The Chosen

by Edward Lee

  How long had Paul been living this demented double life behind her back?

  My God, she fully realized now. She brought her nearly frozen hands to her face, staring. How long had he been doing those things?

  Drugs. Bondage. Transexuality.

  He hadn’t even been using condoms, nor had that hideous redheaded she-male. Double life aside, how could Paul have been so thoughtless as to engage in such practices, with such people, and not even consider the risk to Vera’s health?

  “Ma’am?”

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “Ma’am?”

  A face hovered in the glass—a city cop. It seemed to warp before her in the curved glass. He tapped his nightstick against the window incessantly as a bamboo drum.

  “Are you all right?”

  Vera got out of the car. She could imagine how she looked, nearly blue-lipped, shivering, and eyeliner streaked down her face. “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  She began to stomp away, toward West Street, her heels rapidly clicking against asphalt.

  “Wait up, miss. You sure you’re—”

  “Yes!” she almost screamed at him. “Is it against the law to run out of gas in a fucking donut-store parking lot!”

  She hurried off, leaving the cop to scowl. She didn’t even know where she was going. Where could she go? She couldn’t go home. I don’t have a home, she said to herself. She couldn’t even fathom returning to that apartment. A glance to her watch showed her the time: 10 a.m.

  In an hour The Emerald Room would open for lunch.

  Dan B., Donna. She’d make some arrangement to stay with them for a few days, until she could figure out what she wanted to do. The bank account was joint; after being caught, Paul was probably at the teller’s now, cleaning it out. She’d just have to scrape by until payday, get a place, restart her life.

  Then she stopped.

  Her mouth opened. The cold wind burned her eyes.

  Feldspar.

  Vera ran, suddenly a sleek maniac in a Burberry overcoat and high heels. Feldspar had told her he was staying at the Radisson. Checkout time was eleven!

  On the off chance that you should change your mind, please contact me.

  She ran on, stopped again, hopping, took off her shoes, and continued. Pedestrians gaped after her. A Yellow screeched to a halt when she dashed through a don’t walk crossing. Her feet pounded the stone-cold sidewalk, the air whipped against her face. Just as she turned into the hotel court, the gleaming red Lamborghini idled up to the light, which then turned green.

  “Wait!” she screamed.

  The car turned away, accelerated down West Street.

  “Oh, no, oh, shit, wait!”

  She scampered through pedestrians. The bottoms of her stockings wore out as she shouldered through clusters of business suits on their way to work. The Lamborghini had stopped before the red light at Cathedral Street. Vera’s lungs felt fit to explode:

  “Wait!”

  The light blinked green just as Vera trampled up. Feldspar’s goateed face looked astonished in the window. He leaned over.

  The passenger door raised.

  “Ms. Abbot—what’s wrong?”

  “I—” Vera sunk into the plush leather seat. The door lowered closed automatically, sealing in the heat “I wanted to catch you before you left.”

  Concern lined Feldspar’s broad face. “Something’s quite wrong, I can tell. What is it?”

  Vera let the heat sink into her skin. How could she explain herself without sounding daft? The way she looked now, shivering, stocking-footed, must already have reduced her former credibility to the lowest ebb. So she would make no excuses.

  “Mr. Feldspar, is that job still open?”

  ««—»»

  He turned around and drove straight back to the Radisson, booked another room, and took her up. “What changed your mind?” he asked, and opened the door.

  He’d rented a conference room. Vera took off her overcoat, for the first time since last night. Feldspar set an alligator-skin briefcase on the meeting table.

  “Your fiancé turned out to be open to the idea?” he ventured when she didn’t answer.

  He’s open to ideas, all right. “No. I never discussed it with him. We’re not together anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Feldspar sat down, lit a Sobraine. “I do hope that it wasn’t the job offer that caused your separation.”

  “It wasn’t,” Vera said. “It had nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, it’s none of my business—your private life is your own. It’s distressing to see you like this, though. You’re obviously repressing a trauma.”

  Am I? Of course she was. How could he not sense that, how could anyone? “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather not talk about that right now. Let’s talk business instead.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Vera felt ludicrous. She’d lost her shoes on a mad dash through rush hour. Her vermilion dress was so crumpled it looked slept in, which in fact it was. Her lips were parched, and she could feel her makeup flaking on her face. Yet here she was, with a stoic business man, accepting a job for nearly four times her current salary.

  First, Feldspar gave her back the bank check. Then he slipped her a sheet of paper. “This is our employment contract. It guarantees terms upon your signature. Before you sign, though, I must explain that the work won’t be easy. Expect to put in ten to twelve hours a day, six days per week.”

  So what else is new? Vera signed the contract, the back copy of which Feldspar gave her to keep. “I’d like to elaborate now on some of the specifics,” he went on. The sweet cigarette smoke dispersed before his face. “As I informed you last night, we’re opening an exclusive resort; it’s a country-inn type of establishment.”

  “Is the restaurant in the same building?”

  “Oh, yes, and it’s quite well done. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  Neither could she, though she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “I’ll need to know what kind of staff you’re giving me.”

  “There is none yet. As the restaurant’s manager, you will be expected to hire the restaurant’s staff. And do it quickly—we’d like to open in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” That was no time at all. “And what about the menu, the wine list, who are your distributors, your delivery agencies?”

  “That, too, will be up to you.”

  “Mr. Feldspar, I think it’s great that you want a state-of-the-art restaurant, but that’s dependent on a whole lot more than an R.M. I could be the best manager in the world, and the restaurant would fail if I don’t have the right people. The first thing you absolutely must have is a great chef—”

  “Hire one.”

  “A skilled chef doesn’t come cheap. The guy we have at The Emerald Room gets paid forty thousand a year.”

  “Pay him eighty,” Feldspar bluntly told her. “You know this business, Ms. Abbot; that’s why we’ve hired you, and we know that good staff won’t leave their current jobs for a pittance. Simply solicit the people you need. I should think that if you offer them twice their current salaries they’ll be most willing, especially considering the free room and board.”

  Vera had forgotten about that. Feldspar had said he was reserving some of the hotel’s rooms for staff. She could hire people here, and get them to move.

  Feldspar passed her another bank check, but the amount space was blank. Next he gave her a thin stack of employment contracts. “Pay them each, say, a thousand dollars for moving expenses, and give them their first week’s salary as a bonus. Waitresses and busboys might be a problem, since many are students and hence unable to leave the localities of their schools. Room service should be able to provide some people if that’s the case. Keep it light at first, you can always hire more staff as business picks up. But a good chef is essential, and whomever else you feel necessary to start-up operations.”

  He just ga
ve me a blank check, Vera realized in disbelief. He’s dead serious. These guys must have more money than King Tut.

  “All right, Mr. Feldspar. I can do that.”

  “And as far as distributors and inventory sources go, I’m sure you’re familiar with all the proper channels. Make the arrangements.”

  That said it all. Feldspar wasn’t fooling around. Here’s the job. Don’t bother me with details, just do it. Period.

  Yeah, she thought. I can do that.

  “When can you be at the estate?”

  Waynesville, she remembered. Staff. “I’ll need a few days to get the essential staff together. ”

  “A few days, fine. But no more than that. We want things under way in—”

  “Two weeks,” she recalled. “No problem.” Of course, it really was a problem, but she’d simply have to solve it. She realized the tremendous job ahead of her, yet in spite of that she felt anticipatory. She felt excited.

  “What’s the name of the inn, by the way?” she asked.

  “We’re simply going to call it The Inn.”

  Original, Vera thought. It’s his place, he can call it whatever he wants. “How about the restaurant?”

  Feldspar shrugged and crushed out his cigarette. “You choose the name. Something continental, I should think. Again, we’ll leave it to you.”

  Vera joked to herself over the possibilities. Vera’s Hash House. Good Eats. The Boondocks Room. “How does this sound?” She paused for effect. “The Carriage House.”

  Feldspar’s eyes widened slightly in a sudden approval. “An excellent choice, I must say.”

  Easy to please, Vera thought. But now that I’ve got the name, I better get on with the job.

  A knock tapped at the door. Feldspar let in a young and very beautiful blonde pushing a room service carriage. Truffles, Baci Chocolates, and Dniva Caviar. A bottle of Kruge sat wedged in a bucket of ice.

  Feldspar poured two glasses of the fine champagne. He passed one to Vera, curtly smiling down. “A toast,” he proposed.

  Vera raised the sparkling glass.

  “To The Carriage House.”

  Their glasses clinked.

  ««—»»

  Feldspar parked the Lamborghini in The Emerald Room’s valet cul-de-sac. The large, cut amethyst on his pinky ring shined as he withdrew a final piece of paper. “Directions,” he said.

  “I’ll see you in a few days,” Vera promised.

  An equal promise, at least in a way, seemed to highlight the otherwise dark voice. “I believe that wonderful things await us in this venture, and tremendous success. I’m looking very forward to working with you, Ms. Abbot.”

  “Likewise.” Vera shook the stubby hand. She felt—what? She looked once more at Feldspar’s features: the broad face, the goatee, the ink-black hair pulled back in a short ponytail—an absolute clash to the fine clothes and jewelry. Twelve hours ago, he was merely a weird-looking squat stranger; now he was her boss. She felt she could even consider him a friend. “Thank you for giving me this chance, Mr. Feldspar. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m quite certain that you won’t. But before you go, might I make one very trifle suggestion?’’

  “Sure.”

  “Get some shoes. Soon.”

  Feldspar actually laughed as she got out of the sleek car. Vera laughed too, waving as he pulled onto West Street and drove away. Yes, she’d have to get some shoes—she’d have to get a lot of things. But far more important was what she already had—or in fact had been given: a chance at something big.

  She stood before The Emerald Room, looking out into the busy thoroughfare. Passersby paused to gape at her, this tousled woman standing in freezing weather with no shoes and mussed hair. The wind slipped around her, but now she felt warm.

  A second chance, she mused. That’s what this was, really. She had a good job here but no longer a life to go with it. It hurt to think of Paul, and of love in general. Love was supposed to be ultimate emotion between two people, the ultimate truth. Where was her truth now? It was all gone, it was all a lie and always had been. How could she live with that?

  I know.

  Very slowly, her left hand raised in the cold. The big engagement ring gave a crisp glitter in the sun. She slipped the ring off her finger and threw it into the middle of West Street.

  Eventually a mail truck ran it over.

  Time to move on, she thought.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Hey, Jor! Split-tail at twelve o’clock!”

  The Blazer slowed. It was one of those big four-runners, souped up, with Binno Mags, Bell Tech springs, and tires that looked about a yard high. All the rednecks drove them; it was status. Jorrie Slade’s eyes thinned at his friend’s announcement—or, to be more accurate, his eye thinned, since the left one was glass. He’d lost it one night when he and Mike-Man were rucking it up fierce with some Crick City fellas out behind Duffy’s Pool Hall. Didn’t matter all that much to Jorrie, though; the right eye worked just fine, and that backwoods peter-licker who’d poked out the left one had wound up losing a lot more than an eye. Try his ears, his lips, and his balls. Jorrie was good with a knife.

  Mike-Man, Jorrie’s best rucking pal, swigged on his can of Jax. “I say, ya see that, Jor?”

  “I see it, all right, Mike-Man, my man. Looks like we’se gonna have our dogs in some decent poon after all. Shee-it.”

  The Blazer’s high headlights and floods glared forward. A van sat stalled on the opposite shoulder, and stooping over the opened hood was one buxom full-tilt brick-shithouse blonde the likes of which neither Jorrie nor Mike-Man had ever laid eyes on—or eye, in Jorrie’s particular case. Beautiful long blond hair swirled in the wind. Her tight, broad rump jutted as she bent over, diddling with wires.

  “Now I say, a pair of gentlemanly types such as us could not never ignore such a woman in distress,” Jorrie pointed out to his friend. “I mean, on a wicked night like this? Goodness, the poor thang could catch her death of cold, now couldn’t she?”

  “That she sure could,” Mike-Man replied in full agreement, “and it just wouldn’t be Christian-like for two strong young fellas such as ourselfs to allow sumpthin’ like that to happen.”

  Jorrie and Mike-Man exchanged laughter. You could call these two boys unipolar sociopaths, or you could call them pure-ass crazy motherfuckers—it didn’t much matter which. And as for this here foxy blonde stranded at the shoulder? No harm, really—not that they could see anyway. Hell, they was just two red-blooded American fellas out for a thrill. It wasn’t like such things never happened out in these parts, what with them creekers up in the hills and all, and them damn white trash buggers north of the ridge. And it wasn’t like they was fixing to kill her. They was just gonna poke her up a tad, give those fine womanly parts a working over, that’s all. Probably be doing her a favor, they figured.

  Mike-Man crossed the line and stopped on the shoulder. The Blazer rumbled, lighting up the front of the disabled van. That’s when the blonde straightened up and faced them.

  “My-my, I say, my goodness!” Mike-Man articulated.

  “Well shee-it my drawers and my mama’s to boot,” Jorrie commented.

  Her coat hung open, revealing breasts large enough to threaten to pop the buttons on her flannel blouse. She looked as if she’d been poured into them there jeans of hers, you know, those city-type jeans with the funny labels, like from Italy an’ shit.

  Jorrie slapped Mike-Man on the back. “Now thems there is what my daddy would call one dandy set of milkers, boy. Like that famous chick Dolly Carton on all them supermarket papers, you know?”

  “Yes sir. And that kisser on her? Looks like Vanner White or sumpthin’, or one of them prissy gals on Cosmerpolitan. ”

  Jorrie polished off the rest of his beer. He drank Red, White, & Blue, on account of he was classier than Mike-Man about what he drank. “Man, we’se lucked out better than a coupla egg-suck dogs throwed in the henhouse tonight, ain’t we?”


  “Yeah boy, that’s some fine gandering that there, and I’ll bet she’s got herself a bush on her you could plant a fuckin’ garden in.”

  “We’se gonna be plantin’ more than gardens in that sweet stuff, just you watch, Mike-Man, my man. Don’t look like one of them stinky creeker chicks like we bust up all the time, either, and she’s sure’s shit no road hog. Bet she’s got one of them nice clean ‘n purdy coozes on her, don’t ya think?”

  “Yeah boy,” Mike-Man concurred, still staring excitedly at her in the Blazer’s highs. “An’ I’ll bet she wears herself a lot of that nice city perfume like ya can buy in them fancy stores like Garfunkel’s and Ward’s and all.”

  Jorrie gave Mike-Man another comradly slap on the back. His glass eye glinted in the expectation. “Come on, buddy-bro. My dog’s a barkin’ already. Let’s you and me put a little spark into this here little lady’s girly works.”

  They climbed out of the Blazer. They left both doors open; they always did. That way it was easier to get to work on them. Just slide ’em in right across that big bench seat. Mike-Man’d hold ’em down with the knife from one side while Jorrie’d get them starkers from the other. It was a dandy system. They had it down pat.

  “Hey there, purdy lady!” Jorrie greeted, and stepped up in his fine pointed shitkicker boots. A good point on your boots was always the ticket when you was gonna go out on a romp. For shakin’ down guys for their green, just one good hard kick in their works would take the fight outa the biggest and gnarliest of fellas, yes sir, or you hop up on the hood real quick like and give ’em a good kick in the chin. Then there was that time Jorrie’d been rucking it up with this stinky creeker gal out by Croll’s field, and Jorrie, see, he wasn’t all too keen on putting his pride and joy into that dirty stuff, what with the AIDS and the herpes and all, ’specially after he’d gotten himself a look at it, so he thought he might like a little of what his daddy called “mouth-lovin’,” but this dog-stinky creeker chick, you know what she said? She said, “You gawd-damn mama-fuckin’ cracker piece of shit! You just try puttin’ that in my mouth an’ see if I don’t bite it right off!” a comment which Jorrie, of course, did not take too kindly to, so what he did, he just gave that creeker gal one good swift kick in the spine, and that quelled her threatening protestations just as fast as shit through a city pigeon. Heard she was gettin’ around in a chair these days, and he figured it served her just right for saying something so downright awful. A gal’d have to be plumb crazy! Biogenic amine imbalance and sociopathy aside, when a fella the likes of Jorrie Slade tells you to entreat his genitals of the mouth, well you just better bone up and do it, unless you wanna spend the rest of your days rollin’ around in a chair, too, yes sir.