“Fuck, man, what happened?”
“We got jumped. Right when we were leaving. Fucking niggers got the money.”
I didn’t say anything. But the guys who attacked us weren’t black. At least not the one who’d held me down. The driver stared, confused and open-mouthed. He started the car.
“But what happened?”
“Motherfuckers maced us!”
Will was rubbing his face to ease the burning. He sniffled loudly.
“What, we get set up?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“Wait a minute, bro,” said the driver, reaching for the glove compartment. “Let’s go back and get ’em.”
Will pounded on the dash.
“Fuck no, we’re outa here.”
“C’mon, we can’t let them get away with that.”
“Yo boy, I said we’re leaving. Get us out of here. I need to wash my face. Now!”
Chapter 35
I spent a good hour at the Second Cup across from La Trattoria, licking my wounds, terrified by the prospect of going in to work and facing Greg. The Americano I’d bought with a handful of change wasn’t going down right. I’d been nauseous from the moment I opened my eyes that morning. How I’d managed to sleep at all was a mystery. I got up and crossed the street, shivering as I went. Night had fallen. You could just barely make out the fluffy snowflakes in the halo of lamplight and the headlights of cars shooshing by. I went back up the alley and into the restaurant as discreetly as possible. My right eye was bloodshot, my eyebrow was still swollen, and a big bruise coloured the left side of my jaw. My ribs still hurt. It was a struggle just to put my work shirt on.
When I punched in, Jade noticed my face and asked if I was okay. Gone was the icy tone of the last few shifts. Without looking at her, I said I was fine. I walked along the wall of the service kitchen and back down to the basement, dodging Jonathan and Bonnie’s questions. I got started on my prep, dreading the moment Greg would appear.
While I kneaded my focaccia dough, I heard someone running down the stairs. Bébert. He crossed the prep room slowly with big headphones on. He looked fresh and rested, fully recovered from his epic bender. He didn’t see me. I heard him throwing stuff around: a keychain landing on the table. The rustling of a winter coat. The thud of boots tossed into a locker.
He came back to say hi to me. When he saw my face he started.
“Woah, man. You get herpes or something? Your eye’s swollen up like a balloon.”
“It was like that when I woke up. Must be an allergic reaction.”
He came in for a closer look, with his clean rags in one hand. I instinctively backed away. It was still burning.
“What the hell kind of allergy is that?”
“I don’t know. A spider, maybe?”
I answered without looking up as I ran my dough through the rolling machine.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“What about your jaw? You allergic to doorknobs too?”
I felt myself turning red. I didn’t answer, and pretended to be engrossed in my job. Bébert sighed and went upstairs without another word.
Eduardo was rinsing pans and I was sorting clean dishes when Greg appeared in the dishpit. I hadn’t seen him come in, had almost convinced myself he wouldn’t show up.
“Let’s go for a smoke, man.”
I told Eduardo I’d be gone a couple minutes. He gave me a thumbs up. The knot in my stomach stubbornly refused to loosen. My legs felt weak.
Greg went out first and didn’t hold the door for me. He leaned against the wall under the lightbulb that lit the back door. Despite the cold he had his sleeves rolled up. I was freezing; not him. He looked me up and down.
“You look rough, man.”
The way he said it was almost cheery. He lit up, took a few puffs, and let the silence unfurl. Then he pulled out a wad of fifties and hundreds. He snapped off two hundreds.
“Here. That’s for you.”
He held out the money. It felt like he was testing me. In the end I took the bills. He leaned in close.
“They really worked you over, hey?”
Two tons of lead had been lifted from my shoulders. I started breathing easier, but still felt an underlying tension. I kept waiting for Greg to turn violent.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what happened?”
My voice came out quiet as a whisper.
“Why would I ask you that?”
I didn’t understand. I was watching him, trying to find my words. He was freshly shaved, and I could smell the aftershave mixed in with tobacco smoke. He didn’t seem angry, not even mildly annoyed.
“Uh . . . because . . . ” I stumbled.
“Did you do what I asked?”
I said I had.
“That’s all that matters.”
He took a puff of his cigarette. It was barely half-smoked. He threw it in the snow and exhaled. He seemed a little too calm for my liking. I didn’t like his attitude.
“But . . . Did Will tell you what happened?”
“What, I look like a guy who doesn’t keep track of my business?”
I didn’t answer.
“Stop talking about it,” he said. “You did what you had to. You showed me I can count on you. Give me a couple days and I’ll have something else for you.”
He opened the door.
“Good job, fighter.”
Greg bounded into the dishpit and grabbed a load of clean cutlery without slowing down. I was left all alone in the alley. I no longer felt cold. I had no idea what had just happened.
Eduardo waited until halfway through the night to finally ask, in his surprisingly good English, what had happened to my eye. I said I’d gotten in a fight. He said nothing for a few seconds, and looked surprised, as if he was chewing over what I’d just said, and then his face lit up. He said he used to get in a lot of fights too, back in Brazil. At least one every week. Then he explained how he got the little cross-shaped scar on his left cheek. From a knife. Then, getting a little more worked up, he undid his belt and dropped his pants. He wanted to show me his thigh. There were two little circles of burnt skin the size of quarters, next to his boxers. Bullet holes. He was fourteen when it happened, he said laughing. My eyes widened.
“How old are you now again?”
“Eighteen.”
Every time he said his age Eduardo’s voice filled with pride. A lot of his friends hadn’t made it past sixteen.
He told me that’s how it was in the favela. I figured “favela” must be the name of a town in Brazil. The more Eduardo told me about his past life, the more I thought about what I’d done the night before. And the dumber I felt for taking this shit so lightly.
That night after closing, Bébert took me to Roy Bar. He seemed unusually calm, which came as a relief.
We didn’t talk on the way to the bar. He only stopped once, to tag a wall in the alley. It was warm. The sprinkling of snow had stopped falling. Low-hanging clouds were illuminated by the city lights.
The Roy Bar was practically empty, nothing like last time we were there. The hammerhead shark hanging from the ceiling was a funny colour in the TV’s glow. We sat at the bar.
I ordered a pint of red. Bébert had a big bottle of Tremblay. He bought the round, insisted on it. He started talking, eyes never leaving the skateboarding videos.
“Sorry about that fucked-up shift on Sunday. I totally lost it.”
“No worries. It happens.”
“It’s not supposed to happen.”
He was cradling his beer between his massive hands, while following the skaters’ acrobatics. Somewhere in that face I caught a glimpse of the little boy he’d once been. Accident-prone, hyperactive, ready to talk your ear off.
“Now it’s your turn to say sorry.”<
br />
He was still looking at the screen. I played dumb, even though I knew exactly what he wanted to talk about.
“Greg told me the whole story,” he went on, in the same even tone. “I told you, man. You do not want to be Greg’s errand boy.”
He turned to face me and pointed his bottle at my face.
“Dude, it almost cost you an eye.”
“Chill,” I said. “It was just a little cayenne pepper. I’m fine.”
I could still feel a burning behind my ear. A little earlier, getting changed for work, I’d noticed a big purple and yellow bruise that had appeared on my left hip. Bébert sighed and shook his head at me.
“Poor kid. You really don’t get it, eh?”
“What?”
“Wanna play gangsta? That’s not you. You’re a nice guy. They’ll eat you for breakfast. Trust me, you’re not cut out for that shit.”
“That’s my business, Bébert,” I said. “There’s no problem. Greg said everything was fine. I did what I had to do. It’s all good. His guy told him the full story.”
Bébert broke out in a gruff laugh, like an evil spirit. He took a sip of beer.
“Yeah, I bet. Know where his guy is now?”
I was about to mumble something.
“Saint-Luc Hospital. Emergency room.”
“C’mon, bullshit. He got hurt less bad than I did. We just got pepper-sprayed and beat up a little.”
“Listen to yourself, man,” Bébert said. “‘We just got pepper-sprayed and beat up a little.’ Shit, you got it all figured out for sure. You’re on top of it, man! You’re on it!”
He straightened up and looked me in the eye, with one elbow on the bar and the other on the back of his chair. He wasn’t laughing. This wasn’t remotely funny to him. Deep down I knew Bébert was right, but didn’t see quite where he was going with all this. Mostly I was trying to figure out what Will was doing in the emergency room.
“All right, wise guy. Let me draw you a picture. You’re walking around with four large in your bag. A bunch of guys jump you. With mace. A couple of sprays, a few kicks and off you go. Man, I know dudes been stabbed over fifty bucks. And they got away with your shit, no guns, no drama. . .”
I cast around for something to tell him. It was true that it didn’t quite add up. Since yesterday I’d been wondering why Will hadn’t pulled his gun. That might at least have made them think twice.
“They weren’t that organized. Maybe they just took a chance. We must not be the only guys who come by there. . .”
I could see in Bébert’s eyes that he was starting to think I was seriously retarded. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to chase away a headache.
“You have no idea how this shit works, eh? The guy you went to see yesterday is Kasper’s cousin. No one in that ’hood would even think about stealing Greg’s shit—ever. No one would be dumb enough to steal from Greg. Except maybe one of his own guys.”
A few seconds went by before the light went on. Just a tiny detail: the guy leaning over me while they were kicking me. His accent. His blue eyes, the colour of his skin. He was white as cocaine. And then Will’s words: “Fucking niggers got the money.” Maybe I was the only one who got pepper sprayed, maybe Will was just pretending.
“So you’re saying we got jumped by a bunch of Will’s friends? That’s what you’re saying?”
Bébert lifted his two hands, palms in the air, making a face.
“That’s right, genius. Will set the whole thing up. Greg’s had his eye on him for a long time. It just so happened that you were there when Will made his move. They’re gonna roll him out of hospital in a body cast.”
Bébert ordered another Tremblay. My beer wasn’t sitting right.
“You know that whole thing could’ve gone sideways. Bad. You’re a lucky bastard. So do me a favour. Stay away from Greg and his business.”
I didn’t answer, just stared at my flat beer with my arms crossed.
“I needed money. I need money.”
“Want more money? We’ll move you up to the kitchen, you can count on me. But Jesus Christ, man, don’t go around playing gangsta. Go see Greg and tell him you’re out.”
“I don’t want him to think I can’t hack it.”
He dug around in his hoodie for his smokes. Pulled one out of the pack with his mouth. I thought about telling him Renaud had already promised to move me up to the kitchen, but Bébert hated the man so fiercely I decided to hold my tongue.
“Okay,” he said, hatching a bright idea. “I’ll talk to Greg myself. Forget it. As long as I’m around he’ll leave you out of his dumbass schemes. Now promise me you’ll stay out of that shit.”
I nodded, sheepishly. He raised his beer for a cheers.
We stayed at the bar until closing, and it stayed dead. We had the place to ourselves. We shot a little pool, and talked about all kinds of stuff. He told me about growing up in Châteauguay. His first acid trips. How he got his start in the kitchen, cooking school at Calixa-Lavallée, his first jobs. I was eating it up, those were the kind of stories I’d happily listen to for hours. At the end of the night he said that three years from now he’d have his own restaurant. Partying was all well and good but it was time for something different.
“Me and some friends’ll open a Southern BBQ joint: brisket, jambalaya, cornbread, mac and cheese ’n’ shit. We’ll even have a smoke pit, somewhere out of town. Not some yuppie spot for fancy pants with something to prove. Fuck that. Just a casual place with good food.”
Bébert and I parted ways at Saint-Denis and Rachel, not really drunk.
“See you tomorrow, man.”
“Don’t forget your promise. And I won’t forget mine.”
We bumped fists and he took off, shoulders flexing in his snowboard jacket.
The cloudy sky was a gloomy ochre. I just stood there on the sidewalk for a good long while. I was spent. I didn’t check my pager, what was the use, I knew there’d be no word from Marie-Lou. The snow on the sidewalk was heaped into little dunes covered in what looked like golden ash. I went up Saint-Denis to Laurier, then caught the night bus. I sat near the front in the dark.
Chapter 36
I woke up feeling like I’d narrowly averted a fatal accident. I got out of the shower and brushed my teeth. When the mirror unfogged I noticed that the swelling around my left eye had gone down a bit. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the day before.
Before leaving for work, I went into Vincent’s room and left a hundred-dollar bill on his desk, clearly visible against the black melamine.
I got to the restaurant in time for my six-o’clock shift. The smell of chicken stock was again wafting through the alley, taking me back to my very first shift. I rang. Basile opened almost right away. The dishpit was gleaming. He was leaning against a shelf of clean dishes eating a plate of pasta.
I walked by the kitchen. Bonnie and Jonathan both looked bummed out. I thought about making a crack, to cheer them up. Bébert had half disappeared under the steam table, all you could see were his legs sticking out, like a mechanic under a car. I went to punch in right away. Séverine didn’t seem to be around. At the end of the bar, next to the computer, Sarah and Denver were talking about someone in the past tense, as if they had just passed away. I went back to the kitchen, and said hi to Bébert who had emerged from under the steam table. But it wasn’t Bébert, it was Vlad. I turned toward Jonathan, and then Bonnie.
“Bébert take a day off?”
They looked at me wide-eyed, as if I’d told a racist joke. I shrugged my shoulders.
I went off to change. In the staff room I was greeted by the familiar mess: shoes lying everywhere, torn-up copies of the free weekly, dirty cook shirts. The table was littered with tobacco leaves. A spent lighter, a rolled up used phone-card. Bébert’s locker door was wide open. No coat, no spare clothes, no clogs. Renaud’s face app
eared in the open office door. He told me to come see him.
“We’re moving you up to the kitchen this week. Jonathan’s gonna train you.”
“This week.”
“Yeah, this week. Why?”
He was clicking on an Excel spreadsheet as he talked to me. He went on.
“Bonnie’s on the pass, with Steven. He’ll be taking hotside shifts too. So I need a new garde-manger. Vlad’s full-time hotside now. He’s the new night-chef.”
I wasn’t sure I’d fully understood. I looked at Renaud, but he was scrolling through pages of numbers.
“Vlad?”
“Yeah, Vlad.”
“Is Bébert taking a vacation?”
“Bébert isn’t with us anymore,” he said. His tone was robotic, inhuman.
The news hit me in the gut. He enunciated each word like he was reading from a textbook, eyes never leaving the screen. On the desk, not far from the keyboard, I saw an open chequebook. A cheque had just been written. I could read the details on the stub. Alexandre Brière. I didn’t recognize the name. Renaud looked up at me, almost surprised to find me still there. Goddamn hypocrite. Then I remembered where I’d seen that name: on the list of staff phone numbers. Alexandre Brière was Bébert’s real name. It sent shivers down my whole body. I saw stars, like when you get up out of your chair too fast.
“Bébert isn’t with us anymore?” I asked, my voice quaking. I didn’t even realize I was playing back gutless sentence, syllable by syllable.
“No,” Renaud said without looking at me.
He was still cycling through his Excel sheets, and from time to time he’d write a number down on a piece of paper next to the mouse.
“So you start next week. Okay?”
I said it was fine. I was still reeling from the news. All that remained in Bébert’s locker was a half-drunk bottle of Bawls and a few cans of MTN 94 spray paint splattered with yellow, black, silver and magenta.
The first service went by with an eerie smoothness. In the kitchen no one said a word. No one opened their mouth unless it was strictly necessary. Bonnie and Jonathan looked bereaved. Something was missing. I was heartsick, and outraged, but wasn’t able to give it more than a few seconds of thought at a time. My own problems had me in a stranglehold. I was suffocating in the dishpit, wallowing in my anxiety, saddened and angered by the underhanded way Bébert had been fired. But all these feelings gave way to panic when my thoughts returned to my own predicament. I couldn’t concentrate or focus on anything at all. I wondered what I would tell the Deathgaze guys if I couldn’t come up with a solution, and fast. What would I tell Malik? My mind was spinning like a hamster on a wheel, staring at the back door, enthralled by the idea of an escape. I imagined vanishing out the door, like a quivering ghost. It was all I could do not to cry out in rage. I breathed in deeply. I had to calm down.
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