“That is why the press release said it is believed that he is dead or lost in the woods somewhere. We want him to think the hunt is going on out by Canyon Road. Actually one is going on out there right now, for appearances. He got away though. Between tonight or tomorrow he will show, I am sure of it.”
Just then, Granger’s radio beeped. That meant Markus had been seen nearby. Blossom and Detective Granger looked at each other. They braced themselves and went to their positions.
Blossom went out into her back yard. It was hot in the house. As she stepped out she heard a voice.
“You are a dumb bitch, you know that right?” said the fifteen-year-old voice of Markus.
“Markus McCoy,” she said to the thin youth. She reached over and turned on the patio light. His shadowy figure was now definable. Tall for his age, a hard uncaring face, and torn clothes. He had a bruise over one eye; an injury from the car crash most likely. But other than that he looked ready for action. Blossom had hoped he would be tired, not ready for their plan. Instead he looked eager and vicious. She sighed. She knew how much danger she was in, but had reached a point of sadness. Yes this kid was a nut job, but he was only fifteen. His chance of a decent life was gone for good. It had been for years and nobody had noticed.
“So what will killing me prove Markus? Nothing to anyone but yourself.” Blossom had said exactly what Detective Granger had scripted. Get it out in the open, get him talking about what they were all sure he wanted to do.
“I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Proving stuff is a waste of energy. I do what I want and give people what they deserve. This is a messed-up world, I am merely playing my part. It is fun,” he said with a child-like manner. Like another child might talk about the park, saying “it’s fun.” Blossom moved over to the right and he shifted positions to match. Markus was in the wrong position.
“What is fun about killing, kid?” she asked. She moved a little further to the side; so did he.
“It is the greatest mystery, death. I am fifteen years old and I have figured that out,” he scoffed.
“You’re wrong, boy. I know a little something about death. I have seen and felt my share. It is not a mystery. You are here and then you are gone. There is a hole that is left where you used to be. Even you will leave a hole when you die. Not for many, but I am sure there are a few who might miss you. That is death. It is not a mystery,” Blossom actually meant what she said. Markus just snorted in obvious disbelief.
“Why are you coming after me Markus? There are plenty of other targets,” she said. Changing the subject. Keep him off balance if you can, Granger had told her. She shifted further to her right, along the bushes that lined that side of her patio. She had to get into position for when he got tired of talking.
“They aren’t around. Probably in protective custody, hah! Everyone is so scared of a kid they moved my targets out of state. I may get your friend Lisa too. Just for laughs. You stayed though and so I get to kill you first, then the others, one by one,” he said softly. He had tensed as he spoke and suddenly more lights flooded the backyard. Detective Granger was standing about fifteen feet behind the boy and Mack was about ten feet to her right. Both had weapons out and pointing at Markus.
“Give it up Markus. You are completely surrounded,” Granger told him. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and laughed. It was a high pitched laugh, as though he was genuinely amused.
“You are good, detective. I did not expect this. Then again that is the fun part!” he said and leaped at Blossom as a knife fell out of his sleeve into his hand. She cried out and stepped back. At the same time out, from out of nearby bushes, a towering man stepped out in front of her. He caught the boy’s wrist that had the knife before it could strike Blossom. He gave a quick jerk and Markus dropped the knife with a short cry and then Bret lifted him up with one arm and slammed him down on the patio table. He gripped his throat and bent over him. Everyone shouted for him to stop, but he stayed bent over the kid. Blossom could see Markus’s eyes. He was amused. Not an ounce of fear. She shuddered and she thought she saw Bret shudder too as he stood up and gestured for the Detective to take the Markus away.
He backed up to stood next to Blossom. Everything worked and they were still alive!
Two weeks later everything was back to normal. Almost, Blossom amended in her thoughts. She was now officially dating Bret, and everyone knew, so they did not have to hide it like they thought they might. They still liked going over the fence in the middle of the night for fun though.
One night, she was relaxing naked in his arms, looking up at the stars.
“You rock my world Bret, you know that?” she said.
“Yep, you rock mine too, so I guess we are even then,” he replied. Blossom snuggled closer. He had saved her life so she was not sure they were even. She had no intention of arguing it though. She was far too happy.
THE END
Bonus Story 36 of 40
The Live-Ins
The sun breaks through the window and I instantly hate myself for not shutting the blinds before falling asleep. I can’t be too hard on myself—after what Dominic did to me last light I’m honestly surprised I’m awake at a reasonable hour. I roll over in his scratchy sheets and he’s still asleep—he probably will be for the next few hours. He closed Harvest Bar last night and now I’ve got to go open.
I run around Dominic’s apartment searching for my white double-breasted jacket and toque with no luck. He’s the one who tore everything off me—he’s the one who will know. I have no choice but to wake him.
“Dommmminnnnic,” I play, whispering into his ear. He swats at his nose like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Too cute.
“Dominic,” I repeat louder. “I need to find my uniform for work and I need to be there in twenty-minutes, including ten minutes in line at Coffee Train.” Exhaling ever so cutely, he ignores me, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.
“Wear mine,” he mumbles from underneath. “In closet. Need sleep.”
He gets like this anytime he closes, but I’ve never had to go into work in his uniform before. I go to the closet, open the door quietly, and look through the clothes hanging up. There is nothing white, let alone anything that resembles our uniform. Looking down, I see his white jacket, black pants and toque jumbled in a wrinkly ball. Great. I pick them up, shake them off, and not only are they a size too big for me but they’re also covered in spicy marinara sauce. Even better.
“Dom, you don’t have another pair?” I ask. “These are all sauced up.”
“Drycleaner,” he warbles.
Ugh! Think, Tara, where the hell did Dominic strip you last night? I check the bathroom—behind the shower curtain, the living room—behind the couch, the kitchen—under the table. Nothing, nada. I can either keep searching and possibly come up with nothing or leave now in tomato sauce-stained clothes and still enjoy a dirty chai latte. I choose to put on Dominic’s baggy, stinky uniform. At least my shoes are still by the door.
Life after Le Cordon Bleu is not as extravagant as I’d envisioned it. I’m 26 and a sous-chef at one of Century City’s finest wine bars. It’s not Beverly Hills but Harvest Bar is huge step up from the burger joint where I worked before school. Although I graduated toward the top of my class the only reason I was hired here is because Dominic has been my closest friend for years and just so happens to be the head chef at Harvest Bar. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter where you went to school—Los Angeles is a tough place to find good work in the culinary arts.
Curse these Century City apartments without elevators! I take the stairs five floors down and step out of the complex. It’s a warm February day—definitely beats the winter they’re having back home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Cleveland right now.
Dominic’s building is a five-minute walk from the mall, which is most of the reason I consistently crash at his place. I live in Burbank, and with traffic it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get to Century City on
the 405 if I’m lucky. My rent is also a quarter the amount of Dominic’s, but there is no way I could afford to live this close to the city.
It’s too damn hot to wear the chef jacket so I fold it, throw it over my shoulder, and walk to the mall in the black tank-top I wear underneath. My hair is extra frizzy today but I can probably braid it quick and shove it into the toque—one of the small perks of being a female chef—I don’t have to think too much about my hair.
I love crossing Santa Monica Boulevard because I get a view of palm trees, buildings, mountains, and good-looking men. L.A. is the biggest melting pot I’ve lived in—Cleveland was primarily African American and Caucasian. Here, however, I get a variety of any kind of man I could want. Walking across the four-lane boulevard in my black slacks and black tank top, I don’t get as many look-backs as I’d prefer. My number one insecurity is that to these big businessmen and agents I look like some kind of hood rat, so I just keep my eyes on the scenery and enjoy the warmth on my skin.
***
Once I step into the prep area I’m instantly pissed by what I find—all of last night’s closing work has been left for me. Damn you, Dominic, I think. I don’t care how busy they were last night; I’m tired of picking up his slack. After all, he does make ten thousand dollars a year more than I do.
By the time Tim, my general manager, comes in, I’m only halfway where I need to be for the restaurant to open on time.
“I’m sorry, Tim, I was left with a mess this morning,” I say, loading the dishwasher because the stewards don’t come in for another hour.
“You know we have the Phillips P.D.B. today, right?” Tim asks. Oh, my God, I realize. Today is the day that we’re booked for Denver D. Phillips, billionaire and owner of PaeroTech—a conglomerate in the software industry. Do I know anything about software? No. But I know that P.D.B. stands for Private Dining Buyout, and that this company has rented the entire restaurant to serve five people.
“That would be today,” I say, sprinting to the walk-in freezer. The whole time I’ve been here I should have been preparing the special courses instead of our standard menu.
Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. “Do you want me to help, Tara?” he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.
“No, I got this,” I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks. “You look kind of like you’re having an off day.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.
“Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night,” he says.
I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who happen to sleep together often.
“Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom,” Tim says. “That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?
“I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect,” Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.
“I’ll do my best,” I answer.
“Do better,” he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.
***
With most of the core cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.
In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.
Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.
“Isn’t that right, Chef?” he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.
“I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that?” I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. “I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.”
“I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies.” He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.
“Right, a seasonal specialty,” I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.
The key is to not take up too much of their time while also giving them a unique presentation. After all, PaeroTech paid well over twenty grand for this brunch. Once I’m done they will eat, discuss business, and when they are finished the plates will be cleared so they can begin their slideshow presentation. At that point servers will be on the clock to close out the deal.
“Well, this morning I thought I’d prepare a healthy, exotic, and seasonal omelet,” I say. I open the self-serving presenter on my side and Tim presents the other side. “This morning you will be enjoying free range egg whites scrambled to perfect in a seafood omelet of tiger shrimp, Maine lobster, Dungeness crab, Gouda cheese, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and chive batons. Enjoy your breakfast and thank you for dining at Harvest Bar.”
With that spiel memorized, I take a long-needed breath, bow out, and exit the room to let Tim handle the rest. It’s amazing what someone can pull off in a pinch with some culinary knowledge and genuine inspiration.
*****
While the Phillips party goes into their presentation, I go outside to partake in one of the menial jobs of being a sous-chef at Harvest Bar—harvesting the herb garden outside the restaurant. The thing is, I actually enjoy the feel of rosemary, thyme, parsley and chives—and am infatuated by their aromas. I take sprig of rosemary between my fingers and place it in the herb jar when Tim runs out the back door, blasting both open at once.
“What the hell did you put in that omelet?” he screams, taking me by the sleeve of my chef coat.
“What do you mean? Are they allergic to shellfish?” One of my worst nightmares is someone dying from something I cooked. It jolts me awake at least twice a week.
“No, but Mr. Fredegar is in anaphylactic shock. Did you put peanuts in the omelet?”
My jaw drops and my eyes glaze over as I recall tossing the omelets in peanut oil to add a soft glaze finish. That’s the one ingredient I didn’t mention in the spiel. Oh, God, I think, I didn’t think the peanut oil would kill a man!
Once I’m inside I see that the other four members of the party, including the devilishly handsome one, have Mr. Fredegar spread across the chef’s table. Behind me are the sirens from the CCEMT, two paramedics running up to the door. I was only picking herbs for ten minutes, I think, the paramedics rushing past me.
Inside it feels like all of my pieces are falling apart. The only thing I can do is take slow, backwards steps out the door to the fresh air. This can’t be happening. Before the door closes I see Tim inside, assisting a paramedic, staring back at me with a rigid, vengeful glare.
***
Two hours
later I’m sitting in the stairwell behind the restaurant scrolling through my contacts for someone who might be willing to hire me. I normally don’t do this, but in my purse I keep a single cigarette for life emergencies such as losing my job. Thankfully the paramedics got Mr. Fredegar to a hospital and he is fine. Is it bad that I don’t feel at fault because someone should have spoken up about deathly allergies?
The last person I want to call is the only person I can. I hit the green button and wait for Dominic to answer, hoping he doesn’t sleep through the ring. I light the cigarette, take the first drag, and blow it out once Dominic’s phone goes to voicemail. I hate leaving these things.
“Hey, it’s me, Tara,” I say. Obviously, Tara. “So I kind of just got fired by Tim because this guy from the Denver D. Phillips party almost died from the peanut oil I cooked his omelet in. Um. Yeah. Hit me back.”
I hang up quick, take another drag, and shove the phone back into my pocket. The truth is that I really don’t want to go back to Dom’s anyway. I partly think that this is his fault for keeping me up late and not giving me a heads-up about the V.I.P. brunch.
I bury my head into my knees, letting the cigarette burn while hanging from my fingertips. As I lift my head to take another inhale, I’m surprised to see someone standing in front of me—the handsome guy from the catastrophic brunch.
From this angle, the sun is right behind his head and I can’t see his face—only his dark silhouette.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your colleague.”
“Oh, Fredegar? Nobody likes him, anyway. He’s had bad karma coming for years. He’s married but gets a hooker every time we’re in Vegas.”
“Wow,” I say, “that’s a lot of information.”
“Yes,” he laughs. A man who can stand my sarcasm. Nice. “I understand the rigid guy in the cheap tie terminated you from your position?”
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