The Chosen

by Edward Lee

  Even this late—9 p.m.—every station was full or close to it. The dining room, in three wings, was well appointed, leaning toward more of a social club ambience; Vera had seen to a complete face-lift when she’d taken over as R.M. Rich gray paneled walls rose to a high, raftered ceiling from which hung a great octagonal chandelier. Tapers flickered from inset cherry wood sconces; well-framed nautical artwork adorned the back walls. Vera had made sure to replace the old steakhouse furniture with real armchairs and oak dining tables. The east windows offered a spacious view of the lit city dock and the bay.

  My baby, she metaphored. She stood by the service bar, gazing out into the quiet robotic activity of her employees. This used to be the place where diners came as a last resort, because downtown was booked. Now their weekend reservations extended a month in advance. Since the changeover, The Emerald Room had yet to receive a negative or even mediocre review. Whenever celebrities were in town, this was where they came to eat.

  “Vera, you want to hear something strange?”

  Glasses clinked. Vera peeked into the service bar. Donna, the night barmaid, talked as she automatically washed, scrubbed, and rinsed a flank of #8 glasses in the triple sink. She’d been hired as a big favor to Dan B. Donna was his wife. Donna was also a reformed alcoholic. Vera took her on with a condition: that she get on the wagon and stay there. “One fall, and you’re out,” she was informed. That had been six months ago, and Donna hadn’t had a drop since. Her return to sobriety had changed the telltale dark circles and pastiness into a fresh vitality. She was mid-thirties, sort of short and full-bodied. Twin short blond ponytails wagged as she vigorously bent to clean the bar glasses.

  “Sure, Donna,” Vera answered. “I’d love to hear something strange.”

  Donna stood up and faced her. Her eyes gleamed. “Someone’s been asking about you.”

  “Let me guess. The county liquor board? The health department? Oh, I know, the feds, right? I knew I should’ve declared that sixty-cent tip I got last week when we were a waitress short.”

  “You know that guy Chip, the manager at The Ram?”

  “Well, I’ve known him for about five years, so I guess that means I know him.”

  “Well, I was talking to him today, and he says this weird guy came in for lunch yesterday afternoon.”

  “A weird guy. That’s not strange in this town.”

  “So the guy asks Chip what’s the best restaurant in town, and naturally Chip says The Emerald Room.”

  “Naturally,” Vera concurred.

  “So then the guy asks Chip who’s the best restaurant manager in town, and naturally Chip says—”

  “Me?” Vera asked.

  “That’s right. You.”

  This was obscurely flattering—being touted as the best R.M. in town to “weird guys.” But what was the point?

  Donna rambled on, “And a couple of hours ago we ran out of ice, so I drove down to McGuffy’s to get some, and Doug Harris tells me the same thing. The same weird guy went in there for a drink and asked who’s the best R.M. in town.”

  Vera’s brow lowered. “What did he say?”

  “Same thing Chip said. You.”

  At least I’ve got a good rep. Vera asked the next logical question. “Anybody know who this weird guy is?”

  “No, no one’s ever seen him before. But Doug got his name. It’s Feldspar. Ever hear of him?”

  “Feldspar? No.”

  “Doug watched him leave; he parked in front of the Market House.” Donna paused for dramatic effect. “He was driving a brand-new red Lamborghini. Doug said it probably cost two hundred grand.”

  Now Vera felt curious to the point of aggravation. Lamborghinis? Weird guy? What was this all about?

  Donna raised a soapy finger. She had a way of making a short story long. “But that’s not the best part.”

  Vera tapped her foot, waiting.

  “Fifteen minutes ago, a nine-thirty reservation comes in. Want to guess what the name was?”

  “Feldspar,” Vera ventured.

  “Exactly. And he said he wanted an ‘interview’ with the manager.’’

  Vera understood none of this. “What do you mean? A job interview?”

  Donna laughed. “Vera, I doubt that a guy who drives a new Lamborghini is going to be looking for work as a busser. He said he wanted an interview, of the ‘utmost exigency.’ Those were his exact words. I took the call myself.”

  Utmost exigency. No, he probably doesn’t want a job as a busser. “Nine-thirty, you said?”

  “That’s right,” Donna verified. “You’ve got about ten minutes. Isn’t it mysterious?”

  “Thanks, Donna.’’ Vera scurried off to the ladies room. Yes, it was mysterious, and she enjoyed mysteries. Was Feldspar an eccentric critic? The Emerald Room got them all the time, but even the most renowned critics didn’t drive two hundred thousand dollar cars. Then—

  A buyer? she considered. An investor?

  She hurried to freshen up. She checked her liner, powdered her nose, checked her coiffed, jet-black hair. Not looking too shabby tonight, she considered to the mirror. She adjusted the bust line of the low-cut evening dress; its vermilion chiffon gave off a warm, silky luster. Against her bosom glittered a brightly polished amethyst on a gold chain, a Valentine’s gift from an old boyfriend. The boyfriend hadn’t been worth a shit, but at least the necklace was nice. The stone’s crisp deep purple sparkled just right with her gold and sapphire earrings. But when she raised her hand to pat her hair back, a greater sparkle flashed in the mirror. Vera smiled automatically. Her engagement ring was beautiful—Paul had given it to her just last week. It reminded her of something more than what it was: the ring was a covenant, a piece of the future. She held it up, turned it in the bright light and watched it flash like a starburst. Yes, for a moment she knew she could see the future in its sharp-cut facets. The ring, and the bright likeness of herself which faced her in the mirror, reminded her how wonderful life could be, and how blessed.

  ««—»»

  The valets scrambled. The red Lamborghini purred up into the entry court and stopped. The driver’s door didn’t open, it raised. Then a figure stepped out.

  Vera, Donna, Dan B., and Lee watched discreetly from the double doors, peeking through the great front window into the court. “The valets are in the way!” Donna whispered. “I can’t see him!” Nor could Vera; she squinted between heads to catch a glimpse but only caught some vague dark shape. Just as vaguely, then, the shape claimed the valet stub and made for the entrance.

  “Here he comes!” Donna whispered excitedly.

  Lee scratched his beer belly. “Looks kinda short, don’t he?”

  “And what’s that?” Dan B. squinted. “He gotta beard?”

  “Come on, gang,” Vera complained. “It’s no big deal, it’s just some rich guy coming to dinner. Let’s get back to work.’’

  The group disbanded. Vera remained in the kitchen cove, watching through the swingdoor window. She didn’t want to seem presumptuous; Feldspar knew that she knew he wanted to see her. Vera figured it was more professional to let the hostess seat him. When time came for this “interview” of “utmost exigency,” he would simply have to ask for her.

  The hostess led him through the front dining room; Vera could only see his back. Dark suit, an unusual cut. Jewelry seemed to glitter on his hand. And Lee was right: Feldspar seemed short, as well as awkward. He slowly followed the hostess’s sleek shape as if walking with some equivocal caution.

  No big deal, huh? Vera smiled to herself. If it’s no big deal, how come you’re standing here with your face glued to the window? Once again, the sense of mystery embraced her—it even titillated her. Who is this guy? What’s he want with me?

  The hostess seated him at their best four-top in the window wing. Now Vera could only see him sideways from the rear. Stubby hands opened the menu. Feldspar seemed to study the entree list as if studying technical writing.

  Was he disappointed? Let down?


  Stop being silly, Vera suggested to herself. She went back to the hot line. Orders sizzled, tempting aromas sifted through the air. Vera looked off as the chef expertly pan-blackened two more orders of aged prime rib on the industrial eleven-inch burners.

  “Relax, will you?” Dan B. Said. He spoke as he put an order of baby lamb chops up to go out. “You’re turning yourself into knots. Didn’t I just hear you say it was no big deal?”

  Yeah, Vera thought. “I just hate being curious. What does he want? Why did he ask to see me?”

  “He’s probably a wine distributor or something. Gonna drop a big check to impress you, then try to cut you a deal on whatever he’s peddling.”

  Maybe. That sort of thing happened all the time; The Emerald Room’s wine list was coveted by every wine distributor in the county. Yet, for some reason, Vera felt certain that this was something else.

  I’m sure that it is. But what?

  ««—»»

  She’d kept tabs on him constantly, via the waitress. Feldspar had ordered the Flan and Calamari Italiano for appetizers, the smoked scallops salad, and Veal Chesapeake. He’d also ordered two snifters of Remy Martin Louis XIII, which cost seventy dollars a shot. The waitress had squealed when she’d come back to the kitchen.

  “You look like you just won the lottery,” Vera remarked.

  The waitress giggled. “Almost. His check came to one-eighty. He left me a hundred dollar tip!”

  “I must be on the wrong end of this business.”

  “And Vera. He wants to talk to you now.”

  “Go get him, killer,” Dan B. chuckled.

  Lee guffawed behind the dishwash conveyor. “Maybe he’s a pimp, Vera. Wants some new stuff for his stable.”

  Assholes, she thought. Dan B. and Lee’s laughter followed her through the kitchen swingdoors. She felt foolish yet enthused. Outside, dinner was winding down. A Corelli violin sonata whispered beneath subtle dining room chatter and clinking coffee cups. In the window wing, a bulky shadow rose in silence.

  “Ms. Abbot?” The voice was darkly genteel. A thick hand extended in greeting.

  Vera smiled curtly, shook his hand. “You must be—”

  “Feldspar,” Feldspar verified. “Please. Join me.”

  Vera took a seat across from him. The table was clear now; a cup of coffee steamed between them. The candlelight seemed to blur her guest’s face.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” the figure said. “I realize the hour, and how short time must be for you as the manager of this fine establishment. You are the manager, correct?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Feldspar.” Behind him she could see the city’s late-night glitter through the window. Moonlight floated shard-like on the bay. It distracted her, making her avert her eyes from the man across the table.

  Some manager, she caught herself. Managers were at least supposed to be interested in the satisfaction of their patrons. “How was your meal?” she asked.

  “Preeminent.”

  Now Vera could see him. He looked…odd, she evaluated. He seemed wide without being fat. He wore a black pinstripe suit—which looked like very good material—and a black silk shirt. No tie. The large pale face defied calculation as to age; he was old and young at once. His hair, as black as Vera’s, appeared oddly pulled back; an eloquently trimmed black goatee rimmed his mouth.

  “Indeed,” he continued to compliment. “The finest meal I’ve had in some time.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say. I’m glad you liked it. Would you like anything else? We have a wonderful assortment of homemade desserts.”

  “Oh, no. No thank you. I’m not much of a sweets person.”

  The moment held in check. Suddenly Vera felt childlike, looking at him in some kind of canted wonder.

  “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” he finally went on. ”A matter of—”

  “Utmost exigency.”

  “Yes, yes. A…business proposition.”

  Maybe Lee’s right, she wanted to laugh. Maybe he is a pimp. Several big rings glittered on his squab hands. A gold cuff link glittered F in tiny diamonds, and about his wrist she unmistakably noted the Rolex.

  He must have sensed her distraction. “Forgive me. Of course, this must be a bad time for you. What time are you off?”

  Vera fought not to stare at him. She felt certain he hadn’t come here to make a play for her. They were strangers. A business proposition, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered against the distraction.

  What did he say? ‘‘I, uh…I’m off at midnight.”

  “Fine. Would you care to meet elsewhere, then?” His hooded eyes seemed to recede in some of their gleam. “Or perhaps you’d prefer not to meet at all.”

  “Oh, no, I’d be happy to,” she agreed too quickly. But why had she said that? Why hadn’t she first asked what exactly it was he wanted? The thought never occurred to her.

  Feldspar nodded. “At your convenience, but of course. I’m afraid, though, that I’m quite unfamiliar with this city. Where would you care to meet? I’ll need directions.”

  She couldn’t keep her eyes off the sparkling jewelry on his hands. Her consciousness felt like a split thread, twisting as it unwound. The confusion made her tipsy.

  “How lovely,” Feldspar remarked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your amethyst.’’ His eyes gestured her necklace. “I’ve always found it to be the most attractive stone, regardless of price. True beauty must never have a price.” Then he turned his hand and showed his own amethyst set into a large gold pinky ring. “Your engagement stone is quite beautiful too.”

  Now she knew beyond doubt that he wasn’t putting moves on her. If this was merely some sexual interest, why acknowledge her engagement?

  “Thank you,” she eventually muttered. She had to visibly blink to get her mind back on track. What could it be about Feldspar that distracted her so?

  “There’s a little tavern a block down the street,” she said. “The Undercroft. It’s quiet and quite nice.”

  “Excellent. The Undercroft it is.” Feldspar rose and strayly straightened a lapel. “I’ll see you there at midnight. And thank you very much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you.”

  Vera didn’t think to rise herself. She remained sitting there, looking up at this finely dressed, and strange, man.

  She squinted. “But what exactly is it you want to talk to me about, Mr. Feldspar?”

  “A job,” he said. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER TWO

  Research, Paul thought. Yeah, that’s what this is.

  I’m simply an observer.

  It wasn’t that Paul didn’t trust himself—he was just bothered by conventions, by ideas. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything he shouldn’t do, but that did not fully legitimize the fact that he was an engaged man sitting in a singles bar.

  Paul was a freelance journalist. Thus far he’d done over two hundred pieces for the area papers. Both the Sun and the Capital had offered him staff jobs, but Paul had turned them down. He liked to write about what he wanted, not some editor. It had been tough at first, real tough—when you were freelance, you were a man without a country. Yet, now, after five years, good writing and good ideas had made not only a name for himself but also a decent living. He liked social pieces, with a twist to give them some zing, some uniqueness. Apparently the papers liked them too; Paul hadn’t had anything rejected in several years. In fact, now they were actually paying him before his articles were finished, which was rare in freelance. It was an equally rare complacency: Paul Kirby had beaten the odds and was making it.

  The Singles Scene: An Existential View. Paul liked the title. There’d been plenty of pieces on the area singles scene, but they were all fluff. The Sun had answered his query by commissioning it as a four-week series. Paul would investigate all of the local singles bars, describe each one, and then make a sociological comment. He didn
’t just want to see the face, he wanted to look behind the face of this notorious chess match between the sexes.

  So far he was not impressed.

  Maybe he was too philosophical. Was he trying to philosophize something that was really barren of philosophy? Or maybe I’m too cynical, he considered. Before his involvement with Vera, he’d dated regularly, but never like this. If you were looking for love, a bar seemed the least likely place to find it. It was like trying to find health food at McDonald’s. Paul wanted to categorize the difference in perceptions—between single men and single women. Here, the men all seemed phony, and the women oblivious. It was a show of veneers of false faces and lust. It depressed him.

  Kaggie’s, the place was called. It was starting to fill up. Big place. Two long bars, front and back, snazzy decor. The huge sunken dance floor stretched before a giant projection video screen. Above the pit the obligatory glitterball spun slowly, darting lancets of multicolored light. The air beat with music—some technopop bit by New Order, upbeat yet bleak if you listened to the lyrics. Paul felt buried in light, sound, and the motion of busy bodies.

  This dump must’ve cost millions, he reflected. He ordered a Heineken but the keep brought him a Corona out of habit. Paul preferred not to drink beer that had the same name as the end of a penis. Subliminal advertising? he wondered and laughed. This place wasn’t selling beer—it was selling sex.

  Lines: he jotted in his notepad. He’d heard some doozies already tonight. “Excuse me,” a glittery-dressed brunette had asked some tall guy with a black whitewall. “What’s a stuck-up, stone-faced asshole like you doing in a place like this?” “Looking to get laid,” the guy’d answered without a flinch. Paul had seen them leaving together after a few dances. Here were a few other winners: “Pardon me, but haven’t we never met before?” And, “Hey, baby, what’s the difference between a blow job and a Big Mac?” “What?” “Go out to dinner with me and you’ll find out.” And the best one of the night—a guy in a blue suit had walked up cold to a girl at the bar: “Hi, my name’s Dan Quayle. Can my father buy you a drink?”