The Chosen

^{CHAPTER ONE}

The kitchen was a madhouse.

Busboys fought with waitresses over racks of hot silverware. The hostess double-timed, coming in for water glasses and bottles of Evian, while full garbage cans were quickly dragged away and replaced with empty ones. “Get me some clean broil pans sometime this year!” one prep cook yelled. “Eat me!” the beer-bellied dishwasher yelled back. Cute waitresses bustled in and out, lost in the deep concentration of wine-list memory, the specials of the day, and the perpetual balancing act of carrying six entrees on one tray one-handed. “These salads have been up for five minutes!” the cold-line cook yelled. “Get ’em out of here before I start throwing them!” More preps shucked oysters, made hollandaise from scratch, and butchered lettuce heads to bits simultaneously. The swingdoors banged open and closed with equal simultaneousness, flushing the kitchen’s hot confines with periodic wafts of cool, reviving air.

It’s a madhouse, all right, Vera Abbot thought. She stood at the end of the hot line in a three hundred dollar vermilion evening dress. But it’s my madhouse.

In a sense it was. The Emerald Room was the best restaurant in town, and Vera Abbot was its queen. A year ago they were lucky to do twenty dinners on a weeknight, now they were doing a hundred plus. It was more than good fortune—Vera had used her foresight, her management skills, and good hiring sense to turn the place inside out. She’d also worked her ass off. The kitchen was like a multipart machine where the failure of one component would shut down the entire works. It was Vera who kept the machine properly tuned. If you wanted the best restaurant in town, you had to find the best people, bring in the best food, and offer the best facility. Vera had done all of that, and had transformed The Emerald Room from a glorified steakhouse to a state-of-the-art dining room.

She walked down the hot line, minding her high heels over the black slipmats. “Ready for the good news?” she asked the bulky figure at their dual Jenn-Aire ranges.

Dan B. jerked his gaze up from a pan of sautéed soft crabs, his tall white chef’s hat jiggling. He had every burner going with a different entree, not to mention the prime rib and the duck in the ovens. He smirked at her with a look that said Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you, but I’m kind of busy right now.

“The governor’s liaison just called,” Vera announced. “He’s bringing in a party of ten in twenty minutes.”

“Tell him to go to Burger King!” Dan B. close to yelled. “I’m running eighteen dinners per half hour since seven o’clock, and now he’s bringing in his stuck-up cronies? Christ, those guys eat like pigs! Last time they ordered two entrees each!”

“You can handle it, Dan B.,” Vera assured him. “You have my absolute and unhesitant faith.”

“I don’t want your faith,” the big chef sputtered. “I could use a raise, though, and while you’re at it how about getting me some secondary so I don’t have to do the jobs of three men six nights a week. And how about…”

Vera traipsed off, smiling. A good chef was never happy unless he was complaining. Dan B. was the best chef she’d ever known. No matter how well Vera ran the place, it didn’t amount to much unless the orders were superlative every time.

“Hey, gang!” he yelled. “Governor and his fat pals’ll be here in twenty! Get ready to bust your humps!”

The entire kitchen released a wave of moans.

Good staff worked best under pressure. The line preps didn’t even look up as she passed—they were too busy. Successful staff management involved the maintenance of respect and acknowledgement. Vera had pulled off both. Her employees respected her without fearing her, and they knew that good work would be properly acknowledged. They also knew that bad work would be properly acknowledged too, with a prompt invitation to take their skills elsewhere. Vera had honed The Emerald Room into a model of excellence, and in doing so, its reputation only attracted the most serious to its payroll.

“Would you please get me some clean broil pans!” the hot prep whined again. “You want me to start cooking the fucking fish under my Zippo?”

“You can cook it on my fat ass,” yelled back Lee, the dishwasher. His long hair swung in wet strings at his shoulders as he slammed full racks into the machine one after another. Then he rushed to the conveyor exit, madly unloaded the clean dishware, stacked it, and carried it to the shelves. Lee’s long hair and tremendous beer gut made him look like Meat Loaf on the skids. Vera dismissed his shortcomings: he drank on duty, griped to no end, waged nightly wars with the cooks—but he was a great dishwasher. Vera pretended she didn’t see the carafe of Wild Goose Lager that he’d secreted behind the machine.

“Like I don’t have enough to do,” he complained to himself. “You dumb fuckers make all the money and I do all the work. One day I’ll put my foot up all of you’re a—” He paused as if shocked, only then noticing Vera standing by the rack stand. “Oh, uh, hi, Vera. I, uh, I didn’t see you there.”

“Hello, Lee. Happy at work?”

“Oh, yes ma’am,” he stammered, then slipped away to carry more broil pans to the hot prep. Vera could easily put up with his manner. Any guy who would wash dishes all night, steam-clean grease-laden floors, and wade waist-deep in dumpsters—all for six dollars an hour—was worth putting up with.

She passed the coffee station. The kitchen’s din faded behind her. Going from the kitchen to the dining room was liken to going from one world to another. Humid heat traded places with cool calm, the racket of the dinner rush gave over to quiet conversation and light Vivaldi from hidden speakers. The maitre d’ was expertly pouring Perrier-Jouet for a table of state legislators. A troup of bussers prepared a large banquet table in back for the governor’s party. A smug critic from the Post meticulously sampled an assortment of appetizers: Oysters Chesapeake, grilled Muscovy duck, Crab Meat Flan, and a tuned-up variation of antipasto. He did not look displeased.

Even this late—9 p.m.—every station was full or close to it. The dining room, in three wings, was well appointed, leaning toward more of a social club ambience; Vera had seen to a complete face-lift when she’d taken over as R.M. Rich gray paneled walls rose to a high, raftered ceiling from which hung a great octagonal chandelier. Tapers flickered from inset cherry wood sconces; well-framed nautical artwork adorned the back walls. Vera had made sure to replace the old steakhouse furniture with real armchairs and oak dining tables. The east windows offered a spacious view of the lit city dock and the bay.

My baby, she metaphored. She stood by the service bar, gazing out into the quiet robotic activity of her employees. This used to be the place where diners came as a last resort, because downtown was booked. Now their weekend reservations extended a month in advance. Since the changeover, The Emerald Room had yet to receive a negative or even mediocre review. Whenever celebrities were in town, this was where they came to eat.

“Vera, you want to hear something strange?”

Glasses clinked. Vera peeked into the service bar. Donna, the night barmaid, talked as she automatically washed, scrubbed, and rinsed a flank of #8 glasses in the triple sink. She’d been hired as a big favor to Dan B. Donna was his wife. Donna was also a reformed alcoholic. Vera took her on with a condition: that she get on the wagon and stay there. “One fall, and you’re out,” she was informed. That had been six months ago, and Donna hadn’t had a drop since. Her return to sobriety had changed the telltale dark circles and pastiness into a fresh vitality. She was mid-thirties, sort of short and full-bodied. Twin short blond ponytails wagged as she vigorously bent to clean the bar glasses.

“Sure, Donna,” Vera answered. “I’d love to hear something strange.”

Donna stood up and faced her. Her eyes gleamed. “Someone’s been asking about you.”

“Let me guess. The county liquor board? The health department? Oh_, I know, the feds, right? I knew I should’ve declared that sixty-cent tip I got last week when we were a waitress short.”

“You know that guy Chip, the manager at The Ram?”

“Well, I’ve known him for about five years, so I guess that means I know him.”

“Well, I was talking to him today, and he says this weird guy came in for lunch yesterday afternoon.”

“A weird guy. That’s not strange in this town.”

“So the guy asks Chip what’s the best restaurant in town, and naturally Chip says The Emerald Room.”

“Naturally,” Vera concurred.

“So then the guy asks Chip who’s the best restaurant manager in town, and naturally Chip says—”

“Me?” Vera asked.

“That’s right. You.”

This was obscurely flattering—being touted as the best R.M. in town to “weird guys.” But what was the point?

Donna rambled on, “And a couple of hours ago we ran out of ice, so I drove down to McGuffy’s to get some, and Doug Harris tells me the same thing. The same weird guy went in there for a drink and asked who’s the best R.M. in town.”

Vera’s brow lowered. “What did he say?”

“Same thing Chip said. You.”

At least I’ve got a good rep. Vera asked the next logical question. “Anybody know who this weird guy is?”

“No, no one’s ever seen him before. But Doug got his name. It’s Feldspar. Ever hear of him?”

“Feldspar? No.”

“Doug watched him leave; he parked in front of the Market House.” Donna paused for dramatic effect. “He was driving a brand-new red Lamborghini. Doug said it probably cost two hundred grand.”

Now Vera felt curious to the point of aggravation. Lamborghinis? Weird guy? What was this all about?

Donna raised a soapy finger. She had a way of making a short story long. “But that’s not the best part.”

Vera tapped her foot, waiting.

“Fifteen minutes ago, a nine-thirty reservation comes in. Want to guess what the name was?”

“Feldspar,” Vera ventured.

“Exactly. And he said he wanted an ‘interview’ with the manager.’’

Vera understood none of this. “What do you mean? A job interview?”

Donna laughed. “Vera, I doubt that a guy who drives a new Lamborghini is going to be looking for work as a busser. He said he wanted an interview, of the ‘utmost exigency.’ Those were his exact words. I took the call myself.”

Utmost exigency. No, he probably doesn’t want a job as a busser. “Nine-thirty, you said?”

“That’s right,” Donna verified. “You’ve got about ten minutes. Isn’t it mysterious?”

“Thanks, Donna.’’ Vera scurried off to the ladies room. Yes, it was mysterious, and she enjoyed mysteries. Was Feldspar an eccentric critic? The Emerald Room got them all the time, but even the most renowned critics didn’t drive two hundred thousand dollar cars. Then—

A buyer? she considered. An investor?

She hurried to freshen up. She checked her liner, powdered her nose, checked her coiffed, jet-black hair. Not looking too shabby tonight, she considered to the mirror. She adjusted the bust line of the low-cut evening dress; its vermilion chiffon gave off a warm, silky luster. Against her bosom glittered a brightly polished amethyst on a gold chain, a Valentine’s gift from an old boyfriend. The boyfriend hadn’t been worth a shit, but at least the necklace was nice. The stone’s crisp deep purple sparkled just right with her gold and sapphire earrings. But when she raised her hand to pat her hair back, a greater sparkle flashed in the mirror. Vera smiled automatically. Her engagement ring was beautiful—Paul had given it to her just last week. It reminded her of something more than what it was: the ring was a covenant, a piece of the future. She held it up, turned it in the bright light and watched it flash like a starburst. Yes, for a moment she knew she could see the future in its sharp-cut facets. The ring, and the bright likeness of herself which faced her in the mirror, reminded her how wonderful life could be, and how blessed.

««—»»

The valets scrambled. The red Lamborghini purred up into the entry court and stopped. The driver’s door didn’t open, it raised. Then a figure stepped out.

Vera, Donna, Dan B., and Lee watched discreetly from the double doors, peeking through the great front window into the court. “The valets are in the way!” Donna whispered. “I can’t see him!” Nor could Vera; she squinted between heads to catch a glimpse but only caught some vague dark shape. Just as vaguely, then, the shape claimed the valet stub and made for the entrance.

“Here he comes!” Donna whispered excitedly.

Lee scratched his beer belly. “Looks kinda short, don’t he?”

“And what’s that?” Dan B. squinted. “He gotta beard?”

“Come on, gang,” Vera complained. “It’s no big deal, it’s just some rich guy coming to dinner. Let’s get back to work.’’

The group disbanded. Vera remained in the kitchen cove, watching through the swingdoor window. She didn’t want to seem presumptuous; Feldspar knew that she knew he wanted to see her. Vera figured it was more professional to let the hostess seat him. When time came for this “interview” of “utmost exigency,” he would simply have to ask for her.

The hostess led him through the front dining room; Vera could only see his back. Dark suit, an unusual cut. Jewelry seemed to glitter on his hand. And Lee was right: Feldspar seemed short, as well as awkward. He slowly followed the hostess’s sleek shape as if walking with some equivocal caution.

No big deal, huh? Vera smiled to herself. If it’s no big deal, how come you’re standing here with your face glued to the window? Once again, the sense of mystery embraced her—it even titillated her. Who is this guy? What’s he want with me?

The hostess seated him at their best four-top in the window wing. Now Vera could only see him sideways from the rear. Stubby hands opened the menu. Feldspar seemed to study the entree list as if studying technical writing.

Was he disappointed? Let down?

Stop being silly, Vera suggested to herself. She went back to the hot line. Orders sizzled, tempting aromas sifted through the air. Vera looked off as the chef expertly pan-blackened two more orders of aged prime rib on the industrial eleven-inch burners.

“Relax, will you?” Dan B. Said. He spoke as he put an order of baby lamb chops up to go out. “You’re turning yourself into knots. Didn’t I just hear you say it was no big deal?”

Yeah, Vera thought. “I just hate being curious. What does he want? Why did he ask to see me?”

“He’s probably a wine distributor or something. Gonna drop a big check to impress you, then try to cut you a deal on whatever he’s peddling.”

Maybe. That sort of thing happened all the time; The Emerald Room’s wine list was coveted by every wine distributor in the county. Yet, for some reason, Vera felt certain that this was something else.

I’m sure that it is. But what?

««—»»

She’d kept tabs on him constantly, via the waitress. Feldspar had ordered the Flan and Calamari Italiano for appetizers, the smoked scallops salad, and Veal Chesapeake. He’d also ordered two snifters of Remy Martin Louis XIII, which cost seventy dollars a shot. The waitress had squealed when she’d come back to the kitchen.

“You look like you just won the lottery,” Vera remarked.

The waitress giggled. “Almost. His check came to one-eighty. He left me a hundred dollar tip!”

“I must be on the wrong end of this business.”

“And Vera. He wants to talk to you now.”

“Go get him, killer,” Dan B. chuckled.

Lee guffawed behind the dishwash conveyor. “Maybe he’s a pimp, Vera. Wants some new stuff for his stable.”

Assholes, she thought. Dan B. and Lee’s laughter followed her through the kitchen swingdoors. She felt foolish yet enthused. Outside, dinner was winding down. A Corelli violin sonata whispered beneath subtle dining room chatter and clinking coffee cups. In the window wing, a bulky shadow rose in silence.

“Ms. Abbot?” The voice was darkly genteel. A thick hand extended in greeting.

Vera smiled curtly, shook his hand. “You must be—”

“Feldspar,” Feldspar verified. “Please. Join me.”

Vera took a seat across from him. The table was clear now; a cup of coffee steamed between them. The candlelight seemed to blur her guest’s face.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the figure said. “I realize the hour, and how short time must be for you as the manager of this fine establishment. You are the manager, correct?”

“That’s right, Mr. Feldspar.” Behind him she could see the city’s late-night glitter through the window. Moonlight floated shard-like on the bay. It distracted her, making her avert her eyes from the man across the table.

Some manager, she caught herself. Managers were at least supposed to be interested in the satisfaction of their patrons. “How was your meal?” she asked.

“Preeminent.”

Now Vera could see him. He looked…odd, she evaluated. He seemed wide without being fat. He wore a black pinstripe suit—which looked like very good material—and a black silk shirt. No tie. The large pale face defied calculation as to age; he was old and young at once. His hair, as black as Vera’s, appeared oddly pulled back; an eloquently trimmed black goatee rimmed his mouth.

“Indeed,” he continued to compliment. “The finest meal I’ve had in some time.”

“That’s very nice of you to say. I’m glad you liked it. Would you like anything else? We have a wonderful assortment of homemade desserts.”

“Oh, no. No thank you. I’m not much of a sweets person.”

The moment held in check. Suddenly Vera felt childlike, looking at him in some kind of canted wonder.

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” he finally went on. ”A matter of—”

“Utmost exigency.”

“Yes, yes. A…business proposition.”

Maybe Lee’s right, she wanted to laugh. Maybe he is a pimp. Several big rings glittered on his squab hands. A gold cuff link glittered F in tiny diamonds, and about his wrist she unmistakably noted the Rolex.

He must have sensed her distraction. “Forgive me. Of course, this must be a bad time for you. What time are you off?”

Vera fought not to stare at him. She felt certain he hadn’t come here to make a play for her. They were strangers. A business proposition, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered against the distraction.

What did he say? ‘‘I, uh…I’m off at midnight.”

“Fine. Would you care to meet elsewhere, then?” His hooded eyes seemed to recede in some of their gleam. “Or perhaps you’d prefer not to meet at all.”

“Oh, no, I’d be happy to,” she agreed too quickly. But why had she said that? Why hadn’t she first asked what exactly it was he wanted? The thought never occurred to her.

Feldspar nodded. “At your convenience, but of course. I’m afraid, though, that I’m quite unfamiliar with this city. Where would you care to meet? I’ll need directions.”

She couldn’t keep her eyes off the sparkling jewelry on his hands. Her consciousness felt like a split thread, twisting as it unwound. The confusion made her tipsy.

“How lovely,” Feldspar remarked.

“Pardon me?”

“Your amethyst.’’ His eyes gestured her necklace. “I’ve always found it to be the most attractive stone, regardless of price. True beauty must never have a price.” Then he turned his hand and showed his own amethyst set into a large gold pinky ring. “Your engagement stone is quite beautiful too.”

Now she knew beyond doubt that he wasn’t putting moves on her. If this was merely some sexual interest, why acknowledge her engagement?

“Thank you,” she eventually muttered. She had to visibly blink to get her mind back on track. What could it be about Feldspar that distracted her so?

“There’s a little tavern a block down the street,” she said. “The Undercroft. It’s quiet and quite nice.”

“Excellent. The Undercroft it is.” Feldspar rose and strayly straightened a lapel. “I’ll see you there at midnight. And thank you very much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you.”

Vera didn’t think to rise herself. She remained sitting there, looking up at this finely dressed, and strange, man.

She squinted. “But what exactly is it you want to talk to me about, Mr. Feldspar?”

“A job,” he said. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

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