancy Drew shenanigans were starting to seriously strain my budget.

  I let myself into the silent apartment—tiptoeing in case either of the roommates was not quite asleep—and collapsed in my own bed. This time, though, I didn’t fall dead asleep. This time, I lay under the covers watching the sky brighten on the other side of my crooked venetian blinds. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t planning. Brain and body were both gone far beyond that. I was just waiting.

  Eventually the sound of running water filtered through the wall, followed by sturdy heels clumping on hardwood and then, unexpectedly, a resonant alto having a bad Queen flashback.

  “Weeeee are the champions!”

  I pulled on my purple velour robe and shuffled out into the hall in time to see Trish shaking her backside in the living room. As she was also in her best black pantsuit, it was quite a sight.

  “Weeeee are the champions!”

  “Why have all my roommates lost their minds?” Jess had come up the hall behind me, looking at least as blurry as I felt.

  “Because you are looking at the queen of the New York City courts!” Trish executed a tight pirouette and waved her cell phone. “They want to deal! They want to deal!”

  I squinted at Trish. How did someone get that happy at seven in the morning? “Who does?”

  “The MacMillans of Preston v. MacMillan Enterprises LLC, otherwise known as the people who are going to pay through their fraudulent noses and kiss some serious and very public ass, starting with my client’s!” She spread her arms and waited. Jess and I looked at each other. Trish wiggled her hands in a “give it to me” gesture, and we both dutifully applauded.

  “Yea,” I added.

  “Thank you, thank you. You’re too kind.” Trish bowed.

  “So, this is the rubber chicken case?” Jess slumped onto the couch and yawned hugely. I wish she hadn’t, because now I was doing the same thing.

  “Dangerously defective novelty products, if you please,” said Trish. “Yes, that case.”

  I looked down at Jess, but had to shove a wad of tangled hair out of my eyes to do it. “She’s defending rubber chickens?”

  “Actually, she’s defending people from rubber chickens.” Jess kicked her feet up onto the coffee table.

  “Defective rubber chickens,” put in Trish. “Rotten latex. Cracks and turns to powder.”

  As important as this clearly was, just then I remembered something else equally vital and endeavored to muster a glower for Jessie. “You painted my toenails.”

  Jess shrugged. “You deserved it.”

  “Can we focus here, people?” Trish cut in. “This is a multimillion-dollar suit I’ve just fought to a standstill and my firm gets ten percent of the settlement.”

  “Multimillion-dollar rubber chickens?” I was so clearly in the wrong business.

  “Whatever. Look, try this. The firm’s going to be throwing a party tonight at Aquavit. You guys should come. Lots of pretty ngle men, and women who might need makeup consulting.”

  “Count me in!” Jess managed to sound enthusiastic despite another jaw-cracking yawn.

  My roommates both looked at me. “Can’t,” I said.

  “How come?” they chorused.

  “I’ve got an appointment.” As an excuse, this might have worked, except I said it too fast and I was halfway to the kitchen before I had the sentence finished. “Who wants coffee?”

  “Appointment?” repeated Trish, layering on a full measure of lawyerly skepticism. “And you let Jess paint your toenails?”

  “I did not let her paint my toenails. She caught me at a vulnerable moment.”

  “A vulnerable moment named Brendan,” said Jessie. “She says he’s cute.”

  I turned on her, brandishing the coffee grinder. “One more word, and I swear I will be using your party bags as grill fuel.”

  “You heard that, right?” said Jess to Trish.

  “Don’t worry. I know a good personal injury attorney.” Trish strode over to the kitchen doorway. I got the beans out of the fridge and dumped a full measure into the grinder and did not look at her.

  “So you’ve got a date,” Trish said as I started the grinder and pretended not to hear. “What’s the big deal? Bring him along.”

  “Trish, I swear, it’s not a date.” I dumped the ground coffee into the filter basket. “It really is an appointment. With a vampire.”

  “Who? This Sevarin guy?”

  “He’ll be there.” I poured filtered water from the pitcher into the coffeemaker and shoved the carafe into place.

  Trish was still looking at me and, incidentally, blocking the only exit. I opened the fridge again and tried to focus on whether I should offer to make pancakes or French toast for breakfast. We were all awake; we might as well eat. I had some really good raspberry preserves that whispered “French toast” to me. I reached for the eggs.

  “Tell me this is about Nightlife opening again,” said Trish very quietly and very seriously. “Tell me you are not trying to pull a Jessica Fletcher on me.”

  “This is about Nightlife opening again,” I said, pulling my bread knife off the magnetic bar mounted on the backsplash. “I am not trying to pull a Jessica Fletcher on you.”

  Proving that sometimes the universe does show mercy, my phone started ringing. “That should be Detective O’Grady now.” I pushed past her, snatched up my phone and checked the number. “Yep. ’Scuse me.”

  I hit the TALK button as soon as I had the door to my room shut behind me. “Good morning, Detective.” Thank you for the rescue.

  “Good morning, Chef Caine. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. Our team is finished and you are free to enter your restaurant again.”

  “That’s terrific!”

  There was a pause on the other end. “You already knew.”

  Remind me never, ever to try to play poker for stakes any higher than M&M’s. “Yeah. A friend of a friend of my brother’s.”

  “Name?” O’Grady inquired, and somehow I just knew that little notebk was out again.

  “Sorry. I don’t know.”

  “If you find out, I’d appreciate you letting me know.”

  “I’ll do my best, Detective.”

  “Thank you. Good luck, Chef Caine. I hope your reopening goes well.”

  “Thank you, Detective. You’re welcome at Nightlife anytime.”

  We said a couple more polite nothings and thank-yous and finally hung up. It seemed pretty clear that Detective O’Grady did not expect to be talking with me again, and I sincerely wanted to believe he was right.

  I beat Jess into the bathroom by a hairsbreadth, washed up and dressed in my black pants and kitchen whites. I made French toast with warm raspberry preserves spiked with ginger and lemon zest, and topped by a dollop of sweet-and-sour cream. I also spent a good half hour ducking Trish’s questions before I was finally able to make my escape down to the station and the E train.

  I had the block almost to myself as I rounded the corner and stopped in front of Nightlife. It had been only a few days, but the front windows were already dull and dust-streaked. Trash and autumn leaves had drifted into the corners of the entranceway and the CLOSED sign was badly askew. Three new graffiti tags decorated the west wall.

  From the front, Nightlife didn’t look closed. It looked dead.

  I rememb
ered the night we’d first turned on the sign. It had sputtered for a few heart-wrenching seconds before it lit up the sidewalk in a wash of clean red and orange. I’d high-fived Chet with both hands, and he’d grabbed me up and swung me around in a big circle, just like he had when he came in the kitchen to tell me Anatole Sevarin was in the dining room.

  I made myself take a good long look at my dark and silent restaurant. I needed to do more than see. I needed to let the sight take root. Because this was what I faced. This was why I really needed to find out what was going on instead of just letting it all go like everybody from my brother to Detective O’Grady wanted. This was not about any abstract principle. If I didn’t find out what had happened to Dylan Maddox, the people who had killed him could take all my work away again.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly before I crossed the street and let myself in the front door. The dim dining room wrapped around me and a tension deep inside eased, the way it does when you’ve come home. I tossed my purse onto the bar and put thoughts of my upcoming “appointment” in my back pocket. I would get my sous chefs, Zoe and Reese, on the phone, followed by Marie-Our-Pastry-Chef. They could make the calls to the kitchen personnel and get us a head count of who was staying and who had already found new jobs. If we’d lost too many people, we’d have to get with one of the staffing agencies and bring in a new crew. That would mean training. Robert and Suchai could handle any new front-of-the-house staff, if needed. Reese was a former drill sergeant and could take on a whole new hot line if he absolutely had to. Zoe and I could huddle over the menu. It had to change, top to bottom, before next month, and we had to have at least six new dishes in place for Saturday. Chet was right. If we hauled ass we could open Saturday night. We had to start calling suppliers, see who was still willing to give us credit and—

  A sharp rap sounded on the glass behind me. Brendan, I thought automatically as I turned around, trying to decide whether I should be annoyed or pleased that he’d come to check up on me this early.

  Except it wasn’t Brendon Maddox. It was Margot.