“So the key was the flavor.”
“That was one of them, certainly.”
“You’ve worked with these flavor people, then. Do you think it’s possible there could be rivalry between the chemists?”
“Let me put it to you this way, Ben. The fast-food industry makes over one hundred and ten billion dollars annually in profits.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“There’s huge money to be made in this business. Huge. And it all hinges on flavor.” He moved to a stationary bike and started pedaling. “Of course there’s competition among chemists. They all want to be the one who invents the next Big Mac.”
“Because that man’s going to be the king of the lab?”
He looked at Ben levelly. “Because that man’s going to be rich.”
Loving’s five minutes turned into a little over a half an hour. Sheila glanced at her watch a few times, but otherwise, she didn’t seem to mind, which Loving attributed to his personal charm. And perhaps the fact that he offered to buy the next three rounds of drinks. In that time, he told her stories and anecdotes, never revealing who he worked for, and regaled her with every bad joke he’d heard in the last year. He even explained that since Kahlúa is denser than Bailey’s and the empty space in the glasses is finite, the Bailey’s is forced upward when the Kahlúa comes rushing down.
“So they put this new guy in as editor in chief,” Sheila explained. “He decides which writing assignments I get and which I don’t. And he’s totally clueless. I know in a heartbeat he’s not from Oklahoma.”
“How could you tell?”
“Well, he kept telling me that, now that he was here, there was all this stuff he was going to do. He never once said ‘fixin’ to do.’ “
“A dead giveaway.”
“When he talked about Durant, he actually pronounced it Duh-rant, instead of Doo-rant, like everyone else around here.”
“And let me guess. He didn’t pronounce Miami ‘Mi-am-uh,’ and he didn’t call Oklahoma City ‘the City.’ “
She nodded. “And he didn’t even know where to begin with Eufaula or Okemah.”
“Good thing you don’t have clients in Gotebo,” Loving replied. They both laughed.
The bartender arrived bearing gifts. “Here’s your appetizer, ma’am.”
“Great.”
Loving took a whiff and tried not to gag. “What is it?”
“It’s an assortment of their best. Calamari, sushi, eel. Won’t you share it with me?”
Loving hesitated.
“We can eat it right here. That way we can continue talking.”
Loving drew in his breath. Ben Kincaid, you owe me so bad. . . .
“All right,” Sheila said. “Let’s start with the eel.”
Loving survived the consumption of the appetizer plate, and as much as he hated to admit it, actually enjoyed much of it. The secret, he realized, was not to let Sheila tell him what it was. Better not to know. Just eat in blissful ignorance.
The conversation continued merrily along. Loving kept her going, deftly moving from one subject to the next, guiding without appearing to guide. But none of it was idle chatter. Without ever asking a direct question, Loving managed to draw out enough information to write a small biography of Sheila Knight.
After they finished the appetizer plate, he decided it was time to give her a little push—in the direction of Erin Faulkner.
“Must be tough to lose a friend like that,” he said sympathetically.
“It was hell. Living hell. I’d known her all my life, practically.”
“And then she’s gone.” Loving shook his head. “You two must’ve had a lot of happy memories.”
“We did.”
“ ’Specially when you’re young, just kids. No worries, no responsibilities. Nothing bad ever happens when you’re a kid.”
Sheila fell silent. Should he push a little more, or just ride it out? He chose to remain quiet, and a moment later, his patience was rewarded.
“Something bad happened to my friend.”
“Yeah?”
“Something horrible. When she was just fifteen.”
“I’m sorry. Still, fifteen’s practically grown up. At least she had those great fifteen years.”
“Those years were . . . not always great.” Loving noticed that she was looking at the bar top now more than she looked at him. “Even before the tragedy, she had problems. We both did. We never talked about it, but . . .” She lifted her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”
“I don’t mind.”
“No, we just met. It isn’t right.”
Loving took her arm. “Listen to me. It’s obvious you have something on your mind. You need to talk. I got ears.”
Her hands trembled a bit as she ran a finger across the bar top. Her point of vision seemed to recede inward. “Have you ever had a secret so bad, you couldn’t tell anyone?”
“Yes,” Loving said. “Once.”
“Erin and I had a secret like that. And Erin—I think maybe she had another secret. I’m just starting to figure it out, but—I think that may be why she died.” Her face saddened. “It’s horrible. Having all these secrets and not being able to tell anyone. Even if you really want to. Even if you know you need help. Know you could help others. But still . . . you just can’t do it.”
“You can,” Loving said firmly. “You can tell me.” He gripped her wrist all the firmer. “You know you need to get this out of your system.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe . . .”
“I am. You know I am.”
Sheila nodded slightly. Her lips parted. “All those years ago, I—”
“Sheila! Sorry I’m late!”
Loving swore under his breath. A tall black man in a cashmere coat edged between them.
“There you are,” Sheila said, collecting herself. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
“Stuck at the office. You know how it goes.” He glanced at Loving. “Looks like you weren’t bored.”
Loving smiled pleasantly. Damn, damn, damn!
The man looked his watch. “We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late for the show.”
“Right, right. And we can’t be out late. I still need to pack.” She glanced at Loving. “I’m going to the lake for the weekend.”
“How nice.”
“Oh, it’s nothing fancy. I just need to get away for a spell. I’ve got a cabin at Grand Lake.” She grabbed a few bills from her purse and put them down on the bar. “Okay, James, I’m ready.”
James Wesley? Loving wondered. The man who dated Erin Faulkner before she died? He fit the description.
Sheila pushed away from the bar. “Sorry,” she said to Loving as she left. “Got to run. Enjoyed it, though.”
“Me, too,” Loving answered. “Next time I’ll show you how to get an olive into a brandy snifter without touching it.”
She laughed and departed, Wesley on her arm.
The bartender reappeared. “Something else to drink?”
“Yeah,” Loving growled. “And this time, something real.”
The bartender glanced at Sheila as she exited. “Looks like you lost out.”
“Damn right.” He pinched his fingers together. “And I was this close. This close. To something big.”
“There’ll be other chances.”
“I hope you’re right. My boss may not be so optimistic.”
The bartender appeared puzzled, but decided to let it go. “Say . . . would you show me that bit with the Bailey’s and Kahlúa again?”
Loving frowned, growled, then with a great sigh, let it all go. “Why the hell not? You see, it’s all in the wrist action. . . .”
“You think that’s possible?” Ben asked as he jogged on the treadmill. “Professional jealousy among chemists?”
“What can I say, Ben?” Rothko answered, pedaling away on his exerbike. “It’s not all Ronald McDonald and Dave Thomas in burgerland. It can be a nasty business. And no
t just at the flavor factory.”
“How so?”
“Where to begin? Ever wonder why so much fast-food marketing is targeted toward children?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“One word, Ben. Addiction.”
Ben did a double take.
“It’s true. Little kids get hooked on high-fat food just like teenagers do on nicotine. They’re similar, in a way. The tobacco industry used to target their advertising at young people because they knew that someone who started smoking as a teen would have a much harder time quitting than someone who started as an adult. It’s not a matter of willpower—it’s biochemical. Same for fast food. Hook ’em when they’re young, and you’ve got a customer for life.”
“Incredible.”
“Burger Bliss, of course, has gone the opposite direction. We’ve targeted grown-ups. We’re the high-class fast food. And that’s cost us. Market research has shown that small children often recognize the McDonald’s logo before they recognize their own name. The average American kid will have a Happy Meal once every two weeks. We don’t get any of that kind of business.”
“Too bad.”
“Another example. The fast-food biz pays minimum wage to a higher percentage of its employees than any other business. You thought the service was lousy last time you chomped down on a Whopper? There’s a reason.”
“And that is?”
“Turnover is incredibly high. At McDonald’s the average employee lasts three months. But the kids keep coming. One out of eight American workers has been employed by McDonald’s at one time or another. Way too many kids give up sports, sacrifice their grades, or drop out all together so they can work. And the pay is pathetic.”
“Must create some resentment.”
“That’s an understatement. Did you read about those fast-food employees who were arrested for putting yummy things like spit and urine and bleach and Easy-Off oven cleaner into the food? They’d been doing it for months. Really—you don’t want a bunch of angry, crazy kids running your restaurant. Much better to pay responsible, reliable people decently. That’s what we do.”
“Probably helps contribute to your image as the high-class fast-food stop, too.”
Rothko winked. “Can’t hurt. We have a much lower injury rate than the incredibly high rate at most burger joints, too. ’Course, it’s in part because our employees aren’t total morons. But we’ve also spent some major money on safety precautions. Nationwide, the injury rate for working teenagers is twice that for adults. But not at Burger Bliss. Statistics are also way high on fast-food robberies—usually by former or current employees. But not at Burger Bliss. And I think it’s because we treat our people with respect.”
He paused for a moment. His pedaling slowed. “We did have that one horrific incident a few weeks ago. The shooting.”
Ben nodded. “I heard about that firsthand, from one of the cops at the scene. Wounded six people, was it?”
“Yeah,” Rothko said solemnly. “Killed three. It was a horrible tragedy. And a PR nightmare. We had to close that restaurant.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But just for the record—our burgers really are the best. You read enough about slaughterhouses, the kind of meat my competitors buy, and you’ll understand how E. coli spreads. But there’s never been an E. coli outbreak in a Burger Bliss. Never once. We send all our managers to a food safety course. We use refrigerated delivery trucks equipped with record-keeping thermometers. We calibrate our grills to guarantee the meat is sufficiently cooked. We make our fry chefs use tongs—not their hands. USDA testing is a joke—we do our own microbial testing. I wanted Burger Bliss to be a model of how a fast-food restaurant could be—and should be—run. We really are a quality restaurant.”
“And the amazing thing is,” Ben replied, “you haven’t gone broke.”
“Exactly. Truth is, all these things I’ve talked about—better salaries, better meat, safety precautions—add very little to our total cost. Like maybe a few pennies per burger. In this billion-dollar business, everyone could be doing it.”
“Then why don’t they?”
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Ben. Greed.” He pushed himself off the bicycle. “They don’t do it because they don’t have to. And it’s taking a toll. All that fatty fast food is. Do you know what the national obesity rates are? It’s shocking. Fully fifty percent of our population is overweight. Twenty-five percent of all children. Fifty million Americans are obese—meaning they’re over fifty pounds heavier than they should be. It’s the second leading cause of mortality—after smoking! And it is directly related to the rise of fast food. That’s why Burger Bliss is committed to offering a higher-quality alternative. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.”
Ben stepped off the treadmill. He was dripping with sweat, but he felt better, as he always did after a good workout. He might not be Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he wasn’t total flypaper anymore, either. “You have every right to be proud,” Ben replied. “You’ve taken the high road. And you’ve made it work.”
“Well, thanks. But I have to tell you, Ben—the best part of it is being my own boss. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Have you ever worked for a corporation?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Then you know what corporate competition can be like. When people are competing for their livelihoods—especially when there’s a lot of money at stake—anything is possible.”
“Like one chemist knocking off a better chemist?”
“Anything, Ben. Absolutely anything.”
Chapter
21
Tramp. Harlot. Whore. Cheap piece of pussy. That’s what she was.
But those eyes. Those dark beautiful eyes.
Gabriel Aravena clenched his fists. Everything was so different now, since he went off the Depo. Everything was changed. This surge of emotions. The confusion. The thoughts flashing through his brain, thoughts he couldn’t seem to banish. He had hated being on the medication, watching it change his body, change him. And yet it had brought a certain . . . peace.
That peace was gone now. Gone like a thundercloud that had shot its load and had blown away with the wind. He’d been off the medication for almost a week now. At first, he felt only elation. His body was his own again. All the feelings they had tried to submerge had returned. But only for a little while. When he’d been on the Depo he could entertain all those horrible fantasies. Why not? He couldn’t do anything about it. But now it was different. Now he could do something about it. Was that what he wanted? He was consumed by desire, obsessed by the irresistible need to take Sheila and throw her down and never stop taking her—
She was a little old for him, true. He had usually preferred his girls . . . younger. But when he looked at the woman he now saw through the restaurant window, he saw the girl of fifteen she had been. And he wanted that girl. Wanted her bad.
He had watched her in that bar, shamelessly flirting with that redneck piece of trash who was putting the moves on her. She had all but thrown herself at him, the cheap little twat. She had all but spread her legs and done him on the bar rail. And no sooner had she finished with him than she took up with the next man who walked up. She wrapped herself around the black man and let him take her away to this place.
He wasn’t fooled by the fancy decorating and the high-priced menu. He knew what this was all about. This was about getting her liquored up, maybe slipping her something. Not that it was necessary. Not with her.
And not with him, either.
It was too late tonight, he could see that. This jerk with the hair gel had his finger in it, and there was no getting rid of him. But there would be another time, Gabriel told himself. Another time when it would just be him and her, and then—
Stop! he heard a voice screaming somewhere inside him. Stop before it’s too late!
But he ignored the voice. He would watch this woman. Yes, that was it. He would follow her wherever she
went, no matter how far or how long. And when the opportunity came, he would take her. Over and over again. Even if it killed her.
Over and over again. Until it killed her.
Chapter
22
So, am i feeling better yet? Sheila Knight wondered as she lit another cigarette. How long is this going to take?
She sucked hard on the ciggy, trying to calm herself. Coming out to the Grand Lake cabin was supposed to comfort her, but it was almost midnight now, and it wasn’t working. Maybe she should’ve talked to the cop. Maybe it was time to come clean. About everything. But she hadn’t. She lied, or at any rate didn’t tell the truth. Certainly she didn’t tell him what she had seen, what she suspected. But she didn’t want any more trouble. She wanted to be free of this, not ever more deeply entangled. That was the problem with Erin Faulkner and her family and all the ever-increasing intrigue and horror that surrounded them. Instead of winding down, it just seemed to balloon and grow and become more and more demanding, more complicated, more impossible.
She threw down the cigarette, crushing it in an ashtray. Nicotine was not enough to calm her spirits tonight. She needed a serious drug. The real stuff.
She had not been sure, not until today. Not until she saw the picture in the paper. But now, as she gazed at the photo and let her mind travel backward in time, back to the last time she and Erin had been together . . .
She knew. She put the pieces together, and for once, they made sense. An incredible, horrible sort of sense. A dangerous sort of sense.
She walked to the kitchen, opened a beautiful blue bottle of Skyy vodka, and began drinking it right out of the bottle. Calm yourself, Sheila. Calm yourself. She hated when she got like this. She was turning into Erin—like in some weird way, now that Erin was gone, she felt she had to replace her. She felt as if there was a giant hole in her life, in her soul. Something that could never be filled. Sure, she had friends, family. James.
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