The Chosen

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR}

It was Paul’s good fortune that he’d never actually met McGowen, though Vera had griped about him endlessly: an obnoxious, ill-mannered slob who had a knack for sexually harassing the waitresses. McGowen, nevertheless, was The Emerald Room’s general manager, and Vera’s boss when she’d worked there. Vera’s sudden departure had left the Emerald in managerial chaos, so it stood to reason that McGowen would be all too eager to help Paul out.

Provided he fell for the lie…

“Yes, Mr. McGowen, my name’s Kevin Sullivan,” Paul said, “and I was wondering if you could help me. I work for a collection agency. Of course I realize that you might not want to help me at all, since a general manager might feel a sense of loyalty towards an employee.”

McGowen smirked, corpulent behind his cluttered office desk. Unconsciously, he picked his nose. “Which employee are we talking about?”

“A Vera Abbot.”

McGowen’s eyes thinned like those of a cat spying fresh prey. Then he smiled. “Well you can bet I don’t have a whole lot of loyalty for Vera Abbot. The bitch quit without even putting in proper notice, and she conned three of my best employees to quit too. She left the place in a shambles, we’re still recovering.”

And it’s a good thing you don’t know who I am, Mr. McGowen, Paul thought, ’cause I’m the reason she quit. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

An unnoticed booger seemed to dangle from McGowen’s sandy mustache. “Sullivan, huh? A collection agency? What, Abbot owes money?”

“Indeed she does, Mr. McGowen, quite a bit of money,” Paul lied further. “She owes thousands and thousands of dollars on her credit cards.”

“Anything I can do to help you burn that bitch, just ask.”

Ahhhhh, Paul thought. It worked! Finally I’m getting somewhere. “She’s been ignoring our calls and notices for quite some time, and when I paid a visit to the address on her credit application, the landlord told me she no longer lived there. And she left no forwarding address. Did she by chance leave one with you?”

“Not a residential address. But she did leave her new employer’s address with me for her tax forms and W-2. Would that help you out?”

Paul had to consciously resist shouting out with glee.

“Yes, Mr. McGowen. That would help me out more than you can imagine.”

««—»»

When the night wound down, Vera retreated to her office to tabulated receipts. Forty-seven dinners tonight! she nearly rejoiced. An all-time high! At least it was something. After all, The Carriage House hadn’t been open that long, and though these numbers were nothing to rave about compared to The Emerald Room’s typical receipts, it was a clear indication that business was looking up. Vera even felt inclined to scoot over to room service and brag, but then she remembered that even the restaurant’s all-time high would be significantly less than the nightly RS receipts. Why give Kyle an excuse to rub my nose in poop? she reasoned.

“Can you believe it?” Donna remarked, suddenly sauntering in. “It’s the third night this week that the mayor came, and tonight he brought a bunch of town council members!”

“Tip City, huh?” Vera said.

“I did great.” Donna seemed calmly elated. “Didn’t I tell you things would start to get better?”

Yeah. But Vera’s mood flattened, as Donna counted out her tips. She looks fine, Vera observed. The same old Donna. Vera thought again of what she’d seen last night: Donna sleepwalking past her door, reeking of alcohol. But if Donna had relapsed, wouldn’t it be obvious, wouldn’t the telltale signs have reemerged? The dull listlessness, the facial pallor and anguish lines, the overall crushed features of the alcoholic? Vera noticed none of that, so again she had to conclude that she must have dreamed the whole thing. It made sense, given the stress of the new job combined with fitful, dream-laden sleep…

“You okay?”

Vera looked up from her ponderings. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Well…” Donna hesitated. “You’re acting a little weird lately, a little depressed.”

Dan B. had said the same thing. “I don’t know, I guess I—”

“You’re still letting Paul get to you,” Donna said. It wasn’t even a suggestion—it was a statement. “If you want my opinion, you need to confront him. It won’t be easy, but it’s something you need to do. You need to go and tell him off, give him a piece of your mind, tell him to his face that he’s a piece of shit for what he did to you.”

Vera supposed she knew this all along but was deliberately avoiding the issue. And she had avoided it, hadn’t she? For weeks she’d been telling herself that eventually she would return to the apartment to pick up some of her things, but she always found some excuse not to. That’s all I’m doing with my life right now—making excuses.

“Don’t make excuses,” Donna said, ever the psychic. “You’re pretty easy to read, Vera. Why not just get it over with?”

“I know you’re right.” Vera fingered a paperweight. “I’ll go soon.”

“No, you’ll go tomorrow. There’s no reason to put it off anymore. You’ll feel a lot better once you get it over with, believe me. Tomorrow. No more excuses. If you run late, we can handle things in the restaurant till you get back.”

Vera nodded. She’s right. It’s time. “All right, I’ll go tomorrow—”

“You’ll see. If you don’t let it out, it’ll simmer inside you forever. Go tell that scumbag off.”

“I will,” Vera agreed. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

“And, besides, once you’ve got Paul out of your system, you can start thinking about getting laid again!” Donna was kind enough to add, laughing at Vera’s quick smirk. “Anyway, I’m off to bed; I’m absolutely exhausted.”

“Goodnight.”

“Oh, and remember, my offer’s always good. Anytime you want to borrow my doctor, just let me know.”

“Your doctor?” Vera queried.

“Yeah…Doc Johnson!” Donna finished, and left the office before a trial of more laughter.

Laugh it up, Vera thought. She was weary of everyone implying she was a cranky, sex-starved bitch—

Even though it’s true…

It annoyed her, that her thoughts so often roved to sex. It made her feel inadequate. Whenever she saw Kyle, or even heard his name, she thought of her dream, the fantasy of The Hands, a dream she now admitted she looked forward to. And lately, she’d caught herself appraising male restaurant customers in secret—checking them out, envisioning their bodies minus clothes, wondering what they’d be like in bed.

And then there was always Feldspar…

I wonder what he’d be like—

She grit her teeth, shook her head. What is WRONG with you! You’re fantasizing about sleeping with your boss!

But the image behind the question lingered, as much as she tried to banish it.

She poured herself a little wine, to relax. She hated to think of Feldspar’s reaction were he to know that such things crossed her mind. She could not deny it, though: Feldspar attracted her, in some odd, incalculable way. It was the man’s mystery, she supposed.

Kyle, on the other hand, she was attracted to only in the roughest sense. Purely physical, she told herself. It couldn’t be anything more than physical, she knew, because she couldn’t stand him as a person. Snide, egotistical, smartass. But…

So good-looking.

She began to feel sluggishly excited. She was tired-it had been a long day—yet she knew the root of her excitement. Soon, she’d go to sleep and dream. She only wished she could exchange the sponsor of the fantasy—Kyle—with someone she liked, or just anyone, anyone other than the rude room-service manager. Chief Mulligan? she thought and laughed to herself. An obese redneck twenty years her senior? No thanks. But that reminded her of the bizarre call she’d gotten today, the police sergeant reporting that Mulligan hadn’t been seen since yesterday. Probably passed out at Elks Lodge. And then she remembered that other man, the accounting hawk, Taylor. To think she’d actually believed he was really a mob lieutenant! But he was definitely good-looking, her sex-muse continued. Handsome, fit.

Evidently, Feldspar had sent him packing. Taylor had said he’d be dining at the restaurant, but Vera hadn’t seen him all night. What are you thinking now? she questioned herself. What, you were going to make a play for him? Have sex with him in his suite? For all intents, a perfect stranger? Preposterous.

Nevertheless, she felt curious as to whether or not Taylor had had dinner at The Carriage House, as he’d said he would. Certainly, as a scout for an accounting firm, Taylor would have a company credit card for business expenses. She flipped through night’s credit receipts but—

No Terrence Taylor, she discovered.

Kyle had checked Taylor into one of Vera’s suites. Next, she checked her room register to see when Taylor had checked out.

That’s weird…

According to the register, Mr. Terrence Taylor, Room 201, never checked out at all.

««—»»

He’d checked in instead—

Good Christ…

—into a nightmare.

When Mr. Terrence Taylor’s eyes finally opened, all he could see at first was an ill-lit wash of murk. His legs felt numb, and a headache gnawed his brain. What the fuck happened?

Taylor’s memory struggled back…

That guy! What was his name? Kyle? He’d taken him to meet this Feldspar fellow, the general manager, but he hadn’t been in his office. “Oh, that’s right, he’s in the stockroom checking in a morning shipment. Follow me.”

Sure, Taylor thought. But hurry it up, will ya? Wrestling comes on in a half hour. Kyle led him down a cramped hallway behind the front offices, which seemed an odd access to a supply room. And—wait a minute. Why would Feldspar be tending to a supply delivery? Taylor had been a manager himself once, at a T.G.I.F. in Charlotte. Inventory and supply receipt was the service manager’s job, not the general manager’s…

Along the way, they passed several housemaids who were not exactly…provocative in the looks department. Sullen. Pasty-faced. Fat. One, with breasts like flaccid goldfish bowls, seemed to shrink at the sight of Kyle. If you were the last girl in town, Taylor thought, I’d be cutting holes in watermelons. You better forget about trying out for that Cosmo cover, baby.

A large security door stood at the end of the hall. room service staff only, read a plaque. Kyle unlocked it, and showed Taylor in. “The first pantry,” Kyle indicated.

Pantry? Taylor wondered. “I thought we were going to the supply room.”

“We are. Right in here.”

Taylor viewed the long kitchen, amid vague cooking smells. Pretty complete set-up, he appraised. Sure as hell more complete than the kitchen at T.G.I.F. Everything looked brand new. Along the back wall behind the prep line stood three heavily padlocked pantry doors, the first of which Kyle unlocked. They’re awfully security conscious around here, Taylor concluded.

“Mr. Feldspar’s right in here,” Kyle said.

It never occurred to Taylor (not the most deductive of men) to wonder why the general manager of The Inn would be behind a padlocked door. He was too worried about making his pitch. He straightened his tie and lapels, then his hair, then checked to make sure his phony Rolex was still ticking. Yeah, it would be great to sell this Feldspar guy a bookkeeping contract. The company needed more business, and Taylor sure could use a contract himself since he worked on commission. At least at T.G.I.F. he’d gotten a salary.

Then:

What the hell is this? he thought when he entered the pantry.

The pantry was smaller than a trailer bedroom. And it was—

Empty, Taylor realized.

Nothing on the shelves because there were no shelves. No foodstocks, no supplies—

“What gives?’’ Taylor began to turn. “This is no pantry—”

And before he could finish turning, Kyle had the garrote around his neck nice and tight. Taylor tried to yell but no sound came out. His fingers tried to dig in under the garrote. His heart beat to explode…

Kyle was chuckling from behind, tightening the cord. The buttons on Taylor’s suit jacket flew off as he struggled. Next, he was powered to the floor, his Florsheim’s thunking the walls. The cord around his throat tightening in increments; Taylor felt his face swell up. He was a strong man, more than a match for this psycho Kyle, yet every expenditure of his energy proved a waste. Not much more than shock and pure, primitive terror coursed through his brain. Beyond that, however distantly, he somehow sensed that he was…descending.

Kyle’s knee pressed against Taylor’s neck; the garrote continued to tighten. And next:

A gush of air. A block of bright light.

Feet thumping, his eyes fit to launch from his skull, Taylor was dragged out by the throat. “Right this way,

Mr. Taylor,” Kyle mocked, his face huge in Taylor’s warped vision. “Mr. Feldspar seems to be detained for the moment, but I’m sure that we can take care of you.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of him, all right,” another voice issued. It was clearly a woman’s voice, rough and densely sultry. Two more hands were on him now. His brain starved of blood, Taylor could think now only in snatches and obscure chunks of terror. As he felt himself being lifted up onto some sort of table, his consciousness began to dim out…

“Aw, shit!” complained the woman’s voice. “He’s dead already. Why’d you kill him so fast? We could’ve had some fun first.”

Kyle’s hands came away. The garrote lost its tension. “Well, what difference does it make if he’s dead?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The woman laughed. “We can still have a little fun at that.”

Blood swam back into Taylor’s brain—

They think I’m dead, he thought.

Unseen hands next were pulling off his slacks.

“Oooo! Red undies!” exclaimed the woman. “How sexy. I just hate plain old white shorts on a man.”

Don’t move! Taylor thought beyond the madness of what was being done to him. Play dead! Let them think you’re dead!

Not an easy task, considering what happened next. His fancy red undershorts were skimmed off, and, very quickly—

“Holy shit!” Taylor yelled, lurching on the table.

“How do you like that? He’s not dead after all—”

A bottle cracked Taylor in the head, then shattered. His brain bounced within his skull.

“Yeah, that ought to calm him down a little.”

Only then did Mr. Terrence Taylor pass out for real. But just before that final spark of his consciousness faded away, he did indeed realize what exactly what was being done to him: He was being very enthusiastically sodomized.

««—»»

Eventually it all came back. No details, just the barren facts. The fuckers tried to kill me… His vision, and consciousness, returned to him in little drips. Pain roared in his skull.

Where am I now? he struggled to wonder.

He lay flat on his back, elevated. A table, he thought. It felt cold beneath him. His eyes roved behind slitted lids, against cold white light, but his vision remained too blurred to make out any features of the place; beyond just a few feet, objects turned to blobs.

Then he heard…whistling.

Very slowly, Taylor turned his head to the right. Just a yard off a figure stood with his back to him. It’s that Kyle psycho, Taylor realized. The fucker that tried to strangle me, the fucker that—

Well, Taylor didn’t finish that thought. He squinted on. Kyle was whistling as he tended to some unseen task at what appeared to be a long stainless-steel table.

Like the prep tables he’d seen earlier, and the ones he remembered when he’d worked at T.G.I.F. A kitchen. A restaurant kitchen. Was that where he was?

Taylor strained his eyes. The effort steepened the throbbing pain in his head, but soon his vision began to clear.

He craned his neck off the table, staring. Then his thoughts ground to a halt…

Kyle was fileting strips of meat off a long bone, and placing each strip in a pan. Yes, it was meat, all right—

Human meat.

For what Taylor made out next, as his vision continued to focus, were the two bare human legs lain out across the table before Kyle.

What in God’s name…is this place?

This was a reasonable question, but by now the answer scarcely mattered, at least not to Mr. Terrence Taylor. Because in the next moment he became aware of an even more atrocious fact:

He managed to rise up on his elbows.

He looked down.

Oh my God no holy Jesus—

It wasn’t enough that the legs on Kyle’s cutting table were human. When Taylor looked down—

—holy Jesus holy Jesus to God…

—he realized, upon the sight of his own short-stumped hips, that the legs Kyle was so calmly fileting were his own.

“Well would you look at this!” Kyle had turned, noticing Taylor over his shoulder. “You’re still alive? I’m impressed, Mr. Taylor. Not many guys could go through what you been through and still be kicking.” Kyle smiled, picking something up. “But I think we can fix that real quick.”

Taylor shuddered as if encased in ice. He tried to get up but, of course, that prospect wasn’t very good since his fucking legs were no longer connected to his body.

Kyle, still whistling, inserted the long, thin Sheffield fileting knife directly into Terrence Taylor’s right eye. When the tip of the blade met the back of the eye socket, Kyle smacked the butt with his palm, driving the blade deep into the brain.

Terrence Taylor croaked aloud. He should have stayed at T.G.I.F.

“I’ll bet you’re dead now,” Kyle remarked.

For good measure, he gave the knife a couple of quick, hard jiggles. Then he withdrew it and went back to fileting the legs on the opposing prep table. He was whistling “Sweetest Legs I Ever Did See” by Robert Johnson.

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