The pager on her waist vibrated. Mister Chith wanted her upstairs. She seated the young couple and motioned for another hostess to take over, then headed for the spiral staircase.
Chith was sitting behind his desk with an orange tabby sprawled across his lap. It purred loudly as he ran his fingertips through the hair on its tummy. His other hand was composing a note.
Who’s calling?
“Someone wanted to make a reservation for ten at the last minute. Ten people, not ten o’clock. I told him it was impossible. He keeps calling back.”
Name? Chith wrote.
“Lugal.”
Chith set the fountain pen down and placed both hands on the cat’s sleek body, running up and down its throbbing length as the purrs increased in volume. His featureless countenance seemed to darken. Vetta waited, and he tore away the top paper on his notepad and wrote again.
Transfer the next call upstairs.
“To your phone?” She had no idea why there was even a phone in the room. He could listen, but not speak; she didn’t even know the line’s extension.
But Chith nodded. She checked the phone to see the extension. “All right. If Lugal calls again, I’ll just put him through.”
She went back downstairs and heard the phone screaming from the entrance. “Let me get it,” she called, trying not to disturb the patrons around her as she rushed through the tables. The head chef, Grant, looked up from the kitchen and met her eyes. She shook her head: it’s nothing. The bald man nodded and went back to the grill.
Vetta grabbed the phone. “Ambrosia Supper Club.”
“I want a fucking table for ten. And I want it at eight, not eight-thirty.”
“I’ll transfer you to our manager.” Vetta said through clenched teeth. Before Lugal could reply, she placed the receiver down and sent the call upstairs.
“Who was that?” Asked the other hostess, a young blonde named April. “Some asshole keeps calling,” Vetta replied, keeping her voice at a whisper. “Mister Chith is taking it now. I have no idea why.”
“He’s taking the – how?”
“No idea about that either.”
Vetta looked toward the staircase. The orange tabby was sitting on the top step. It stared at her with glittering green eyes. Then it hopped out of view.
She felt something brush against her legs. A brown-and-white tabby made a figure eight around her ankles, then headed into the dining area. She stooped to catch it, but it bolted; a second later she saw it going upstairs.
“Where’d that little guy come from?” She wondered aloud. “April, you stay here for a while. I’ll see how it’s going with that call.”
Vetta crossed the dining area, stopping by the Donahues’ table. “How’s everything so far?”
“Oh, Mister- Mister—“
“Chith.”
“Yes, he sent down this lovely bottle of wine. Thank him, will you?”
“Of course. And by the way, you’ll be having raspberry cheesecake for dessert.”
Mrs. Donahue beamed. “How did you know? I haven’t had that in years! My mother made the most wonderful cheesecake, it simply melted in your mouth. But I don’t know if my stomach can handle all this food.”
“We’ll send it home in a box.” Vetta replied. She smiled at Mr. Donahue, who patted her hand, then she went upstairs.
Mister Chith was sitting with the phone at his ear. Several crumpled pieces of paper lay on his desk. Vetta could hear Lugal’s obscene yelling. She waited to see how her boss would reply.
He turned his faceless face toward her and motioned for her to leave. “Just checking,” she whispered, and backed out. She pulled the door almost all the way shut. Leaving just a sliver of space between the door and the jamb, she peeked into the office.
Chith clutched his notepad in his fist. A gray cat raced across the table as he searched for his pen, then wrote, the phone still cradled next to his ear. He stabbed furiously at the paper. Then, the toothless void of his mouth moved, trying to shape a word; a small, high-pitched sound came from his throat. It sounded like a mewled “no.”
Lugal roared. Chith dropped the phone and threw the pen across the room. The orange tabby leapt into his lap, and the gray feline returned to the desktop. Vetta saw other tails flying about below desk level: black, brown, and calico. When Chith’s head lifted up, she stumbled back, hustling down the stairs.
Had he been trying to speak to this Lugal character? What had he been writing on all those pieces of paper? Anxiety knotted in Vetta’s stomach. She leaned against the service counter looking into the kitchen. Grant walked over. “Hey, you sick?”
“No, just worried. Chith’s having it out with someone. I saw him on the phone.”
“On the phone, huh?” Grant didn’t seem to know how to react. He pushed a plate of noodles into a server’s hand. “You look sick, Vetta. Doesn’t look good on you.”
“Gee, thanks.” She hated how direct Grant was sometimes, and with that nasal East Coast bite in his voice.
“Hey, I’m just saying. You’re the hostess, you gotta look tip-top. As for me, I’ll be covered in sweat and grease by the end of the night.”
“Don’t let any of the customers hear that.”
Grant chuckled. “I’m not trying to be hard on ya. But if Chith’s having a bad night, you’ve gotta be on it, little girl.”
“You’re right.” She couldn’t be preoccupied with whatever was going on upstairs. She had to run the restaurant.
Pecking Grant’s cheek, Vetta crossed the dining area to the entryway and excused April from the podium. The phone rang. “Oh shit,” she breathed, then answered. “Ambrosia Supper Club.”
“What time do you open tomorrow?” A young man’s voice. Thank God. “We open for lunch at eleven.” Vetta said. She hung up and glanced at the reservation book. It was nearing seven, and the Gordon party for six-thirty was a no-show. She could move up the Watterson party, if they were here…she looked up to search the waiting area.
A large man with a face full of thick, bristly black hair filled her view. The smell of rot hit her nostrils, and she grabbed a handkerchief, clutching it to her mouth. “H-hello, welcome to, name please?”
“Lugal.”
His eyes bored into her, blotted and bloodshot. Jesus, he was the size of the front door and he smelled like a corpse. He was wearing a ratty gray suit with stray hairs from his beard stuck to it. His eyebrows – eyebrow, really – looked filthy, greasy, as did the mop of hair on his head.
And his skin was a sickly pale.
“It’s only seven,” was all Vetta could manage to say.
“I know.” Lugal rasped. “I’m here to speak with the manager. Did I talk to you on the phone?”
“Yes, yes you did.” She spoke through the silk handkerchief. Was he a mound of spoiled meat beneath that awful ugly suit? She felt like she was going to throw up. Lugal leaned into the podium. “You couldn’t get me a table for ten at any time this evening?”
“I – God – I—“
“Is there a problem?” Grant tossed a towel fresh with goat’s blood over his shoulder and crossed his arms. “Hi there.” He smiled broadly at Lugal. “Anything I can help you with?”
“I’ve come to see the manager.” Lugal growled. Really growled. His huge meaty hands curled into fists. Grant spread his feet apart and blocked the dining area. “You got an appointment?”
“Grant, I can just call up—“ Vetta began.
“No you can’t and you know it.” He replied, then turned back to Lugal. “I said, appointment? Hell, you even got a name buddy?” He looked over the man’s suit. “You can’t come in here like that.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Lugal snapped.
“Ain’t your clothes, though they’re second-rate,” Grant shot back. “It’s the smell of death comin’ off ya. Haven’t you taken a shower this year? Listen up. I run the back of this restaurant and Vetta runs the front. Neither of us likes you and neither of us thinks you have an appoi
ntment with our man Mister Chith. So why don’t you turn around with your greasy hair and your second-rate suit and walk the hell on out of here before I break something?”
Grant was all smiles the whole time, but he was deadly serious. He’d come up on the streets of Queens and the only thing that made him happier than crafting a perfect meal was kicking the shit out of someone.
Lugal stared down at the chef, fists at his sides, his chest swollen with rage. Vetta still had the handkerchief pressed to her face as she cowered behind the podium. The diners didn’t seem to have noticed any trouble yet; April moved from table to table with her megawatt smile and kept everyone’s attention on their plates.
“Well?” Grant said.”
“When do you close?” Lugal asked quietly.
“Ten o’clock, sir.”
“I’ll be back at ten. Party of ten.”
Lugal turned, casting a wave of decay over the whole entryway, and walked out of the club.
“Who the fuck was that?” Grant muttered under his breath.
“I can’t believe you threatened him.” Vetta gasped. “Grant, that man could kill you with his bare hands.”
“Maybe. But if he did, he’d have half the kitchen staff ramming cutlery down his throat. Fuckin’ guy was like a walking stiff, wasn’t he? All that hair growin’ on him like moss on a burial vault. Fuck him. If he comes back at ten with his pals, me and my crew will take care of them outside. Okay? And you’ll still be here, so I’ll have you waiting upstairs with your staff and Mister Chith.”
“We should tell Mister Chith about this.”
“Nah, don’t bother. Poor guy can’t really do anything about it, much as he’d like to – that’s why I’m here, Vetta.” Grant patted her shoulder. “You know you’re actually looking a little better. Get that napkin outta your face.”
He walked back to the kitchen. Vetta sagged against the podium. April was beside her in half a second. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Asshole couldn’t get a table, Grant thinks he’s going to come back and have an old-school rumble in the parking lot with the cooks. I really think Chith ought to know about this. I’m going upstairs, okay?”
She left April and headed for the spiral staircase. Grant waved at her with a don’t-you-dare expression on his face. She steeled herself and marched upstairs.
“Mister Chith?” She opened the office door. “I—“
That was it. All the breath in her lungs and all the words in her brain fell to the floor of her body like broken glass. She just stood and stared.
Beneath an open window, a gentle breeze rustling papers, Chith had been torn apart. Most of him was still in his chair, though the desk was covered in blood. There wasn’t a cat in sight, not even a scrap of hair – they must have left, or he sent them away, before—
Vetta fell to her knees. A severed arm with three fingers lay in front of the desk. He used to work those fingers behind cats’ ears like a masseuse, putting them into a coma. He’d given Vetta a shoulder massage once and, she was ashamed to recall, she nearly had an orgasm as he kneaded her nerves. Mister Chith, who loved cats and spoke with little notes and was somehow truly magic, was now just dead meat scattered about a room.
There was a bent fork on the floor. Chith had amused the wait staff bending forks and spoons with his mind, or so he inferred (Vetta was sure there was a logical explanation but she sure didn’t know what it was). It looked like one of the forks he had bent, except on the curled tines there was a bit of his muscle. Vetta threw up on the carpet.
She rose and, making sure there wasn’t any blood or vomit on her clothing, went downstairs. She went straight to the podium. “April, what time is it?”
“Barely seven-thirty.”
“Go home. Send all the wait staff home.”
“What?”
“Please. Please please please just do this. Now. I’ll handle it. I need to go see Grant.”
She walked on trembling rubber-stick legs into the kitchen, where Grant was filleting a bass. He turned and set the knife down, replacing it with a cleaver. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’ve sent all my people home.” Vetta said. “I’m going to tell any patrons who come through the door that we’ve had an emergency and have cancelled all future reservations. I’ll send them home with a coupon for a free entrée. Everyone who’s here, let’s just hurry them out and comp their meals if they’re unhappy. Mister Chith is dead. He’s been ripped to pieces upstairs.”
“Jesus Mary.” Grant took her hand with his, the one that wasn’t holding the cleaver. He stared into her eyes. “You mean it. Every word.”
“Yes. Grant, I’m so scared right now. We have to get out of here. We have to call the police.”
“No.” His voice, trembling as it was, sounded defiance; in the blink of an eye, his shock has turned to anger, and Vetta knew that his stubborn pride would never allow him to flee the restaurant, nor leave the matter to the police. All the other men in the Ambrosia family were the same way. When they heard of Chith’s death it would only harden their resolve and seal their fate inside the club…whatever that may be.
The halved bass stared up at Grant from the cutting board. He plucked its eye out and swallowed it. “I’ll tell my boys. I’ll send the ladies out the back though. We’ll double as wait staff for the time being, until we get everyone out of here. Most of the orders are done or getting there already. Vetta, you need to go too.”
“No, I can’t leave. If I leave…Grant, I’ve seen him. I saw Chith dead and if I leave now, whatever is supposed to happen at ten is going to happen now.”
“Okay. I think you’re right. Sit tight right here.” Grant walked through a cloud of steam, back into the kitchen.
Vetta stood stock-still beside the dead one-eyed bass and listened to the clinking of silverware and glassware as customers enjoyed their meals. She turned her head slightly to see April ushering her people out the front. Good. They’ll be alive tomorrow.
April looked at her. Vetta mouthed: Go.
Grant walked past Vetta and out to the Donahues’ table. “Looks like you’re about full. You want that cheesecake in a box?”
“You know what, I think we can handle a slice as long as we’re here.” Edward Donahue said, smiling. Grant clasped his hands and smiled back. “It’s no problem at all to get you that box. Meal’s on the house, you two.”
“But we’ll have some cake—“
“I’m just gonna get the box.” Grant almost said something he’d regret. Instead, he sent the words upstairs, and his eyes wet. Edward Donahue frowned a little, then nodded. “Why don’t we box the whole thing up, dear. I’m a little tired.”
Other customers were leaving as well, and April was pulling her coat on as she turned a party away, the phone next to her ear. Vetta smiled admiringly from the kitchen.
The Ambrosia Supper Club was cleared out at seven forty-five.
Grant’s men gathered in the kitchen, each staring at Vetta. “What’s the story?” Asked Vincent, the sous chef. Grant stepped in behind Vetta. “Okay. Listen up. Mister Chith—“
“Hey, look.” Vincent pointed out of the kitchen, toward the stairs.
The cats were coming down. One at a time, they trotted down the spiral staircase and filtered into the dining area. Some leapt onto tablecloths, and others lay down beneath chairs. Vetta thought she heard them all purring, and remembered that sometimes cats purr when they’re anxious, or in pain.
“Chith’s dead.” Grant said. He raised the cleaver. “Fucker butchered him upstairs. He’s outside with - how many of them are there, Vetta?”
“Party of ten,” she whispered.
“There’s ten of us. We’re gonna take care of them, tonight, right now, no police. We’re gonna settle this and that’s it.”
Vincent nodded at Grant. He plucked a butcher knife from a bowl of dishwater. “How’d they get Mister Chith?”
“I think they got in through the second-story w
indow,” Vetta answered. “I don’t know how. But the cats…he sent the cats away.”
Grant shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’ about the cats. Fucker’s outside. C’mon.” He led his boys through the dining area, each in their spotless white uniforms with their names embroidered on the breast.
Outside it was dark. The city below was quiet, and a cold wind made its way around the mountain. The Ambrosia Supper Club, a frozen drop of nectar illuminated by spotlights, was silent as the grave.
The only cars in the parking lot belonged to the employees. Lugal and his party stood on the asphalt.
Lugal’s face was covered in blood. So was his jacket. “Doesn’t matter,” he coughed. “Second-rate shit.”
His brothers all looked like him, filthy and hairy, with a pallor of death. They all began taking off their suit jackets.
Grant brandished the cleaver and stepped forward. “You should never have come here. Mister Chith was a good, gentle man and you killed him out of fucking spite. You’re gonna die for nothin’.”
“Child,” Lugal said in his guttural tone, “I’ve only come to eat.”
They changed.
The bristly black hair tore from every pore of their flesh, and the men fell forward, shoulder blades rotating underneath the skin with a loud CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!! Lugal’s men screamed in agony, kicking off their pants, some of them too late; those pants tore and fell away in ribbons. Bones arranged in human form unlocked and rolled about under the skin, and Lugal’s men screamed and screamed and Grant’s boys could only watch in utter horror as the wolves came to life.
Lugal’s mouth opened, bled, extended – his jaw dislocated and shifted to allow a bridge of bone from his throat to come out through his nose, catching a sleeve of skin, becoming a horrible snout. His knuckles folded back and rolled on the asphalt, along with the rest of his joints; and the hair settled and the transformation was complete.
The wolves leapt onto the men.
Grant went down first, Lugal smashing him into the ground, dashing his skull to pieces so that his head became a bag of bones sloshing around in brain matter. Lugal tore open Grant’s chest and began the feast.
Dark Entities Page 3