Claw

by Katie Berry

  Gliding through the patrons with her empty drink tray toward the bar, Jenny was sure they were over capacity tonight and had mentioned that earlier to Greg, but there’d been no attempt on his part to do anything about, so she’d let it slide. After all, it wasn’t coming out of her pocket if they got fined. As she waited for a drink order from Greg, she overheard several of the mill workers in the pub talking about some sort of animal attacks. And just a few minutes before, a group of sledders commented to her that the thought of a predatory bear in the area was making them think about cutting their weekend adventure a bit short. Jenny was starting to get slightly concerned.

  As if fate had provided for her, sitting in the far corner was one of her favourite regulars, Mr. Trip Williams looking toward her. Now there was a man that could answer some of her questions. She smiled at him in recognition. It appeared he was just finishing off his first pint of the evening of Fred’s Amber Ale. Seeing he’d caught her eye, he waved and pointed down to his almost empty mug, making a sad-sack face. Jenny smiled again and giggled a bit at this, giving him a thumbs up in return. Despite the busyness of the evening, it was the regulars that made the shift bearable. She found it pleasant to be serving someone you’d known for years, instead of some pushy out-of-towner with a snowmobile in the parking lot that still had the price sticker on its windshield.

  After waiting for Greg to pull several more pints at the bar, Jenny wound her way through the horde of patrons, delivering to several tables along the way. Eventually, she made her way to the corner to drop Trip’s second beer off to him.

  “Here you go, sugar,” Jenny shouted in Trip’s ear, placing the beer on the tiny table in front of the grateful looking man. Just as she set the pint down, the band ended their current set to take a ten-minute break, dropping the decibel level in the room from one-hundred and ten to sixty in an instant.

  “Thanks, Jenny. You’re a lifesaver!” Trip hollered back before realising with some embarrassment that the music had stopped. In a more conversational tone of voice, he continued, “I sure worked up a powerful thirst putting up those bear alert signs up out there today.”

  “I was wondering who I had to thank for that!” Jenny placed her hands on her hips.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Trip blushed. “We want everyone to be aware of the bear!”

  “Well, those yellow signs will certainly help! Have they been able to track it down, yet?” Jenny inquired.

  Trip took a long pull of the flavourful golden-hued beer, then said, “Not so much. The fog isn’t helping things, though, that’s for sure.”

  “I’d imagine not. What are they going to do?”

  “Well, luckily, the new conservation officer, Christine Moon, is on top of things. I think she’s going over the territory that the bear’s covered with Austin this evening to try and zero in on its lair.”

  Jenny watched Trip’s eyes light up as he spoke of Christine and could tell he was soft on her. “So you and Austin are helping out with trying to catch it, huh?”

  “Sort of. But it’ll more likely be kill than capture. That thing is bad news all-round. Anyway, we sort of got involved from the start because we found the site of the first attack and rescued one of the survivors.”

  “My goodness! So you’re a hero, then?” Jenny asked, smiling.

  “I helped, yes, ma’am,” Trip said, his cheeks above his beard blossoming a lovely shade of pink.

  “Well, then, this one’s on the house,” she said, pointing at the already half-empty mug in front of Trip.

  “Miss Jenny, words cannot express my gratitude,” he said, nodding his head toward her in appreciation of her generosity. He put in his order for the Carnosaur Combo platter and thanked her again for the free beer.

  “I’ll get that order in for you right away! But remember, you don’t have to thank me with words, sugar,” she said, smiling. “You can always express your gratitude when it comes time to leave my tip!” With that, she turned around pertly, her long auburn hair swinging softly behind her, and waded back through the sea of customers. She wasn’t sure but thought when she’d told Trip he was getting a free beer, his eyes seemed to mist up a bit. Well, she mused it’s nice to know that it doesn’t take too much to make some people happy. She drifted back through the boisterous crowd toward the bar for her next tray of drinks, taking orders and empty plates as she went.

  Her excellent mood soured quickly when she glanced toward Carlene on the other side of the room, serving some customers. As Jenny got closer, she saw that the only things Carlene was currently ‘serving’ were more yuks, and her ‘customers’ were just another group of her friends. Carlene stood there, flapping her gums, ignoring all of the actual paying customers that surrounded her, trying to get her attention.

  Jenny arrived at the bar and nicely pointed out Carlene’s dereliction of duty to Greg. He nodded to her, saying he was already aware of Carlene’s lower-than-normal work ethic this evening and had been keeping an eye on her. Turning toward the server in question, he put his finger to his lips and gave one of his best and most piercing ‘Hey, you!’ whistles.

  With the music temporarily suspended for the break, everyone in the bar stopped whatever they were doing and looked Greg’s way, including Carlene. He pointed at the girl and waggled his finger back and forth to signal her to come over to the bar. The smile she’d had on her face from relating another funny anecdote to her friends crumbled away when she saw she was in trouble with Greg once again.

  As Jenny moved away from the bar to deliver another round of drinks, she smiled sweetly at Carlene as they passed each other. The only thing Jenny received in return was a scowl. Jenny thought it was most unfortunate she had to hustle more drinks right away and miss out on most of the conversation between Greg and Carlene. From the brief snippet she’d heard as she walked away, it sounded like it was going to be a good one, too. Phrases such as, ‘last chance’, ‘no more’, and the ever-popular, ‘or you’re fired!’ were directed at Ms. Boseman and suddenly, Jenny’s mood brightened once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Revelling in the smell of smoking pork ribs, Max Renaud lifted the hinged lid of his custom-built smoker. Its name was brightly splashed across one side in half-metre high, neon-red lettering that proudly declared it to be The Midnight Toker. Max looked into the smoking maw of his metal beast and poked and prodded with his tongs for a moment, checking the status of his latest batch of melt-in-your-mouth meat.

  He lived to cook roasts and ribs, and he cooked them very, very well. So well, in fact, that Frostbite Fred's had gotten a reputation around the valley as THE place to go for a mess of delicious prime rib and baby back ribs that were so tender they practically fell right off the bone and into your mouth.

  When Max had first started working at the bar, owners Mattie and Norm weren’t sure if they wanted to have such a monstrous contraption out in back of the pub. The last thing they needed was something else cutting into their limited parking space. Ultimately, it wasn’t Max’s enthusiasm or blueprints for the smoker that finally changed their minds. What swayed their opinion was the marinated, slow-roasted oven-baked ribs that he made without the aid of any smoker. Doing it old-school in a kitchen oven was, as Max had put it, like slow cooking ribs without having the time to slow-cook them. They would be good, he told them, but what they were going to taste from the oven couldn’t compare to the smoked delicacies he would be able to craft in a real smoker.

  That afternoon, three racks of pork ribs came out of the oven at Fred’s, slathered with Max’s secret recipe sauce, and they were OMG delicious. Mattie and Norm were instantly sold. Max had smiled as he assured them that the ribs and roasts he’d make for them in his smoker would be even more delicious and that he'd be able to cook many, many more at one time for them to sell to their hungry patrons.

  Norm and Mattie decided to fund Max then and there to assemble the monstrosity that came to be known as The Midnight Toker. An elaborate contraption standing almost three metres h
igh, it consisted of several steel oil drums welded together at strategic angles that only Max seemed to comprehend. He said that the angles were needed to stabilize the temperature and maximize the airflow of the hot smoke around the marinated meats slowly cooking inside.

  Almost ten years later, Norm and Mattie couldn’t be happier with Frostbite Fred’s current reputation in the area as a smoked meat Mecca. Now, Norm liked to say quite proudly that Max was their ‘Prince of Pork’. And although Norm liked to take his fair share of the credit for the ribs at the bar, both he and Max knew who the true star of the show was once the swinging galley doors to the kitchen came to rest.

  Max liked to have several batches of ribs on the go at the same time as they were always in demand, and he wanted to keep the customers happy, just like Mattie and Norm. The latest batch of ribs would be coming out of the Toker in another half hour or so. Currently, there was nothing else he could do outside, so he closed the smoker and crossed the foggy compound. He double-checked the latch on the side of the tall, heavy wooden gate. Pulling down on the three-centimetre thick steel latch, he nodded to himself as he verified everything was secure.

  The entire structure at the back of the pub, including the gate, was constructed from ten-centimetre thick Douglas fir trees, which Max and Norm had felled together from the surrounding forest. The fence had been built to last. Holding it all together, a framework of 4x4 posts and cross-members made the inside of the yard a veritable fortress, keeping wandering bears, cougars and coyotes away from the smoker. Strings of razor wire ran along the top of the fence, keeping out smaller, more agile woodland denizens, such as squirrels and raccoons. It reminded Max more of a penitentiary courtyard than an outdoor kitchen compound. When the zombie apocalypse finally came to pass, this place would be one of the safer spots to be in Lawless.

  In addition to protecting the Toker, the thick, wooden fence kept the staff safe when going about their refuse disposal duties. The garbage, recycle bins and used oil reclaim barrel were also located inside the fence in the far corner, away from the smoker. The enclosure was constructed so that the waste bins were also accessible through a gate on the other side of the high fence so that the waste disposal trucks could empty them on their weekly rounds.

  Max had seen the signs out in front of the bar and heard the radio broadcasts, and he knew there was a bear in the area. But he was confident there was no way a friggin’ bear was getting anywhere near his beloved Toker and its precious cargo of delicious, smoked pork and beef.

  As he moved toward the kitchen entry, though he didn’t think it physically possible, the volume of the music seemed louder now that the band was back from their break. He smiled as he envisioned them stepping onto the stage, turning their amps up to the mythical number of eleven. Usually, when back in the kitchen, he was spared the brunt of the blasting music from the live bands, but not tonight. Pushing through the heavy steel door, the sound of hammering bass guitar oscillated in his eardrums. The gang from HipBone just might require some hearing assistance in their very near future, he thought with a grimace, and perhaps himself as well.

  Glancing toward the grill, it seemed line cook Harry Cartwright was keeping extremely busy. Six hamburgers sizzled on the grill. On the counter next to it, three plates sat piled high with prime rib, heaps of mashed potatoes at their side, all awaiting their glistening crown of gravy. After slathering some delicious, house-made BBQ sauce on a platter of ribs, Harry shoved them under the heat lamp on the wide stainless steel ledge at the passthrough window. He smashed the bell twice to signal to Carlene there was another order up for her to deliver. This seemed to be in addition to the previous two orders that had already accumulated there, awaiting her reluctant attention.

  Max jumped into the fray and dolloped gravy on top of the prime rib platters. He frowned as he looked through into the pub. After what seemed like forever, Carlene finally sauntered up to the window to retrieve the ribs and other meals. Max shouted over the music to her, “A little more speed would be appreciated next time, Carlene! Things are dying here under the lamp before you can even serve them!”

  “I’m run off my feet out there, Max!” Carlene snapped back. “Give me a break!” She blew a few loose strands of hair from her face as if to prove her point, then loaded the waiting orders onto her outstretched arms and wandered back into the crowded bar to deliver them.

  Max watched the girl through the pickup window. As soon as she’d dropped the plates of food off to the appropriate patrons (or at least he hoped they were), she strolled right back over to one of her tables of drink-nursing cronies and proceeded to visit with them once more, ignoring the thirsty and hungry paying customers all around her. Shaking his head, Max exited the kitchen and approached Greg at the bar to regale him of the continuing saga that was Carlene Boseman.

  As he moved through the crowd, he glanced toward the stage. The lead singer reminded him of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Earlier in the evening, when the band first entered the bar, he remembered peering through from the kitchen to see if Fred, Daphne and Velma were also going to make an appearance. But when they didn’t show, he figured maybe they were still outside in the parking lot at the Mystery Machine feeding some snacks to Scoob.

  Max sidled up next to Greg and pointed toward Carlene. “Oh, tell me about it! That little Sheila is a real no-hoper!” Greg hollered back, his thick Australian brogue bursting through as he spoke.

  His mouth only inches from Greg’s ear, Max said, “She just doesn’t seem to get how it’s supposed to work, does she? It’s supposed to be; she does her job, she gets some pay. Not, she visits friends; she gets some pay. If that were the case, I’d look for a job like that myself!” He shook his head for emphasis.

  “I know, mate! She’s a regular bingle!” Greg bellowed back, deftly pouring two beers at once.

  Max sighed, “Where’s the work ethic with kids these days?” As he said that, he glanced at the Kokanee Beer sign on the wall behind the bar, and he was surprised to see that almost a half-hour had elapsed since his last visit to the Toker out back. Where did the time go? Another batch was ready to be taken out and devoured, and he knew he’d better get his ass in gear. He eased his way back toward the kitchen, his lithe, muscular form slipping easily between the galley doors, barely disturbing them as he passed through.

  “Harry, comment ça va?” Max yelled to his line cook. Harry looked over and grinned toward Max, bobbing his head up and down in time to the music as he cooked. He gave a big thumbs up and hammered the delivery spell three times to signify there were orders for Jenny Smith to pick up. Max smiled and nodded back, feeling lucky to find a cook that handled pressure so well and one so easy going to boot. He continued through the kitchen, pushing on the heavy delivery door and walking out into the misty-grey void that was the compound.

  Max moved through the thick, cloying fog toward the hazy glow of the bright white security lights that were located over the Toker. Even after the thousands of kilograms of meat that had gone through the Toker over the years, he always looked forward to pulling the latest batch of his trademark mouth-melting meat out of his hulking hotbox.

  At first, he didn’t notice anything out of place thanks to the shifting nothingness that surrounded him; then, he saw the mess and knew he had a major problem. All of his grilling equipment lay scattered on the ground around his feet — prized meat tongs snapped in half, his bowl of secret sauce crushed and smeared across the frozen slush.

  Where the towering Toker had been located was now only empty space. Max shuffled forward a little bit more, blinking his eyes in disbelief. The concrete blocks on which the smoker sat were the only thing left. Through the swirling mist, he saw the fence behind the Toker had been compromised as well.

  “Tabarnak!” His heart began to trip-hammer in his chest.

  Compromised was actually not quite the right word to describe the fence, he reflected. A more appropriate word would have been ‘non-existent’. It had been reduced to kindling, the thick
posts now splintered and broken on the ground. Barely visible beyond, one of the Toker’s steel drums lay partially crushed on the slushy ground outside the remains of the fence, steam rising from residual heat still trapped inside.

  Priding himself on not being a stupid man, Max decided that the best course of action at this point would be to go directly back inside the bar, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and do not go off exploring stupidly into the fog. Suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable, he backed slowly toward the kitchen, wishing his head could swivel three-hundred and sixty degrees like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. Max did not want to meet whatever had done this damage to his Toker. He was in disbelief that what had happened to his beloved smoker was real -- it had to be some sort of fevered dream.

  Harry jerked his head up from the grill as the delivery door slammed open. He frowned in confusion as he watched Max stumble into the kitchen in a panic, then quickly turn and ram the heavy door shut. Twisting the deadbolt home to secure the door, Max leaned heavily against it for a moment, his face white.