Tantalize Part 4

They sent two squad cars, lights off, no sirens, one officer per sedan. Neither much older than me. I stayed still, waiting to see what would happen next.

Mitch hovered until they entered the building. "I'm going, gotta go, go."

"Go ahead," I whispered as Mitch began to creep away. "And by the way," I raised my voice, "good luck with the new sign."

He grinned, using it to wave good-bye, straightening to march to the sidewalk and plead his case to pa.s.sersby.

Seconds later, the cops were escorting a skinny, cowpoke-looking guy out of the kitchen door to the back lot.

"Fellas, I'm telling you," he was saying in the kind of tone used to talk the suicidal off bridges, "I work here. A Mr. Davidson Morris hired me this morning. He gave me the keys, said we needed a new menu yesterday, and took off with his girlfriend to a concert in San Antonio. I thought I'd come in and get the feel of the place, start playing with the appliances . . ."

Oh, oh, oh no, I thought, relieved Vaggio's killer hadn't been lurking in Sanguini's kitchen, surprised Uncle D had neglected to tell me he'd finally managed to hire a chef, embarra.s.sed I'd called the cops for nothing. None of which was an excuse for letting APD grill the guy or, worse, haul him away.

"Wait!" I called, bounding out of my hiding place, catching my leg on a cactus needle, drawing a thin line of blood. "Officers?"

The cuter of the two paused. "Stay back. This is police business."

"I'm Quincie Morris, the one who called 911. That man he just mentioned, Davidson Morris, is my uncle." Breathing hard, I slowed to a stop in front of them on the asphalt lot. "I'm sorry about the false alarm. I didn't know about Mr., uh, Mr. -"

"Johnson, Henry Johnson," the detainee pitched in.

After the police left, I gave my full attention to the new guy. His fair hair, widow's peak, gangly limbs, and western s.h.i.+rt. No more than twenty-two or three. I could hardly believe Uncle D had chosen such a young chef. We were desperate, but so much was at stake. It was a good thing my uncle had a.s.signed me to keep an eye on him.

Johnson smiled, and I noticed the teeth. They were pointed, all all of them. of them.

"What the h.e.l.l?" I asked.

"I almost forgot," Johnson replied with a horsey chuckle. "No wonder the coppers kept staring at me like that." He lifted out pointy wax teeth to reveal his real, regularly shaped lower set. "I was playing with these when the police showed up. What do you think?" He raised one bent elbow as if to cover all but his hazel eyes with an imaginary cape. "I vant to suck your blood."

"It's a little much," I said, laughing. "How's your cooking?"

"If you'd like to join me inside," he offered, "I'd be happy to show you."

I considered it, but I was still skittish about being in the kitchen and not quite ready yet to deal with Johnson one-on-one.

"Let's meet back here tomorrow morning," I said. "You, me, and my uncle D."

"Sounds swell," Johnson replied.

Uncle D shut the front door of the house behind us.

"Lock it," I urged.

"Oh, sure." As he reached into his pants pocket for the keys, his cell trilled.

I crossed my arms in the bright suns.h.i.+ne as my uncle took the call.

"Uh," he said into the phone. "Hang on." Uncle D put his hand over it and yawned. "It's Ruby. Can you give us a few minutes?"

Uncle D had shown up at home from his date with Ruby after 4 A.M. A.M. that morning, too mellowed on artificial substances to appreciate what I'd had to say about Johnson and my call to 911. A mere five hours later, his squinty, bloodshot eyes suggested he'd seen enough Death Jam for a while. that morning, too mellowed on artificial substances to appreciate what I'd had to say about Johnson and my call to 911. A mere five hours later, his squinty, bloodshot eyes suggested he'd seen enough Death Jam for a while.

"We're going to be late," I said.

"Well, how 'bout this: you go ahead on foot. I'll take the car and beat you there. How does that sound?"

"Fine." I could only hope he and Ruby were in the midst of some kind of melodrama that would lead to a permanent breakup.

It's not like Uncle D had always been like this. He'd graduated with honors in poli sci from Texas State. But this past year he'd been more and more absent, wild. At work, he was usually his old self, but whatever. It was probably all Ruby's fault.

Making my way through the neighborhood, down the hill, up South Congress, I felt hyperaware of each pa.s.sing stranger - a mom pus.h.i.+ng a stroller of twins on the sidewalk, the neighborhood locals and tourists reading newspapers at the outdoor coffee shop, the gardening crew at the Unitarian church, the cops in the pa.s.sing patrol car. I'd always paid attention when I walked, but not with this kind of intensity. Not as though anyone might be a killer.

I reminded myself that I couldn't let what happened to Vaggio change my whole life, that the street was busy, populated, and that at seventeen, I was practically a woman.

I let myself in the back door of Sanguini's, peeking into the kitchen first before stepping in. No Uncle D, and his convertible wasn't in the back lot yet either.

I heard a car pull in behind me and turned in the doorway to spot Johnson parking. He'd arrived at Sanguini's armed with an open box containing Calphalon cleaner, a tin of paprika, a small bottle of canola oil, and a collection of wooden forks, spoons, ladles, and spatulas. He was a few minutes early.

"Black cherry utensils," he said at the back step. "Very pathogen-resistant."

I wasn't sure whether to be impressed with his vigilance against salmonella or insulted by his implication about the cleanliness of Vaggio's kitchen. Then I remembered it had been last scrubbed by a private service recommended by APD's victim services counselor.

"Miss Morris?" Johnson asked.

The neighboring shops had opened minutes earlier. To the south, a few beat-up employee vehicles cluttered the lot next door. To the north, the lot was empty. On our property, one car had been parked between the lines in the first row, Johnson's beige SUV. I was being rude, not letting him in, but new hire or not, he was a stranger.

"I know what's wrong." Johnson handed me the box, plucking two spoons and holding them like a cross in front of his heart. "This is a 'vampire' restaurant. Aren't you going to say it?" His smile revealed cla.s.sic fangs, which looked silly with his rodeo T-s.h.i.+rt and faded Wranglers. "Uh-hem."

"Huh?" I replied, no idea what he was talking about, trying to dredge up an inoffensive way to say I wasn't comfortable with the idea of the two of us alone together.

"Enter freely and of your own vill," he intoned. "Not," he went on conversationally, "that public places require an invitation, but just for fun."

And that was when Uncle D swung his yellow 1970 Cutla.s.s convertible, also known as "The Banana," into the parking lot. Top down, in sorry need of a wash.

"Absolutely," I said. "Come on into the air conditioning." I called "Hey," to Uncle Davidson, whose returning wave looked weak. At least he was off the phone.

Turning on my sandal heel, I led the two men into what had been Vaggio's dream kitchen and dumped the box on the brushed stainless countertop, which was littered with more wooden kitchen utensils. Black cherry, no doubt, and crusty from food prep.

I peered into the stockpot filled with a watery mess of congealed rigatoni and the saucepan laden with rock-solid marinara. In addition to being disgusting, it spoke little of the new chef's creative zeal. To his credit, though, Johnson immediately picked up the pot and headed toward the sink to dump it out.

"Quincie, honey," Uncle D began. "You two can make nice while I go lie down in the break room. My head's killing -"

"No," I said. It was too soon for one of us to be in the break room while the other was in the kitchen with someone new. "I mean, why don't you two haul in the recliner?"

My uncle slung an arm around me, misunderstanding my anxiety as p.i.s.sed-offness. "Sorry about last night."

With a sigh, I shrugged him off and fetched a bottle of orange Gatorade from the fridge. "Rehydrate," I suggested.

As Uncle Davidson and Johnson exited the stainless doors, I told myself they'd just be gone a minute and flipped the radio on to KUT. The piece playing was cla.s.sical, Bach or Beethoven or one of those B-named composers.

I glanced from the door to the dining room to the door to the break room to the door to the hall to the door to the parking lot. When Uncle D had redesigned the place, he'd been thinking about flow, not defense.

But now we were taking precautions. Outside official business hours, the back door would always be locked. Uncle D had promised he'd remember. Plus, he was talking about hiring a couple of bouncers and/or security guards. Soon.

My uncle and Johnson returned with the old vinyl recliner, struggling to figure out the angle at the doorway. The beat-up chair looked out of place in the ultramodern kitchen, in front of the two cash registers. My uncle sank down and extended the footrest. The Gatorade bottle sat on the floor beside the chair, untouched as he closed his eyes. Meanwhile, Johnson got scrubbing and I pushed up on the counter to supervise.

By the time Johnson hung the saucepan onto the overhead rack, the radio was accompanied by the nasal snore of my uncle, who slept like the dead.

"Hungry?" the chef asked, lavender eyes attentive.

Wait a minute, I thought. "You have lavender eyes?"

They'd been - what? - hazel the night before.

"Contacts. I thought they might make me look more otherworldly."

"They do that," I agreed, taking inventory. Johnson wasn't cla.s.sically handsome. His nose was too big, his smile too smug, his blond hair thinning on top. More skinny than slight. Cornball dimple in his left cheek. Bad dresser. Slouched. Pluses: youth; height, if he'd stand up straight; granny polite, though it came and went. Quirks: he wore two watches, expensive looking, that seemed out of place with the western clothes; his nails longer than usual for a man. And again, lavender eyes. "But they say more 'fairie prince' than 'vampire.'"

He retied his ap.r.o.n. "I'll try red next time, like in the movies."

I wasn't sure how much Uncle D had told Johnson, but it was my responsibility to get him up to speed. "You know," I said, "a lot of Sanguini's potential guests take the whole cape-and-incisors bit seriously."

"Cape?" he asked.

"Cape." Might as well spit it out, I decided. Uncle D envisioned the vampire chef not only as culinary expert but also as master of darkness. Each night's dinner climaxing in his leading a midnight toast. It was part of the job description. "His girlfriend, Ruby," I pointed at my snoozing guardian, "drinks human blood from virgin donors in Hill Country caves on nights with a full moon."

Johnson raised one eyebrow. "How do they know who's a virgin?"

"This isn't a joke!" I informed him. "We have to craft a complete gothic-inspired menu, capisce capisce?" I held up a finger to stop him from interrupting. "And, at least so far as the general public is concerned, we also have to present you as reigning vampire king over anybody who dares to stroll through the front door."

"We?" Johnson asked, pulling a bag of tomatoes from a nearby bin. He'd apparently stocked it last night. "Look, Miss Morris, I understand you're a young woman. Very young, barely a woman, and you don't want to come off as a pushover. But you might reconsider your tone." He set the bag on the counter and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. "You're lucky to have me. n.o.body else even wanted this job because here at Sanguini's the first-year restaurant fatality rate does in fact mean fatality fatality rate, and -" rate, and -"

"Hey!" I exclaimed, legs crossed in a manner hopefully more commanding than prissy. "A man died here, you know. Show a little respect."

"No worries, honey," my uncle piped up, having been awakened by our chatter. "I'll ask Ruby to give him a hand with his wardrobe and persona."

I remembered Ruby's laugh at Vaggio's funeral, the way she'd basked in the media limelight, how much time my uncle was spending with her already.

Not to be all territorial, but she wasn't the one whose grandparents and parents had once owned this restaurant. She wasn't the one who'd be taking it over one day. She wasn't even officially an employee. Besides, I'd thought I I was in charge of the chef. was in charge of the chef.

"Or," Uncle D mused, "maybe Ruby could play the master vampire and -"

"Wait!" I said, horrified at the idea of her in the spotlight night after night. "Let's not panic. I can help him. Really. I'll I'll turn him into Count Sanguini." turn him into Count Sanguini."

"Not that Ruby doesn't seem like a great dame and all," Johnson said, reaching for a knife to dice, "but I'm sure Miss Morris and I can handle the job."

He didn't like Ruby either, I realized. Brownie points for him.

Waiting for my uncle's answer, I bit my lower lip. It was twenty-seven days until the relaunch. Engraved invitations for the Friday the 13th party had already been ordered and prepaid. Johnson had a menu to design. I had school, Kieren. It was a big job, an important job, way out of my area of expertise and smack in the middle of Ruby's. But I wanted to do it anyway, to put the finis.h.i.+ng touch on Sanguini's, to create its star.

"All right, you two." Uncle D folded his hands, one atop another, like a corpse laid out for viewing. Then he pointed his toes as much as they would point in Birkenstocks. "If you run into trouble, just let me know."

Johnson's rigatoni marinara was an o.r.g.a.s.m in tomato sauce. If nothing else, the new chef could nail the basics.

After lunch, Uncle D took off to the restaurant supply store while I met with Johnson in the management office. It was bigger and cleaner than the old one we'd had before the remodel. My uncle had even sprung for a fake banana tree.

I took Uncle D's chair, and Johnson sat across from me. He'd brought an open bottle of blush wine, a '99 Sonoma Zinfandel from the fridge.

"It's too cold, even for a white," Johnson informed me, like he wasn't talking to a teenager, "and it's a day old, but we might as well finish it off."

I wasn't what anyone would call a partyer, but it wasn't like I'd never had a drink before either. Kieren and I snagged a couple of Coors every once in a great while, and there was that one disaster with the tequila. Besides, in my new a.s.sistant-manager-in-training mode, I didn't want to come off like a little kid. So I just nodded.

Johnson poured us each a gla.s.s, handed one to me, and raised his. "To Sanguini's."

How could I not drink to that? I raised my gla.s.s in reply, then brought it to my lips. The wine was chilly . . . and disturbing.

At my expression, Johnson laughed. "Something wrong?"

"Vaggio let me try wines sometimes," I said carefully. "I prefer white."

"Red is more sophisticated," Johnson replied. "Like you, sophisticated for your years but sure to improve with time."

I couldn't help being flattered and took another sip.

"Better?" he asked.

Not really, but I nodded again anyway.

"You'll develop a taste through continued exposure," Johnson explained. "You'll learn to appreciate its edge."

He sounded awfully sure about that, of himself. It was time to take charge of the situation. "Let's get your info in Frank," I said.

"Frank?" Johnson asked.