Idle Ingredients

by Matt Wallace

  “There’s someone we’re forgetting,” Cindy says, sounding dubious about even speaking the words.

  “Who’s that?” Lena asks.

  ROOMIES

  Darkness has mostly swallowed the row houses of Jamaica, Queens, by the time Lena and Cindy arrive at Moon’s duplex.

  “Only fair to warn you,” Cindy says. “His place is a lot like a crack house without the folksy charm.”

  Lena almost grins. “Duly noted. But you’re sure Monrovio doesn’t have him?”

  “I haven’t run up against a spell yet didn’t bounce off Moon like his ass is Scotchgarded.”

  They walk up the stairs to Moon’s front door and Cindy pounds on it like an angry cop.

  “Come in!” they hear Moon shout from inside the apartment.

  Lena stares at her. “He leaves his fucking door unlocked?”

  “I guess when you sustain your dwarfish ass solely on takeout and you don’t want to stop playing video games, you’ll risk the occasional murder.”

  Cindy turns the knob, opens the door, and ushers Lena inside graciously.

  “Jesus, the smell,” Lena mutters, hand over her mouth as she moves past Cindy.

  They enter the exploded dumpster that is the front room to see a frenetic game of Gears of War 4 being played on Moon’s monstrous flat-screen television. Moon is seated on a sofa against the wall next to the door, controller held between his skinny legs. The coffee table in front of him is a landfill of fast food wrappers and stoner paraphernalia.

  He’s not alone, either. It’s a two-player game raging on the screen, and the second player is wedged comfortably into the couch beside him.

  It’s Cupid, or at least the evil cherub version conjured in Hell and tasked with assassinating Satan’s enemies on Earth.

  Cupid apparently kicks ass at Xbox, too.

  Suddenly the black Micarta handle of a dagger is in Cindy’s hand; she moved so fast Lena didn’t even see her draw it from the sheath concealed beneath her jacket.

  “Get back!” Cindy yells.

  “Will you calm down?” Moon snaps at her, annoyed. “He’s my guest.”

  “Are you outta your cot-damned mind, boy? That thing’s a demon assassin from Hell that was sent to kill your ass!”

  “He’s cool now,” Moon assures her, sounding thoroughly casual about the whole thing. “We’re off the hit list. And he didn’t want to go back just yet. I guess they get all pissed off when you fail missions down there.”

  Beside him, Cupid nods emphatically.

  “Moon,” Cindy says, summoning every ounce of chill she possesses, “you’re playing Call of Duty with a damn demon.”

  “It’s the new Gears of War,” he corrects her.

  Again, Cupid nods.

  “That ain’t the point!” Cindy explodes.

  “Look, I’m telling you, he’s cool. Plus, I haven’t had to pay rent for the past two months. Every time the landlord shows up, Q here shoots him in the ass with one of those depression arrows and the old man gets so sad he lets me off as long as I tell him he’s a good person and people like him. It’s fucked up, man.”

  This last Moon says with a chuckle.

  “Oh hell, fuck it all,” Cindy says, skinning back the lapel of her jacket and sliding the blade back into its sheath.

  “Look, we need your help,” Lena tells him.

  “With what?” he asks distractedly, focusing on pulling off a headshot with his avatar’s sniper rifle in the game. “And what are you two doin’ hangin’ out, anyway? Don’t you both want to bone Ritter? I wouldn’t think you’d be all Sex and the City.”

  “Wow, he really is an asshole,” Lena says to Cindy.

  Her eyes widen and Cindy spreads her arms helplessly. “Right?”

  “So, what’s up?” Moon asks, completely unperturbed by Lena’s statement. “We were gonna order some Chinese or something.”

  As she’s found is the best tack, Cindy is blunt with him: “We’re breaking into Sin du Jour.”

  “Uh . . . you know we work there, right? They’ll let us in.”

  “The kitchen,” Lena clarifies. “That Monrovio bitch has locked all the women out of the kitchen. I want to know why.”

  “You know I’m not a girl or a cook, right?”

  “I’m aware, but Cindy also said Monrovio doesn’t seem to be able to get her hooks into you. She hasn’t lulled you like the others.”

  Moon shrugs. “She’s all right. Nice legs. I’m more into Asian chicks, though. Like, Southeast Asian, you know? Vietnamese and whatnot. Anime kinda killed Japanese chicks for me.”

  Cindy closes her eyes, shaking her head. “I hate . . . literally everything about what you are, Moon.”

  Moon laughs. “Yeah, I know. So why do I need to come?”

  “I had an answer for that question,” Lena says. “It’s escaping me just now.”

  “Just get your ass off that couch and get in the car!” Cindy thunders at him. “You’re part of the team. End of story.”

  Moon sighs, pausing the game with his controller.

  “Fine.” He looks at Cupid. “Don’t finish the campaign without me, and lay off my fuckin’ weed. My connect is doing thirty days in Riker’s, so it has to last us.”

  Cupid nods at him.

  Moon stands, digging through a pile of dirty clothes barricading the seat of a leather recliner next to the sofa. He eventually comes up with a wrinkled flannel shirt and begins laboriously pulling it over his slight frame.

  Cindy and Lena watch him, Lena glancing around the front room while they wait.

  “You ever think about hiring a maid, Moon?” she asks him.

  He turns to blink at her, genuinely confused. “You mean, like, a hooker?”

  Cindy raises an arm to stop Lena from pursuing the subject. “Just . . . don’t. Don’t, girl. Trust me.”

  Lena just nods.

  MELLON

  “How do we know Monrovio isn’t skulking around here somewhere?” Nikki asks as they file through the darkened corridors of Sin du Jour hours past midnight.

  Moon whispers back at her before fisting a bag of potato chips, “If you were gonna ask that question, why didn’t you do it before we broke in?”

  “We didn’t break in,” Lena hisses at him. “Two of us have keys.”

  “Will y’all please shut the hell up?” Cindy snaps at them. “It’s like trying to infiltrate with three Moons instead of one.”

  Lena and Nikki both stop walking.

  “Whoa now—”

  “Totally uncalled for.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cindy says immediately. “That was wrong.”

  Lena and Nikki look at each other, having a silent conversation with their eyes.

  The two of them nod at Cindy, appeased.

  They all start walking again, except for Moon.

  “That was a slam, right?” he says. “Yeah, that was a big slam. Fine. Whatever.”

  When they reach Sin du Jour’s now gated and locked main kitchen, the space beyond the twisted wrought-iron bars is dark and empty.

  Cindy unzips the small belt pack she’s wearing, removing a few inches of clear plastic tubing filled with a dark compound.

  “What is that?” Lena asks.

  “It’s just a little det cord filled with pentrite. It’ll take out the lock without any fuss. Shouldn’t even damage the rest of the door.”

  “How are we explaining the blown lock?” Nikki asks.

  “We’re chefs,” Lena says. “We party. Shit gets blown up. It happens.”

  “That is true,” Nikki says genuinely.

  Shaking her head with a grin, Cindy feeds the thin line into the gate’s lock. Removing a small aluminum cylinder, she backs up several steps and aims one end of it at the lock. Nothing much seems to happen, until it does.

  Instead of burning, the cord in the lock explodes. It’s little more than a few sparks and a “popping” sound that doesn’t even cause an ear to ring, but it’s more than enough to hollow out the cyl
inder of the lock.

  “So cool!” Nikki whispers to Lena.

  Cindy replaces the laser initiator back inside her belt pack and zips it closed, stepping back up to the gate. She grips the handles on each barred door and turns each 180 degrees, flinging the gate open triumphantly.

  At least, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

  What actually happens is both gate handles seize as if they’re still locked tight. Cindy tries to turn them again then jiggles them fiercely to no avail.

  “Huh,” is the best she can come up with.

  Lena moves beside her and grips two of the bars. She gives Cindy a nod, and they both attempt to force the gate open, Lena pulling at the gate itself while Cindy tries to twist open the handles.

  Nothing.

  “Is it jammed?” Lena asks.

  “There’s nothing left to jam it,” Cindy insists.

  “Can I try?” Moon asks.

  Cindy whirls on him. “What the hell you gonna try, Moon? Huh? Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A?”

  “I know you’re makin’ funna me, but I’m just impressed you know the Konami code. Now can I give it a shot or what?”

  Cindy silently waves an arm at the seemingly indestructible door, stepping out of his way.

  Moon digs out the final chip and pops it in his mouth, crumpling the plastic bag. He walks forward, holding out the balled-up snack wrapper to Cindy for her to take from him.

  “Oh, fuck you,” she says, folding her arms.

  Moon shrugs, dropping it on the floor. He laces his fingers and cracks his knuckles, wiping both hands against his stained jeans. He hovers his hands over the handles of the gate, appearing to concentrate intently.

  Watching him, Cindy rolls her eyes and begins muttering inaudible curses.

  Ignoring her, Moon’s hands inch slowly toward the gate handles. After an excruciatingly prolonged few more seconds he finally grips them tight and, with an expression of Herculean effort on his face, turns them until they click home and the two halves of the gate smoothly part.

  Moon steps back from the now open gate, whistling casually.

  The three women stare at him with open bewilderment, Cindy’s tinged with open hostility.

  “ . . . how?”

  It’s an accusation as much as a question.

  “It’s enchanted,” he explains. “The gate. No woman can open it.”

  “How do you know that?” Lena asks.

  “I was in the pantry . . . totally not stealing anything, when that Monrovio chick brought the warlock in to do it.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say anything, Moon?” Cindy demands.

  “You never ask me anything! All you do is order me around!”

  “You are not my little brother—”

  “The point is we’re in!” Lena shouts over them, stepping between the two. “Can we just . . . ? Please? Okay?”

  She ushers the rest of them through the now open gates and into the kitchen. The sea of stainless-steel prep stations are covered by trays containing an array of hors d’oeuvres, and layers of waxed paper and plastic cover those. Nikki peels at the edge of one to inspect the contents of the nearest tray.

  “Looks like . . . rumaki? Sorta? Prosciutto-wrapped foie gras? On a stick?”

  “Jesus,” Lena says. “Is the theme of Consoné’s speech 1970s culture that sucked?”

  “What’re we looking for?” Nikki asks.

  “I don’t know,” Lena says. “But Monrovio wanted anyone she can’t control out of here for a reason.”

  “And I doubt it was to make sure the menu was subpar,” Cindy adds.

  As the three women talk among themselves, Moon idly wanders between the grids of prep stations. He lifts one corner of the waxed paper covering dozens and dozens of hors d’oeuvres. Picking one up, he pops it in his mouth, chewing.

  Lena sighs. “Maybe we’re overthinking this. Just because she’s a succubus doesn’t mean she’s got some evil plot going.”

  “This is an actual thing you just said right now?” Cindy asks, staring at her.

  “I’m serious. We serve demons, goblins, centaurs, and . . . I don’t even know what else. So she’s a succubus. So what? She’s a succubus trying to be an executive in New York City. She’s using her . . . whatever . . . succubus-y powers to get ahead. Maybe locking us out of the kitchen is just a power move and nothing more. Maybe we’re—”

  The rest of Lena’s defense of Luciana is interrupted by Moon, who abruptly lets out a shriek and drops to his knees on the kitchen floor, arms pressed into his stomach.

  “You were saying?” Cindy says to Lena as they all crowd around him.

  Nikki is hovering the closest, wracked with concern. “Moon? What’s—”

  “I’d stand back,” Cindy warns her.

  When Moon throws his head back and moans, he looks as though his face, neck, and arms have all turned purple. As he convulses, however, the three of them realize it’s actually a thick purple substance being secreted from his every pore. He’s sweating maroon, in buckets, and the uncontrollable gyration of his body sends the stuff flying in every direction, splattering Nikki in the face.

  “Oh my god!” Nikki cries in disgust, wiping her face with her hands.

  “Warned you,” Cindy says.

  “Is he dying?” Lena asks her.

  Cindy shakes her head. “He doesn’t do things that make my life easier.”

  Moon continues convulsing for the next twenty seconds. His clothes are thoroughly soaked through with the substance being expelled through his pores.

  It ceases as quickly as it began.

  “Man, that one sucked,” Moon manages between panting breaths.

  He rolls onto the floor and spreads out flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with wide, glazed eyes.

  “Moon, what the hell happened?” Lena asks.

  “Oh. You know. Food’s poisoned,” he says, quite conversationally.

  When the news sinks in, Lena’s reaction is less horror than relief.

  She looks at the others. “She poisoned all the food for the speech. Monrovio. She’s put them all under some spell and had them spike the food. She’s going to kill everybody at Consoné’s next event.”

  Nikki is stunned. “Why would she want to do that?”

  “Because she’s a crazy evil cunt doing evil crazy cunt things!” Lena snaps. “I don’t know!”

  Meanwhile, Cindy is kneeling beside Moon with a kitchen towel, wiping away what’s left of the discharge from his pores.

  “Boy, you were either born entirely wrong or right in a way we won’t ever understand,” she says.

  Cindy looks up at Lena and Nikki. “So what do we do?”

  “Telling Chef Luck won’t do any good,” Nikki says. “He’s just as turned around as the rest of them. Allensworth?”

  “Allensworth’s the one who sent her ass here,” Cindy points out. “But why he’d be into a mess like this I can’t figure out. It’s supposed to be his job to keep everything on this side of the fence running smoothly. Assassinating a room full of goblin royalty and his own people? What does that get him?”

  “I don’t know,” Lena says, “but Nikki’s right. Going to him is out by default.”

  “Then what?” Cindy asks her.

  Lena’s expression becomes resolute. “We have to snap everybody out of it, especially Chef.”

  Nikki furrows her brows at her. “How, though?”

  “Boosha’s book said succubae don’t ensnare men as much as they drain their will, make them complacent and docile so they can be controlled. They have to be aroused back to life, it said.”

  Nikki frowns. “I am not having sex with anyone on the line.”

  “Seconded,” Cindy says.

  “Are we including the two of you in this?” Moon asks.

  “I’m not talking about that! It’s, you know . . . adrenaline. Dopamine. We just have to get their stupid brains producing the right chemicals again. It’ll break the spe
ll long enough to get them back on our side, Bronko included.”

  They all fall silent, Nikki and Cindy both thinking to themselves intently.

  Moon watches them. It’s clear from his expression he is not thinking. About anything.

  “Uh . . . are we supposed to be coming up with plans or something right now?” he asks.

  “I got Ritter,” Cindy says, ignoring him. “I know what to do. And after I get him we’ll get Hara.”

  “We’ll get them, you mean,” Moon says. “I’m contributing here. I handled the door.”

  Nikki grins. “I know what to do about the line. I got this.”

  Lena nods. “Then that just leaves Bronko. For me. No problem. No problem at all.”

  “How do we occupy Monrovio while all of this is going on?” Cindy asks.

  “Luciana is mine,” Jett insists.

  They all turn to see her standing beneath the gated arch, watching them. Jett is wearing running pants and a tank top with an iPod strapped to her thin, steel-hard bicep. Her dark hair is bound in a severe ponytail and every inch of her exposed skin is flushed and glistening. She looks as if she’s been out running for hours.

  “Did you hear the rest?” Lena asks her.

  Jett nods. “The rest of you just focus on getting our coworkers back. I’ll take care of our new executive liaison.”

  Cindy grins at something she recognizes well in Jett’s tone of voice. “How?”

  “One of the most important rules of crisis communication in a corporate environment is to listen,” Jett says. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to listen. To that bitch begging me for mercy.”

  PART III

  LADIES’ NIGHT

  WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?

  All that’s left of Stocking & Receiving is a fort made of packed boxes.

  Cindy finds Ritter slumped over a folding card table in the otherwise barren space, staring sleepily at a small store-brand box of toothpicks. Many are the times she watched him build complex structures out of the cheap little splinters to test his manual dexterity and coordination after some injuries sustained on one of their gathering trips, either to his body or mind. It wasn’t so long ago she’d watched him construct with his toothpicks after having his severed arm reattached on Lena and Darren’s first day at Sin du Jour.