The Chosen

by Edward Lee

  “The choice is Ms. Abbot’s.”

  Vera chose the furthest four-top in the east section, well removed from the few diners who remained. It flustered her at once: Feldspar still called her Ms. Abbot, and of course she still called him Mr. Feldspar, as he’d yet to bid otherwise. Donna seated them, as she passed them their menus, Feldspar said, “Perrier-Jouet, the flowered bottle.” He glanced to Vera. “Yes?”

  “That would be perfect,” Vera responded.

  Feldspar immediately lit a Sobraine. “So. How are things?”

  “We actually did some business tonight,” Vera was happy to answer. “And we had a lot of walk-ins, which is always a good sign.”

  “Any complaints about the restaurant?”

  “None. Lots of compliments, though.”

  “Good.” He seemed distracted, but then he always did in a way, as though there were always something of the future on his mind. He seemed clipped, ever the businessman. Just once I wish he’d lighten up, Vera thought. Be himself. Or was he doing just that? The possibility depressed her.

  “I’ve spoken to Kyle, regarding your room-guest complaints of last weekend,” Feldspar mentioned. “I suppose it’s rather embarrassing for you.”

  “Well, no,” she said. Actually it was; it pissed her off to receive complaints about Kyle’s room guests. “It comes with the territory. Even rich people get rowdy.”

  “Actually much more so than the middle class, more often than not, I’m afraid. It can cause one to wonder about civility and sophistication—that the extravagantly wealthy generally behave as ill-mannered, inconsiderate idiots.”

  There had, in fact, been still more complaints of late, always from room guests of the first-floor suites, Vera’s rooms, and never from Kyle’s guests. In fact, Vera had yet to even see any of the guests renting the second- and third-floor suites. Evidently, they were content to order all their meals from room service. Not once had any of them come down to eat at The Carriage House, which only furthered Vera’s irritation. But now the complaints were more descriptive. “We kept hearing this awful thunking sound all night long,” came the grievance of the town’s podiatrist, who’d spent several weekends at The Inn with his dowdy wife. A good-paying customer, and one Vera didn’t want to lose. There’d been similar “thunking” complaints from others, too. Vera concluded that this thunking was actually the room-service elevators opening and closing, which she’d heard many times at night herself. The funny thing was she couldn’t hear the elevators running, just the doors opening and closing, which made little sense. And still more complaints were made about noise in general.

  “I’m still getting complaints from my room guests, though,” Vera elaborated, “about loud noises at night, you know, typical party noises—loud talk, footsteps, laughter.” She fingered her chin in contemplation. “The weird part is the noises don’t seem to be coming from the second and third floors, but from below.”

  “Hmmm,” Feldspar remarked without much interest. “Perhaps some of the night owls are taking their revelry into the atrium during the wee hours, or the pool.”

  “That probably explains it. And another strange complaint I keep getting is elevator noise.”

  Feldspar made a facial gesture of befuddlement. “It’s true that the room-service elevators are in fairly constant use, but I’ve never heard them making any undue noise while running.”

  “Well, no one’s complaining about the elevators going up and down, they’re complaining about a thunking noise. I figure it’s the doors opening and closing.”

  Feldspar nodded, still without much interest. “I’ll have Kyle get a service person out here, and maybe a contractor to see about some more soundproofing. It’s difficult to forecast a building’s acoustics.”

  “And one more thing,” Vera began. Then she paused partly in reluctance and partly in amusement. Mafioso, she thought. Drug financiers. That’s what Chief Mulligan had implied The Inn actually catered to. But how should she bring the matter up?

  Fortunately, after Feldspar poured the champagne, she wouldn’t have to. “And I feel absolutely dreadful about the business this morning with the police,” he owned up. “Kyle reported it to me.”

  “It’s nothing to feel dreadful about,” Vera told him. “If you want to know the truth, it was kind of funny. I’m still not quite sure what the man was digging for.”

  Feldspar leaned forward slightly, looking at her. “What do you suppose he was looking for?”

  Vera nearly sighed. Go for it, she thought. “It’s my impression that Chief Mulligan is suspicious of The Inn’s location and is therefore suspicious of The Inn’s clientele.”

  She expected Feldspar to scoff, or laugh. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Vera shrugged. “I’m not sure. He just thinks it’s odd that a place like The Inn, very upscale, could turn a profit in an area like this.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “The same thing you told me from the start. That The Inn caters to a very upscale and very private clientele.”

  “A select clientele.”

  “Yes. And I think that’s why he’s suspicious,” Vera went on, hoping she wasn’t saying too much, or exaggerating what Mulligan had seemed to imply. But Feldspar had asked for her opinion. So I’m going to give it to him. “I think he believes, in other words, that our ‘select’ clientele aren’t legitimate businessmen but white-collar criminals. Mafia. Organized crime. Drug distribution. That sort of thing. He’s also very suspicious that Magwyth Enterprises is a holding company. For instance, he knows that you wired several million dollars into the bank in town, and in addition to that, he wasn’t able to find out anything about Magwyth Enterprises itself. It’s pretty clear to me that he’s challenging the legitimacy of your company. He seems to think it’s a money-laundering outfit, and that you’re the honcho behind it.”

  “Preposterous,” Feldspar said. Yet he seemed off kilter at once, even slightly perturbed, and it was obvious. Is it my imagination, Vera wondered, or is he hiding something? “Yeah, preposterous,” she went along with him. “What I don’t get are his motives. It’s one thing to make implications like that. But what are his grounds?”

  Feldspar made no immediate reply; instead he refilled their champagne flutes and set the towel-cloaked bottle back into its ice bucket. “Small town police chief, big ideas, I suspect. Who knows, really? Nevertheless, whatever his motives, I can assure you, Ms. Abbot, The Inn is quite legitimate in its services to its guests, and its guests are equally legitimate.”

  “Of course,” Vera said.

  They dined first on an array of appetizers: Equadoran Shrimp Cocktail, Lasagnettas with Roasted Peppers, and Dan B.’s famous Minted Pea Salad in Radicchio Leaves. Vera ordered Crayfish Brittany as her main course, and Feldspar the Fillet of Charollais Beef in a truffle gravy. Even Vera was astounded by Dan B.’s skills tonight; everything was state-of-the-art, yet Feldspar scarcely made comment during the meal. Instead, he spoke off and on of business in general, some upcoming banquets, etc., nothing of note, and nothing really of himself. Vera had no choice but to deduce that her revelations regarding Chief Mulligan’s visit had put him on edge. But why? she kept wondering. If The Inn is legitimate, what’s he so distracted about? It was a good question, and one that continued to occur to her throughout the meal. Select clientele, money-laundering, Mafia, she repeatedly thought. Earlier she’d found these implications amusing. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.

  And if it was so “preposterous,” why did Feldspar keep bringing it up? “I suppose I should go and speak to him,” he said next, quite by surprise.

  “I’m sorry?” Vera said.

  “This…policeman.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vera said. She paused. Careful, girl, careful Perhaps it was the champagne, which was gone now, unraveling her better judgment. Or perhaps it was her own suspicions. “But may I ask you something?’’ she said next.

&nb
sp; “Of course,” Feldspar granted, and then very inappropriately ordered a bottle of 1983 Montrachet.

  Just what I need, Vera thought. More booze. I’ll wind up getting sloshed in front of my boss. I’ll be asking him how he got his start washing money for drug lords. “It just seemed a little curious,” she said. “When Chief Mulligan asked to see you, Kyle said you went to the airport.” She paused once more. “Why did he lie?”

  Feldspar nodded, stroking his trimmed goatee. “A sound query, Ms. Abbot, and one to which you are entitled a sound answer.” He sipped the Montrachet, peered at it in the fine Cristal d’Arques glass. “I have somewhat of an aversion to police. And I’m sure you’ve been wondering, quite understandably, if I’ve ever been in any trouble with the law.”

  “Oh, Mr. Feldspar, that’s not what I was thinking at all,” Vera…lied. Of course she had. Deep down she knew she’d been wondering about that all day. But—

  “The answer, I’m afraid, is yes.”

  Vera blinked. Holy shit, she thought. Now I’ve really done it! Next time keep your big mouth SHUT!

  Feldspar didn’t seem at all fazed by the alcohol—he never did. Vera didn’t believe that it was the champagne and wine that had loosened his personal armor. Feldspar wasn’t a man to go blabbering on drink. Vera knew that type—the typical general manager. Feldspar’s high rank in the chain of command didn’t allow him to confide in anyone. So why is he confiding in me? she wondered.

  “Quite some time ago, I held a similar post for an investment company quite like Magwyth Enterprises. It was an identical operation to what we’re doing here, and it was very successful. And I’m ashamed to have to admit, however, that it wasn’t entirely…clean. Money corrupts, Ms. Abbot, just like power. In many ways they’re very much the same.”

  “Mr. Feldspar, you don’t have to tell me your personal b—”

  “One thing led to another,” he went on. “Improprieties…I’m not creating excuses for my conduct, mind you. What I did was wrong.”

  What! Vera thought with fervor. What did you do! She couldn’t ask, of course—that would be uncouth. But—Goddamn!—she wanted to know.

  Feldspar smiled meekly across the table. His rings glittered as he poured more wine. “You’re wondering—naturally. I can tell. Who wouldn’t be, under such circumstances?”

  “Really, Mr. Feldspar, I don’t—”

  “I’m afraid I was accused of the very same offenses that our ever dutiful Chief Mulligan has accused me of now.”

  Vera set down her fork. She tried not to appear floored, but she was. She tried to think of something diverting to say. “I don’t think Mulligan was accusing. Just implying.”

  “You’re too kind.” Feldspar smiled again, very faintly. “I’ve told you that I was accused. Aren’t you going to inquire as to whether or not I was guilty?”

  “No, that’s your—”

  “I was, quite guilty. At least in an indirect sense. However, I was never charged.”

  If he was never charged, why did he tell me all this? Vera now wondered. Why practically verify to me that Mulligan’s suspicions are right on the money? This made no sense at all.

  “Which is hardly an excuse,” he continued. “Guilt is guilt. Guilt by association, in my case. Now, though, as I’ve stated, The Inn is absolutely legitimate, and I can guarantee you of the same in regard to Magwyth Enterprises, Ltd.”

  Some dinner, she thought. Some date. She couldn’t imagine anything more awkward, or more difficult to maneuver through.

  “I cannot prevaricate,” Feldspar said then. “Not to you, at any rate.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vera told him, for lack of anything else.

  “After all, you’ve made quite a sacrifice for me: coming here cold, running a restaurant for an enterprise you know nothing about, giving your all. It would be immoral of me to leave you uninformed. I appreciate your loyalty and discretion, and I’m grateful to you for handling this unpleasant business with the police. You know as well as I, loyalty is perhaps the most essential interpersonal element in this kind of business. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded, nor will your outstanding performance.”

  At first, this depressed her, because it sounded as though he were merely patronizing her, for getting Mulligan off his back. But as she watched him, and continued to assess his demeanor, and the manner with which he expressed himself, she began to doubt that patronizing her had any part in what he’d just told her. But what is his motive then? she wondered, sipping her Montrachet.

  Perhaps there was no ulterior motive at all. Perhaps he was coming clean with her for the reasons he’d just explained.

  “So much for confessions.” Now Feldspar leaned back in the plush armchair, his smile going wan. He diddled with an ash in the ashtray, almost as if he felt embarrassed now. “It must not be an easy thing to reckon,” he said.

  “What?”

  “To suddenly become aware that your employer has a bit of a checkered past.”

  But Vera couldn’t help continuing to think: Select clientele. Mafioso, money laundering. “I don’t guess anybody’s slate is perfectly clean,” she excused.

  “No, perhaps not.”

  Another glass of the fine Montrachet. God, she thought. She was getting drunk. The wine left her buzzing, warm inside, but remotely unhappy. She had a parfait for dessert, while Feldspar ordered expresso and smoked. Afterward, he paid cash for the meal, which seemed odd. He owned The Carriage House. Why pay? Vera supposed he was just trying to seem gracious. It depressed her further, though. The meal had been outstanding, yet Feldspar made no comment whatever. At least Donna was happy. She bubbled enthusiasm in silence, upon discovering Feldspar’s fifty dollar cash tip in the leather tab book.

  “I’d invite you to the convention with me,” Feldspar said next, “but I’m afraid that would leave The Inn a bit short in the management department. Kyle’s a very loyal, steadfast employee, but I wouldn’t be too keen on leaving him totally in charge. A bit uncultured, if you will.”

  Vera had to backpedal on everything he’d said; the wine and champagne wasn’t mixing well. “Convention?” she queried.

  “Oh, I mustn’t have mentioned it to you, sorry. I’ll be gone for several days. The East Coast Hotel/Motel Association is having their annual convention tomorrow, in Maryland. I’m expected to attend, not that I really want to. At any rate, you and Kyle will be in charge.”

  “Okay,” Vera said. But she’d barely heard the words. Now it was her own distractions that diverted her, and of course the alcohol. This whole dinner thing had been a bust; it was obvious to her now that Feldspar’s only interest in her was professional. He was the boss giving the little restaurant manager a pat on the head.

  “Well.” Feldspar rose; his bulky shape left the table enshadowed. “Your company was a pleasure, Ms. Abbot, and the meal outstanding…” He squinted forward. “Are you all right?”

  No, I’m drunk, she felt inclined to say. “A little tired, that’s all.” She rose herself, and escorted Feldspar to the entry. “Thanks for dinner. I hope you have a good time at the convention.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Oh, and forgive me for neglecting to mention one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  His smile seemed distant. His entire self, in fact, all evening, seemed more and more distant. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.

  The words were like a dull shimmer in the air. Before

  Vera could reply, he was saying “Good night, Ms. Abbot” and leaving.

  “How’d it go?” Donna came up from behind and asked.

  “It didn’t, not really,” Vera said.

  “You look bummed.”

  I am. “I don’t know, I just thought—” What, though? What did you expect, Vera? You expected him to wine and dine you and take you to bed? Your boss, for God’s sake? “I’m tired, I guess. I drank too much.” She had to actually lean against the service bar to keep steady. “How are things going in the kitchen?”

 
“Lee and Dan B. are cleaning up now. They’re going to check out that little bar in town if they get out early enough. If you ask me, we did pretty good tonight.”

  “Yeah, it’s catching on.” Vera handed Donna the Lamborghini keys. “Tell Dan B. he can take my car. I never have time to drive it—might as well let him have some fun with it.”

  “Oh, he’ll love this!” Donna enthused. “I’ll be sure to tell him not to wrap it around a phone pole.”

  “Please. Are you going with them?”

  “No way. Once I get all the tables changed, I’m going straight to bed.”

  “That’s what I’m going to do right now,” Vera said. “See you tomorrow.”

  She trudged out into the atrium, woozy and weary. Then: “Yes. Yes sir,” she heard. It was Kyle’s voice. Vera glanced across the atrium and saw Kyle signing someone in at the reception desk: a man of medium height and build, dressed in a tailored crisp brown suit. “Right this way, sir,” Kyle was saying, and picked up the man’s suitcase. “Your suite’s ready now.”

  Vera tried not to appear obvious; this was the first upper floor room guest she’d seen, and as she watched from the corner of her eye, all she could be reminded of was what Mulligan had implied. Money laundering, mafia, drug lords? Some people had a look—you could tell, just by looking at them, what they were into, and this guest that Kyle was checking in—he had it. The man’s face reflected a darkness, even an ominousness, which clashed with his fine suit. He looked like a thug.

  Select clientele, huh? Vera mused, then went up the stairs to her room.

  Whoever that guy is, he’s bad news.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lee off-loaded the last dish-rack from the Hobart’s big chain conveyor, then began to automatically stack the hot dry plates. The shift had passed like sludge in a gutter, and that was about how Lee had felt lately—sluggish in dark questions and dread.

  “Get rollin’, Lee,” Dan B. happily remarked. He was whistling as he polished up the range and the line table. “Looks like we’re going to be out of here by midnight, still plenty of time to go into town, huh?”