by R. T. Lowe
The waiter finished taking Dirk’s order and Dirk had to assure him that he’d heard him correctly. Twice Dirk had to repeat himself, then finally, he told the skeptical-looking man to hurry along. After finishing his second glass of bourbon, Dirk began drinking straight from the bottle. Iliana and Audrey laughed at his audaciousness, most likely assuming he was one of those celebrities who disregarded etiquette and acted like an ass simply because he could get away with it. Iliana followed suit. She was a wild one. The guests in the dining room cast leery glances at him, murmuring amongst themselves.
And then the entrees appeared.
When the waiter and two helpers arrived at Dirk’s table with eight entrees the murmuring grew louder, nearly drowning out the background music. And when the patrons realized that Dirk had ordered the same dish—eight plates of Red Tilefish with the heads still attached—a few gasped in surprise. The blonde on Dirk’s right (Iliana) laughed. The blonde on his left (Audrey) made a face and asked him if the fish were still alive.
Dirk closed his eyes to allow the moment to sink in. This was the most important night of his life. It wasn’t just his future that hung in the balance. The stakes couldn’t be any higher. His new boss had made that very clear to him, and Dirk didn’t want to disappoint. He knew he wouldn’t be given a second chance. He opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then stood up with a water glass in one hand and a butter knife in the other. Once every eye was on him, he tapped the glass with the knife, not stopping until the hum of polite conversation and the clinking of dishes and glasses faded out.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dirk began. “I hate to interrupt this public display of conspicuous consumption, but I need to say something before I take these two bitches here”—he held out his hands to indicate Iliana and Audrey—“back to my place to hollow out their vaginas.” He picked up one of the plates from his table and held it at an angle so that everyone could see the fish; it was grayish-brown and about a foot long. He pinched the forked tail between his thumb and forefinger and let the plate fall to the floor. It shattered. Some of the diners jumped back in their chairs. Dirk slipped a finger down the throat of another fish and hooked it by its gills. Then he stepped over to the nearest table where a couple in their thirties was staring at him, their eyes wide with confusion.
“Are you enjoying your salad, miss?” Dirk asked the woman politely.
A fork loaded with crumbled goat cheese rested in the woman’s hand, wavering in front of her mouth. Her other hand caressed the stem of a wine glass. She blinked, her cheeks flushing as red as the wine.
“That salad you’re nibbling on,” Dirk continued amiably, “costs more than the daily wages of the illegal immigrants washing your dishes in back. And that wine—fine choice by the way—could feed a family of four for a month.”
“Oh,” she managed to squeak out.
“Punishment is in order,” Dirk said, his voice gathering strength. “For your excess, your greed and your sense of entitlement, I have been commanded to punish you.”
The man seated across from her started to stand and his napkin tumbled to the floor.
“Wha—” she began to say.
Dirk slapped her across the face with the fish he was holding by the tail, hard. The fish snapped in half, and the part with the head slid greasily down her blouse and nestled in her lap. She screamed. Scales, crisp and smelling faintly of lemon and oregano, clung to her cheek. The man got to his feet, staring dumbfounded. Dirk drew the other fish back steadily, unrushed, and swung it in a tennis style backhand, hitting him between the eyes. This fish was more solid, meatier. The man swiped at his face, falling back into his chair, digging at the fish particles in his eyes. Dirk landed four more smacking blows before the fish was stripped clean of flesh.
The room went deathly quiet. A piano concerto played in the dining room. Daft Punk in the bar.
Quickly, but without any urgency in his movements, Dirk strode back to his table and snatched up two more Tilefish. With a discernible purpose in his step and both fish hooked securely through the gills, he approached the table to his left and began pummeling two dapper men who were old enough to be Dirk’s grandfathers. Too startled to defend themselves, the men covered their heads and screamed for help. They took a pounding. Dirk didn’t end the assault until the cowering men were blanketed with little bits of flesh, bone and scales.
As Dirk turned to retrieve more fish, a man in a dark suit and the maître d’ converged on him, walling off his path to the table.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dirk shouted at them as if he was deeply offended. “Do you know who I am?” He paused and then shouted it again, louder: “Do you know who I am?”
The men looked like they were afraid to act, which was only natural since protecting customers from drug-crazed celebrities fell far outside the parameters of their job descriptions. Another man in a dark suit rushed over and joined them, but he simply fell into line, appearing even more lost and embarrassed than the others. The three of them stood there side by side, heads down and eyes on their shoes like an auditioning trio nervously awaiting the judge’s critique.
“I’m speaking to you!” Dirk screamed at them. When they didn’t respond, Dirk scrubbed his hands down the front of the maître d’s white shirt, streaking it with fish oil. The maître d’ made no move to stop him.
A plump Asian man came hurrying into the room in an awkward waddling trot. He looked around, breathing hard, and his face went pale. “What happened?” he asked the maître d’.
The maître d’s eyes skipped from the Asian man to Dirk, then he set his jaw and said nothing. He was probably hoping to get into the ‘business’ and realized that making enemies with someone like Dirk Rathman would guarantee that would never happen.
The woman with the fish scales clinging to her face pointed a shaking finger at Dirk.
The Asian man’s eyes followed the direction of her finger and his eyebrows arched in surprise. He muttered something in Japanese, his eyes moving throughout the room as if he expected one of the patrons to come to his aid. “Mr. Rathman,” he said, sounding clumsy and out of breath. “I’m Takamoto. The owner. I’m sorry, but I have to—”
“I’m going to have a seizure,” Dirk announced calmly.
“Sorry?” Takamoto stammered.
Dirk hit the floor like a bolt of lightning had struck him. His legs stiffened and his body went rigid. Since he wasn’t really seizing, he acted as though his brain was freezing up, picturing bursts of bright orange light flashing behind his eyes. He cradled his head, thrashing like a guppy that had escaped its tank to find life without water much less inviting than it had anticipated. He heard someone shouting for a doctor. But for the most part, the patrons remained calm, serenely watching the spectacle as if this was simply another scene in the evening’s entertainment. Dirk wriggled and writhed himself over to his table. The blondes were still in their seats, but now they looked less pleased with themselves.
Dirk reached up and clutched the tablecloth tightly in his hand. Then he gave it a hard tug, sending everything on the table flying through the air: crystal glasses, tableware and the bottle of Macallan’s shattered all around him. A plate of Red Tilefish slid across the floor and came to rest at the foot of an anxious-looking man guzzling scotch.
Little pools of bourbon, water, and half-melted ice cubes now studded the floor. Dirk pushed himself up to his feet, making a big show of what a struggle it was, then staggered and stumbled his way out of the dining room and through a hallway and into the bathroom. He reached out wildly for one of the sinks as if he needed it to steady himself. Someone was standing in front of the mirror. Dirk turned to him and screamed: “I’ll fucking kill you! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
The man got out, leaving his hand towel on the floor.
Dirk looked at the mirror and smiled. This was actually kind of fun. His face was shiny and slick with sweat. Just faking a seizure was hard work. He splashed cold water on his fac
e. “Anyone in here?” He stepped over to the stalls and checked for feet. None. He went to the door and listened. There were voices. Excited voices. Shouting. He couldn’t hear the background music. Someone must have turned it off. He went back to the sinks and ran the water, wetting his hair and spiking it up until it looked wild and out of control. He waited. Timing was everything. The voices outside were growing louder.
“Here goes,” he said softly. He placed both hands on the vanity and screamed at his reflection: “He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s coming!” Then he checked his watch and waited. He’d give it ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds later, Dirk came tearing out of the bathroom, yelling like a madman: “He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s coming!” The crowd congregating outside the door turned and ran in terror. He followed the stampede down a long hallway and into the bar where the customers were packed in tight like passengers on a Tokyo subway train. The panicked patrons collided into chairs and tables, knocking them over. Glasses shattered. Liquid sprayed across the floor. Pinned up against the wall, a bald man screamed in pain. A woman was pushed over an upended table and hit her face on the floor. Blood flowed from her forehead. She shrieked. Her friends screamed. More people fell to the floor. They scrambled to get to their feet, crawling frantically to get away. The crowd moved closer to the exit, tripping and pushing one another. Dirk kept screaming: “He’s coming! He’s coming!” The panic and fear in the air surged. Everyone rushed the exit, fighting to squeeze through the narrow door, trampling anyone still floundering on the floor. Those who made it—including Dirk—streamed out onto the sidewalk like bees escaping the hive.
The sidewalk was overflowing with paparazzi and what appeared to be several busloads of senior citizens (probably shuttled in on a celebrity sightseeing tour). As the frenzied horde escaped from the restaurant, Dirk shouted maniacally, “Terrorists! Terrorists! Run! Run! Run!”
Chaos ensued.
All at once, as if someone had fired a starter’s pistol, the crowd scattered in every direction. An elderly man threw his walker at a blue sedan for no apparent reason. Dozens flooded the street, stopping traffic in both directions. The sound of screeching brakes filled the night air. Horns blared. People screamed. Police sirens and fire trucks wailed in the distance.
Dirk weaved his way along the sidewalk through the crowd, blending in with the paparazzi, celebrity-watchers and restaurant patrons, who all lost sight of him as he sprinted across the street to a waiting taxi at the Hotel Anglia. He climbed into the back seat and gave the driver an address. As the car sped away, he looked out the back window and watched the crowd staring around at one another in stunned disbelief.
It all went perfectly. Except for one thing. If only he’d remembered to wash his hands in the bathroom. They smelled like fish.
Chapter 12
Pizza and Beers
Ba-Beep, Ba-Beep, Ba-Beep, Ba-Beep, Ba—
“Roommate violation,” Lucas muttered sleepily.
Felix’s eyes snapped open. He lay on his side looking at an empty bed—Lucas’s bed—on the other side of the room. A blue comforter was gathered up in a loose bunch at the bottom. Tacked to the wall above it were two posters: the logo of the Minnesota Timberwolves and a scenic shot of Eagle Mountain (big trees and a hiking trail). Without moving his head, his eyes rolled up in their sockets until he found Lucas standing by his desk with his pointer finger pressed down on the alarm clock. Behind him, bright mid-morning sunlight was slanting in between the slats of the closed blinds.
“—turning off your roommate’s alarm is worse than drinking your roommate’s beer,” Lucas was saying. “Or banging a chick on your roommate’s b—”
“I’m alive.” Felix sat up sharply, his hands going to his throat and then his chest.
“Looks that way,” Lucas replied glumly as he crossed the room and climbed back into bed.
“How’d I get here?” Felix asked, looking down at himself. Looking down at his bed. The bed he’d apparently just slept in.
“Is that a philosophical question or…?”
“No!” Felix said. “I mean, how did I get here? To the room.”
“I don’t know, dude.” Lucas yawned, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I met this chick after dinner at the Student Center and we went back to her room. You were here when I got back. But it was late. Don’t you have a game?”
“A game?” His thoughts felt disorganized—jumbled.
“Yeah—you know. Football. You chase the guy with the ball and try to kill him. That game.”
“I don’t understand,” Felix said softly. “I don’t understand.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucas asked, sounding more awake now.
“No-man’s-land. Skis. Martha. Allison… Allison!” His heart froze in his chest. “Where’s Allison?” He threw the blankets back and sprang to his feet.
“Is that a trick question?” Lucas looked confused. “Probably her room. Don’t you think?”
Felix was already at the door. He wrenched it open and burst out into the hallway, sprinting for the staircase.
“Dude!” Lucas called after him. “You might wanna put some clothes on!”
Felix flew down the flight of stairs to the third floor, parting a group of girls who screamed and flattened themselves against the wall as he barreled through the hall. When he reached Allison’s room, he started pounding on the door. “Allie! Allie!” The girls in the hall whispered and giggled, their eyes clinging to him, but he didn’t take notice. “Allison!”
The door opened slowly. Caitlin, wearing Tiffany-blue pajamas, gazed at him groggily. “Felix?” she said, her eyes swollen from sleep. He slipped past her, expecting Allison’s bed to be empty, his mouth already choking out the terrifying words: “Where is she?”
But Allison was there, in bed, propped up on an elbow and facing the door, squinting her eyes at Felix. She blinked hard a few times and said in a thick sleep-heavy voice, “Felix? What’s going—?”
Felix rushed to Allison’s bed and scooped her up in his arms. “Thank God you’re okay. Thank God.” He’d never experienced relief like this before; it was so intense it hurt like physical pain.
“Hey!” Caitlin shouted at him. “What are you doing to my roommate?”
“Felix?” Allison said, her voice distorting against his chest. “Um… as much as I appreciate the wake-up call, I think you’re going to break my ribs.” She drew herself back and after looking him over for a moment, began to laugh. “Why are you in your underwear?”
Felix loosened his grip. “I thought you were…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “But you’re okay. Right? Right?” He paused for a moment and tried to reassemble the broken thoughts bouncing around madly in his head. “What happened? I thought I was gonna die. The woman with the scar. And the guy—the guy with the knife. They were gonna kill me. What happened? What happened to you? You were on the deck and I looked over and then you were gone and—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Allison’s eyes grew wide. “No one was trying to kill you.”
He stared at her for a moment in silence. “Are you joking?”
“Joking?” she said. “About…?”
Felix’s equilibrium had completely deserted him. He got up from the bed and went over to the window that looked out onto the Freshman Yard. Two kids—Jonas and Salty—were down there throwing a football around. Jonas threw it. Salty dropped it. But how could he be standing in Allison’s room watching two fatassosaurs playing catch in the Freshman Yard? Wasn’t he at Martha’s? Wasn’t he fighting for his life? Wasn’t he about to die?
“They were trying to kill me,” Felix muttered faintly, turning away from the window. The memory sent tremors through his hands, making them shake. Then he shouted: “They were trying to kill me!”
“Who?” Allison asked.
“You don’t… you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Felix spoke in a rush: “We went to Martha’
s house and she told us to go around to the back. The woman came at me with a piano wire. She was strangling me. And then this guy jumped me. He was going to… stab me. And then… and then… I don’t know what happened. Everything went… dark.”
“Wow!” Caitlin sat down on her bed. She’d slipped into a robe that matched her pajamas. “Sounds like you had a bad dream, big guy. Maybe it—hey!” Her head turned to the door. “Can’t you knock?”
“Dorm rules,” Lucas replied coolly as he sidled up next to Caitlin on her bed. “An open door means you don’t have to knock.”
“Get off my bed,” Caitlin snapped at him, scowling.
“Relax.” Lucas put his arm around her shoulder. “Dorm rule number twenty-three: beds double as sofas. Hey—at least I’m wearing clothes. Check out my roommate.” He nodded at Felix and laughed.
Caitlin grabbed Lucas’s arm and heaved it over her head. “Dorm rule number one: Don’t touch me.”
“What am I missing?” Harper asked as she breezed into the room. When she saw Felix (now pacing like an agitated lion) she stopped, stared open-mouthed, blinked and then took a seat next to Caitlin.