The Chosen

by Edward Lee

  “They’re cheap,” Kyle was saying. “That’s all that matters.”

  “What?”

  “The dolts—er, excuse me. I mean the custodial engineers.”

  Vera ignored him. He began to lead her down a similarly plush, dark hallway. But then she stopped. “Wait a minute,” she queried.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  The stairs, she thought. What the hell?

  The twin staircases led from the atrium to the second floor. And ended. But The Inn had four floors, didn’t it?

  “Why do the stairs end here? How do you—”

  “Get to the third and fourth floors?” Kyle finished her question. “VIP entrance in back, by the parking lot and helipad.”

  Odd, she concluded. She understood the desire to separate the high-priced suites from the cheaper rooms. But separate accesses? It seemed an indulgent expense. She couldn’t imagine the additional construction costs for such a nicety. On the other hand, though, rich people were often eccentric, and the more their eccentricities were pampered, she realized, the more frequently they’d come back and, of course, the more money they’d spend. When executed properly, it was a system that always worked in the long run.

  It was the short run, however, that she worried about. How could such an expensive venture survive during start-up? Just how extensive was Feldspar’s marketing influence? And could she really believe that the first four weekends were already booked?

  Worry about The Carriage House, Vera, she reminded herself. One step at a time.

  Kyle opened the first door on the right, which, like all of the doors, was solid oak, and ornately trimmed. He stepped back to give her room. “Check it out.”

  Vera set her bags down and slowly rose. For a moment she lost her breath. What faced her past the entry was not a bedroom but a great chamber like an eighteenth-century French boudoir. Soft pastel papers covered the walls, with high pine skirtings. Dark, plush V’Soske throw rugs bedecked the rich hardwood floor. Most of the furniture was restored antique: a beige scroll couch, a cherry wood highboy, a walnut chiffonier and inlaid night stand. Heavy velvet drapes, a deep avocado hue, were tied back before the white vanity and mirror. The room itself seemed nearly as large as her entire former apartment back in the city. Best of all was the huge four-poster bed hung with quilted dust ruffles and white mesh trains.

  “Pretty decent pad, huh?” Kyle observed.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Vera slowly replied. “I’ve always wanted a room like this.”

  Kyle dawdled to the twin French doors and pulled them open, letting in the crisp winter air. “You’ll have a great view once the trenchers are done.”

  Trenchers? Vera stepped out onto the high veranda, oblivious to the cold. The forest rose further up the ridge. Below, several one-story additions stretched. “Spas, pools, Jacuzzis, exercise rooms,” Kyle explained. “We’ll have tennis courts too, in the spring.”

  This was magnificent. To her left, though, several big yellow trenching machines idled beside a long deep ditch which disappeared around an outcropping of trees.

  “What’s all that?”

  “We had to reroute the sewer and waterlines to the county junctures. The old lines are a hundred years old.”

  It was another thing that must have cost a fortune. “In the meantime,” Kyle went on, “we’re still on the old system. But everything’11 be hooked up before we open.”

  “What about the plumbing in the building?” she asked.

  “All brand-new and refitted.”

  They came back in and she closed the doors. “And the wiring?”

  “The same. The building was gutted when Magwyth Enterprises bought it. Someone tried to burn it down years ago.”

  “Why?” Vera asked, and immediately regretted it. She had a feeling what he would say in response. Ghosts…

  “I’d rather keep you in suspense. How about later you let me show you around the whole building—the grand tour.” His cocky grin sharpened, and Vera remembered what Dan B. had observed. Scoping my…rib melons? She almost laughed. Dan B. had always been jealous; and it was like a brother’s jealousy—guarded, and negative about any man who expressed an interest in her. He hadn’t even liked Paul. Now she wished she’d listened to him. But was it her imagination, or was Kyle really leering at her?

  “Sure, Kyle,” she said. “I’d love for you to show me around.” Perhaps she could turn his confidence game inside out, and use it on him. She could play games just as well as he could.

  “Great. I’ll drum you up about seven. Is that all right?”

  “That’s fine,” she assured, and finished with the thought, you phony tight-jeaned asshole.

  He made to leave, then, but stopped. “I almost forgot. You do have your choice of rooms. I can show you some of the others if you want.”

  She paused in the question, and looked around one more time. “No,” she nearly whispered. “This is fine… This is home. ”

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zyra pondered: What a beautiful night.

  And it was: clear, starry, deep as heaven. The moon shone as a crisp, blazing rind of light. It summoned back many other, equally beautiful images, of blood and mayhem, of heads split apart like big ripe fruit, sharp blades sinking into random flesh, and chorales of screams—yes, such wondrous images, and many more, of times gone by. Zyra stood nude before the bedroom window. Her sex felt warm and tender in the denouement of her orgasms. Her appreciation for life felt as wide as her gaze.

  What a beautiful night for murder, she thought.

  She fancied the moonlight as a ghost’s caress. She could feel it on her skin; it seemed to purify her. What had nutty Mr. Buluski said earlier—earlier, that is, as in before she’d strangled him with the lamp cord? “Oh, pristine siren in radiant light. I bid thee now—be mine tonight.” What a nut. Oh, I’ll be yours, all right, she’d thought. I’ll be yours forever. At least this pair was interesting, and good for some laughs. She and Lemi had answered the personal ad they’d spotted in a magazine called The East Coast Swingers Guide: “luntville: Attractive (and endowed!) quirky couple seek same for concupiscent interlude.” Dumbass Lemi hadn’t even known what concupiscent meant. “It means they like to get it on, Lemi,” Zyra had had to explain. “And that’s just what we’re looking for.”

  “Come in, come in!” Mr. Buluski had invited when they’d knocked on the door to his remote rancher which sat miles from any other dwelling along Route 154. “Why, you two are even more delectable than your photos!”

  Mr. Buluski had, by the way, answered the door naked.

  He was skinny, bald up top, and looked about forty, with this nutty, kinky, torqued-up enthusiasm stamped onto his face. “I do hope you’re all hungry,” he commented. “I’ve prepared a wonderful dinner!” Next, he’d introduced Mrs. Buluski, who was also naked save for pepper-red high heels. She looked about ten years younger, with poshly curled dark hair, and she was kind of cute and fat, which was fine. They didn’t all have to be high-fashion knockouts. Physical diversity was far more important. An additional point of note: her pubic hair had been quite expertly shaved into the configuration of a heart. “Please, friends, make yourselves more comfortable and join us in the dining room,” she urged.

  “When in Gnome, do as the Gnomans do,” Lemi figured.

  “That’s Romans, Lemi,” Zyra corrected.

  Lemi shrugged. They both quickly stripped and took their seats at a long, maroon-linened table. “Oh, what beautiful young bodies,” Mr. Buluski gushed. “Such sights make my heart just sing!”

  “He gets carried away sometimes,” Mrs. Buluski then informed them. “He’s a dreamer, a visionary. And he’s very, shall we say, deft of tongue.” The woman promptly winked at Zyra, who doubted that she was referring to his eloquence.

  Mr. Buluski had prepared a glazed roast duckling, baby potatoes with bell peppers, and succulently steamed fresh asparagus stalks. The four of them then, as they dined, excha
nged opinions upon such intense topics as the future of the Middle East, the difference in inflation rates during Republican and Democratic administrations, the ozone layer, and the possible psychological explanations for Michael Jackson’s addiction to plastic surgery. All the while, Zyra, who was not especially inhibited, felt distinctly embarrassed. Even psychopathic murderesses were not accustomed to dinnerside chats in the nude. This new insight into herself at least struck her as interesting. Events, however, became a trifle more interesting when Mrs. Buluski, large bare breasts bobbling, promptly stood up, remarked “Let me get out of these hot things,” kicked off her pepper-red high heels, placed her rather large derriere on the dining table, and began to masturbate with one of the larger stalks of asparagus. Mr. Buluski was then appropriate enough to comment: “You should see her when I serve corn on the cob.”

  What a world, Zyra thought. There were all kinds, that was for sure. At least these two loose-screws were more diverting than the usual acquisitions; rednecks, prostitutes, runaways. Zyra had seen her share of bizarre things in her time, but she could never recall witnessing a portly woman with heart-shaped pubic hair masturbate with asparagus. No, she’d never seen such a thing in her life. Maybe I should try it someday, she considered.

  Lemi wasted no time in sampling this new preparation for vegetables. Meanwhile, Mr. Buluski rose and suggested to Zyra, “My dear, shall we adjourn to my parlor of passion?’’

  “Lead the way,” Zyra said.

  He took her down the hall to a black-and-white art deco bedroom. Her body felt levitated when she lay back on the slogging waterbed. She looked down at herself from a ceiling mirror; it was fun watching this eccentric, reedy man do things to her. She thought of astral projection, of doppelgangers. Mrs. Buluski wasn’t kidding about her husband’s prowess of tongue—Zyra watched her own eyes thin lewdly in the mirror, vising his cheeks with her thighs. Her orgasms issued as a steady, tender pulse of waves. Mr. Buluski seemed delighted. Through a variety of positions, then, he eloquently muttered lines from some of the century’s greater poets: Stevens, Pound, Eliot, Seymour. Zyra’s next orgasms pulsed deeper and more precisely; she felt something in herself letting go.…

  This realm of release wasn’t enough. Each abrupt, quivery climax left her groping for more.

  It’s never enough, she thought through a sheen of sweat.

  She sensed the approach of his own release, as one often wakes undetermined minutes before the alarm clock. He seemed surprised by her strength, and the vitality of her resolve when she pushed his bony body off of her, lay him back, and let his orgasm spurt warmly down her throat and into her stomach.

  Then she said: “I have a surprise for you…”

  And quite a surprise it was. Indeed, no, there was never enough, was there? That’s what made Zyra who she was. Mr. Buluski’s poetical quotes quickly changed over to high, wavering screams. He screamed long and hard through the delivery of her surprise. The screams provided a sweet icing for the finale of her desire, and she came yet again as she watched herself strangle Mr. Buluski in the overhead mirror.

  Never enough, she pondered.

  Mr. Buluski’s face turned dark blue above the ligature of the lamp cord. As more time went by, the face began to swell, much like a balloon. For a moment she feared it might pop.

  She dragged him back out by the ankles.

  “Have a good time?” Lemi asked.

  “Yeah.” And she had, she always did. She dreamily redressed as Lemi finished tying up the chubby—and by now, the quite sated—Mrs. Buluski. “Me too,” Lemi confessed. “She’s a wild one.”

  They loaded dead husband and live wife into the white step van, then returned to the quiet house. Zyra turned on all the gas burners on the stove and blew out the pilots. Lemi set the timer.

  “I like you better as a brunette,” he said.

  As they drove away, off into crystal darkness, the thought replayed in Zyra’s mind.

  What a beautiful night.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER TEN

  “A touch of class,” Lee remarked. He lit the candles on the bay table by the west window, which offered a long view of the forest. Vera had decided to combine their evening staff meeting with dinner. “Don’t know what the hell we’re going to eat, though,” Lee went on. “Today me and Dan B. ran a stock check.”

  “How’s it look?” Vera asked.

  “Like we’re gonna be starving till The Inn opens. Nothing but dry goods and condiments.”

  Vera hadn’t considered this. They couldn’t live on bread crumbs and salt. “We’ll be getting some shipments in soon. Until then we’ll have to rough it.”

  Donna poured iced tea that she’d prepared from the service bar. “There’s no liquor inventory, either,” she said. “We might have a hard time finding a decent distributor this far out in the sticks.”

  “Shit, you mean there’s no beer in this joint?” Lee asked, glancing worriedly at his beer belly.

  “I’m working on it,” Vera said. “I think I got a deal with the company that services Waynesville. Their list looks pretty good.” Start-ups were always a hassle. Many distributors were slow, and many unreliable. Trial and error was the only way you found out who was good.

  “Dan B. to the rescue,” the big chef announced. He lumbered out from the kitchen, bearing a large tray.

  Lee smirked. “What are we having? Pine nuts and tomato paste?”

  “Try eighteen-ounce Australian lobster tails,” Dan B. answered, and set the tray before them. A delectable aroma rose.

  Donna nearly squealed in delight. “I don’t think we’ll have any problem roughing it on these.”

  “I found ten cases of them in one of the walk-in freezers. A lot of langoustines and king crab back there too. There’s also a hundred pounds of frozen Greenwich shrimp we can use for stock base and toppings.”

  Dan B. had thawed the tails, split them, and broiled them atop their shells with a pinch of spice. “Dig in, gang,” Vera said. The tails were delicious, moist and tender despite their size. When they were finished, Vera got on with business. “What I need first is a gauge of everyone’s impressions so far. Donna?”

  “I don’t anticipate any problems from my end. I’m still as excited about all this as ever.’’

  “Good. Lee?”

  “I could use a beer, but other than that I’ve never had it so good. All my gear in the back is quality stuff. I’ll be able to handle rushes bigger than the ones we had at The Emerald Room without any backup. That Hobart dishwasher practically does all the work itself, and so does the glassware rig. They even have element driers in them.”

  “Same goes for my gear, Vera,” Dan B. said, inserting another big dollop of lobster into his mouth. “Everything works great. Only thing I got to complain about is that Kyle motherfucker. He wants to start some shit, and I don’t like it. ”

  “I know,” Vera said. “He wants to make us look bad and himself look good—brownie points. The best way we can counter that is to forget about it and just give everything our best. We can’t let room service show us up, and we won’t if we don’t let Kyle get to us. I know his game. Let me handle him.”

  “And what about these funky-looking maids?” Lee observed. “Walking around here, giving us the eye, not talking. They’re treating us like trespassers.”

  “In a way, we are trespassers,” Vera commented. “To them, we’re the newbies walking on their turf. Just stay on good terms with them, and they’ll get used to us. And don’t cause a stir; I think a lot of them are here without green cards.”

  They all concurred, however reluctantly. Then Dan B. continued, “And there’s another funny thing. I was snooping around the room service side today after I inventoried our stock. I wanted to see what they had compared to us—”

  “Let me guess,” Vera ventured. “They had twice as much stock as us.”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. All their pantries and walk-ins had padlocks on them.”

&
nbsp; Vera’s brow rose. “What did Kyle say about that?”

  “Nothing, he wasn’t there. In fact, I haven’t seen nimnose since earlier today when you and I first met him.”

  Neither have I, Vera realized. And she hadn’t seen Feldspar either. After Kyle had shown her her room, she’d looked for Feldspar, needing the initial workman’s compensation and F.I.C.A. forms for her staff payroll, but Feldspar was not to be found in his office or anywhere, though she’d spotted his Lamborghini out in the lot. Perhaps he and Kyle had gone out on the grounds to supervise the tree-trimmers or the excavator crew working out back. “I’ll hunt him down later,” she remarked. “He said he was going to give me the twenty-five-cent tour tonight.”

  Dan B.’s quick scowl made no secret of his emotions. “Better if you just stay away from the guy unless you’re with one of us. He’s got the hots for you fierce—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Vera dismissed.

  “I don’t know about that, Vera,” Donna jumped in. “That guy’s a womanizer if I ever saw one—”

  Then Lee: “And you should’ve seen the way he was—”

  “I know,” Vera interrupted. “Gandering my rib melons. Dan B. was kind enough to point that out to me earlier, and if you want my opinion, I think you’re all being silly. I’m an adult, remember? I know how to handle guys like Kyle.”

  She left them, then, to their objections, amused and mildly flattered. “I’m not kidding, Vera,” Dan B. continued to rant after her. “You be careful around that guy.”

  Vera laughed and went out into the atrium. It was dark and quiet now; The Inn felt subdued. Someone had lit a fire in the huge stone fireplace. She could feel its heat crawl on one side of her face. The front offices occupied the lower east extension of the ground floor. Cool fluorescent lights buzzed down on her when she entered the short L-shaped hall. Again, Feldspar’s office, done up like a London banker’s, was empty. general manager, the door’s brass plaque read. It surprised Vera to find the office unlocked. There seemed to be many expensive curios about: Hummel ashtrays, a gold Mont Blanc pen set, and a beautiful gold-and-crystal carriage clock, not to mention a brand-new PC and Hewlett-Packard laser printer. She saw no harm in taking a quick peek into the top desk drawer. Rolls of stamps, clusters of keys, and an enameled cash box. Jesus, she thought. This guy’s not very security conscious. The cash box, too, was unlocked. She flipped it open and noticed a few bands of one hundred and fifty dollar bills. There must be ten or fifteen grand sitting here, she realized, squinting. Lucky for him I’m honest. She was about to reclose the drawer when she noticed something else.