Grilled Cheese and Goblins

by Nicole Kimberling

  Gunther stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Neither of us seem to want to, so why should I adhere to some pretense?”

  Keith shook his head. “We’ve already done this, Gunther. It didn’t work the first time and it won’t work now.”

  “We never had a proper date before, just a series of booty calls,” Gunther said. “So let me make it up to you the old-fashioned way.”

  Keith had to admit the temptation. And not just the temptation of going on a date with Gunther. Verdant was legendary. While he’d worked as a chef, he’d never given much credit to the vegetarians in his field, nor had he been any great star. The chef at Verdant was both. And he did want Gunther to make it up to him. Hell, he might even be able to figure out what Gunther found so inadequate about that series of disconnected sexual events that he’d wanted to call them off.

  “Wouldn’t we need reservations?”

  “The chef owes me.” Gunther leaned forward and whispered, “Pixie trouble. You know how capricious they can be. One little misunderstanding and they’re curdling your cream and luring you off Land’s End in the dark. But it’s all sorted out now. So how about it? We can be down there, done and back again before this place closes.”

  Keith was about to refuse. Then the alcohol kicked in, relaxing him enough to say yes.

  Verdant was located in an airy space alongside the marina in Fort Mason. From its wide windows, Keith could survey both the marina and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond.

  The chef, a friendly-faced brunette with close-cropped hair, greeted Gunther as a VIP and seated him immediately.

  The menu was elegant, filled with heirloom vegetables, local wine and artisanal cheese.

  The price tag was breathtaking. Keith, in fact, had to take a deep breath as he automatically calculated price-point-to-food cost.

  It actually wasn’t that bad, for the location and for what they were getting.

  And besides, he wasn’t paying.

  Like every fine dining establishment that Keith had ever been to, the tables were small and relatively close together. But no one was seated alongside them, so once the appetizer had been delivered, their conversation could continue unimpeded by the presence of civilians.

  “So, who do you like for the murders?”

  Gunther glanced up, a look of slight confusion on his face. He set his fork down and said, “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “My lunch. My companion.” He gave a warm smile, as though it was only right and natural that all knowledge of his current mission should be put on hold just because someone set a radicchio, apple and pomegranate-seed salad down in front of him. “I was wondering, was being an agent your first career choice?”

  “No, not at all,” Keith said, laughing. “I was a chef with no aspirations at law enforcement and no knowledge of the other realms.”

  “I wondered,” Gunther remarked.

  “Why?”

  “When we—” Gunther seemed to struggle a moment before finding the words he wanted. “When we were seeing each other before, you seemed to be uncomfortable with extra-human Americans.”

  Keith shrugged. “I hadn’t been with NIAD that long. And the few experiences I’d had—especially with goblins—had been extremely negative and personally painful.”

  “I imagine they were.” Gunther poked at his salad, seeming to consider and then discard some worrying thought before saying, “So when you cooked, did you work in other people’s restaurants or did you have your own?”

  “Other people’s at first. I followed the tourists from place to place. Finally I managed to get the capital to open my own place—a former diner with twenty seats and the ugliest gray linoleum ever manufactured.”

  “I sense this is when you had your first other-realm encounter,” Gunther said.

  “It wasn’t for about a year. I busted my ass making that place. I was surprised that all my teeth didn’t fall out from grinding. I got this gray streak during the opening.” Keith touched his temple self-consciously. “I’m thinking of dyeing it. I’m only thirty-four.”

  Gunther shrugged. “Premature gray is standard in our line of work, I think.”

  Keith nodded. “Very true.”

  “You were telling me about how you joined NIAD,” Gunther prompted.

  “One day one of my customers came by with this special request. He had this family obligation. Some kind of religious feast he wanted me to cater. He’d provide the meat and all I had to do was cook it for this special summer banquet. I asked, ‘what’s the meat?’ He told me it was special pork from Sweden.”

  Gunther nodded grimly. He took a forkful of salad.

  “Right away I knew it wasn’t pork. The bones were all wrong, but I needed the money and I just didn’t think about it that hard.”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “I honestly didn’t know. Some endangered creature, I suppose. I figured if it was already dead it shouldn’t go to waste, right?” Keith shook his head. “I was an idiot.”

  “You weren’t an idiot. You just didn’t know what you were dealing with.”

  “Even without the extra-human angle I knew there was something sketchy about that meat and I went ahead and cooked it anyway. Each time I catered for them, I would try and figure out what it had been. I ran down all those endangered Chinese delicacies, trying to figure it out—looking at the bones of sun bears—seeing if they matched. And I knew for a goddamn fact it had to be illegal, but the money was too good to say no. I kept thinking, ‘At least I’m not dealing coke, right?’ It never occurred to me to look at the bones of one of the most widely dispersed animals on the planet.”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “I got a piece of protein that had some skin attached and found a tattoo. No caribou, cow or sun bear tattoos Mom on their arm.” Keith wiped his lips with his napkin.

  “Had you eaten the flesh?”

  “Of course I’d eaten it. How was I supposed to tell how it tasted without eating it? I’d eaten a lot of it.”

  Gunther sat in silence. An unspoken question within him. Since Keith knew exactly what the question was, he said, “It’s okay. You can ask me. Everybody asks me.”

  “How did it taste?”

  “Really delicious.” Keith pushed his soup plate away. The spinach, chard and escarole soup had gone down easier than he expected, considering the conversation. “The best meat I ever ate. The last meat I ever ate, as it turns out.”

  Gunther, too, finished his first course and set his fork aside. “That doesn’t explain how you got involved with the Irregulars.”

  “No.” Keith waited politely for the slim, pleasant-seeming waitress to take his plate before continuing. “I reported what I’d found to the police and a couple of agents contacted me. They wanted to set up a sting operation and I agreed. That’s how I found out that my customers were goblins.”

  “That must have been a shock.”

  “Finding out that everything I’d previously believed to be a myth actually existed was a pretty big shock, yeah. During that time, the agents assigned to the case communicated with me extensively. They and I both realized that there wasn’t anyone at NIAD who had specific knowledge of cooking or restaurants, while at the same time, there was still this problem with human-sourced protein. I suppose the agents who contacted me had planned to recruit me from the moment that they introduced themselves, but I’m not disappointed. I do good work. Important work.”

  “Don’t you miss cooking?”

  Keith found himself smiling. Melancholy drifted through him. “I do miss it. I miss the companionship of the kitchen, the creative aspect . . . I suppose what I miss most is the solvability of all problems.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when you’re cooking during a dinner service, it’s a pass-fail situation. Either you get the food out right and on time or you don’t. Problems don’t linger. At the end of the ni
ght you’ve done all you could and tomorrow is another day where you get a fresh chance at success, no matter how big the fail might have been on the previous day.”

  “I see,” Gunther said, nodding. “Our job is not like that at all.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Keith folded his hands, observing the sunset across the bay. “It’s not so bad though. I’m the first and only specialist in the detection of contraband food items. I like the idea that I can make a difference.”

  They spent the rest of the meal engaging in the sort of harmless chat that they’d never bothered to make before. He found out that Gunther’s high school track specialty had been hurdles and that he had majored in sociology with a minor in anthropology before signing up with NIAD.

  Finally, during coffee and dessert, Keith got the courage to ask the one question he wanted answered.

  “So why exactly did you call off our previous arrangement?”

  “You made a few offhand comments about goblins that I didn’t care for,” Gunther said simply. “At the time, I was offended. I couldn’t say I was offended because I hadn’t told you about myself, so I just called it off.”

  “Why invite me to lunch today then?”

  “I guess I just remembered how sexy you are. And I felt like I’d been unfair.”

  Keith drained the last of his coffee. He tried to remember what he might have said that could have been offensive. With no small degree of horror, he realized that he’d said plenty. Shame verging on mortification churned through his chest.

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses for myself, but I wasn’t all that stable at the time. I was still in the humans-versus-monsters mindset.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Gunther’s expression remained neutral, even somewhat blank.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. I’m not all that smart and it takes me a while to adjust sometimes,” Keith said. “But I do know it’s not all cut-and-dried. I do now anyway.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Gunther glanced at his phone. “We should probably be getting back to the market if we want to use the portal.”

  Back in Portland, the market was just wrapping up. Their rental had a parking ticket tucked lovingly under the windshield wiper. Keith stuffed it into his pocket to commune with the other three already crammed in there.

  “Anything else on the agenda for this evening?” Gunther asked.

  “On demand and a shower for me. Unless you feel up to interrogating vampires after nightfall. In which case you’re free to take the rental.” Keith wiggled the key fob at Gunther.

  “Actually, I was hoping to borrow the car to pick up a box of legendary Bauer & Bullock feijoa jam alfajores. Apparently, they’re the most addictive cookie ever made. I need to bring back a farewell gift for another agent.”

  “Someone retiring?” Keith had often wondered where old agents went to retire once their crime-fighting days were over.

  “No, just moving. Promoted to directing the Vancouver field office. You might remember him from last year’s Cookie Jamboree? His name was Rake? Great big fellow?”

  Keith had a sharp recollection of an enormous hulk of a man hanging around near the cookie decorations eating sprinkles and silver dragées when he thought no one was looking.

  “The mountain with the sweet tooth.”

  Gunther chuckled. “Right. He was my first partner when I was a rookie. He loves these cookies with a profane passion.”

  “I’ve never heard of them, but I’m not really a big bakery guy.”

  “They’re actually sold at a steakhouse. It’s supposed to have an excellent bar as well. If you’d like to come along, I’ll buy you a drink for keeping me company.”

  Keith hesitated. Although he’d have never admitted it to anyone, Gunther scared him. And not just because he had turned out to be a goblin. Keith wanted Gunther and that desire had led him to break two cardinal rules he’d long held sacred—never date anybody twice and never stay friends with a guy who dumps you. Keith didn’t want to be a chump all over again.

  Apparently sensing his reluctance, Gunther said, “Or I could drop you off at the hotel if you’d like.”

  “Hotel sounds good. I’m beat.” Keith tossed him the keys and headed to the passenger side.

  As he pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel Gunther said, “I’ll be having a drink there anyway. You could come by if you change your mind.”

  Keith gave a noncommittal nod and left.

  Once he’d made it back to his hotel room and gotten through a dicey, but necessary, cold shower, he had time to regret his decision. He decided that, on closer reflection, he did want a drink.

  Maybe, he thought, he could still catch Gunther at the steakhouse if he took a cab there.

  Finding Bauer & Bullock’s webpage was easy. It was splashy, with a lot of photo carousels showing beef searing on different apparatuses. The one-hundred-and-forty-three-seat restaurant was apparently the choice for the Portland business diner looking to impress a client. Keith had always hated joints like these, even before he’d become a vegetarian. White guys in business suits eating slabs of meat and steak frites while talking about money always curtailed his appetite.

  But Gunther had gone there, so now Keith wanted to be there too. He decided to check out the bar menu.

  Pleasantly, though somewhat predictably, the website informed him that the bar stocked over five hundred different whiskeys. He picked up his phone and was just about to dial Gunther when the image on the carousel changed from a sizzling grill to a photograph of the owner.

  The face was familiar but her name even more so: Cindy Bullock, wife of Trent Bullock, whom Keith had arrested for cannibalism in Dallas less than a year before.

  He decided to pass on the whiskey after all.

  Chapter Four

  Gunther arrived at Keith’s hotel room early the next day. The coffee maker had just started to gurgle and fill the hotel room with the scent of morning. Keith had neither dressed nor shaved and still wore the ragged old Misfits T-shirt and shorts he’d slept in.

  “I just got an email from the lab.” Gunther set his laptop down on the small hotel desk. “The blood sample taken from the mop head at Lulu’s Flapjack Shack contained a mixture of human and bovine blood,” he said.

  “So the killer is stretching one with the other?”

  “Or there might have been two separate sources of blood,” Gunther said. “In addition to that, traces of methotrexate were present throughout the fibers, which would indicate that it had been combined with the blood mixture,” Gunther went on.

  “Is that some sort of exotic new food additive?”

  “It’s a prescription drug used to treat autoimmune diseases.”

  “Weird.” Keith hunted through the cupboards for coffee cups. “I don’t know what to make of that at all.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Did you get your cookies?”

  “Last box of the night,” Gunther said.

  “How did the restaurant seem?” Keith poured two cups of coffee and pulled the room’s remaining chair up alongside his partner.

  “Busy. Crowded bar.” Gunther glanced up. “I sat down and had a superb whiskey sour. When you failed to appear to keep me company I decided to while away the time google-stalking you on my phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Idle curiosity.” Gunther’s response came with such flirtatious ease that Keith initially mistook it for sarcasm.

  “Did you stumble across anything good?”

  “Your freshman yearbook photo. And a fine mullet you had then too. I particularly like the vaguely stoned look on your face and the ripped Whitesnake concert tee.” Gunther looked pointedly at Keith’s Misfits shirt. “Good to know you haven’t changed too much.”

  Keith momentarily choked, embarrassed by the accuracy of the statement, but he recovered. “I was also wearing red parachute pants, but you can’t see those.”

  “Nice.” Gunth
er smiled. “Do you still listen to metal?”

  “Sometimes.” Keith took a sip of his coffee. Too harsh. He returned to the counter to swirl more sugar in.

  “I always wanted to make some kind of rebellious adolescent statement on school photo day but never had the nerve,” Gunther said. “I was always afraid that if I was anything but absolutely harmless and normal I’d be found out, charged with breaking the Secrecy Act and sent away.”

  Keith was ashamed to realize that he’d never thought of what it must be like to grow up with that kind of isolation. Sure, he’d had the experience of hiding the fact that he was gay from people, but that was different. At any point he’d had the freedom to tell anyone which gender he preferred to sleep with. The Secrecy Act mandated silence on pain of deportation.

  Lamely, Keith said, “That must have been rough.”

  “It’s a unique way to experience childhood.” Gunther’s tone told him nothing.

  “Don’t feel bad. My wearing a Whitesnake T-shirt was more an act of laziness than rebellion.”

  “For you, maybe, but my mother dressed me in slacks and a tie every day of my freshman year,” Gunther said. “My classmates all thought I was a Mormon.”

  “I imagine you learned to fight pretty early, dressed like that.”

  “Some, but I also became adept at hiding other clothes in my backpack and changing in gas station bathrooms.” Gunther punched a couple of keys and entered the NIAD database. “I never really had to learn to fight so much as how not to kill people. Humans are fragile.”

  Keith’s discomfort rose to an intolerable level. He wondered what offhand remarks he had made about goblins. Had he called them butchers? Animals? Sick fucks? Any or all of those pejoratives was possible. He hadn’t been in a good way when he’d met Gunther before—angry and full of rancor.

  He sat down on the bed and said, “I did look up the address of the bar you were at.”

  “You did?” Gunther’s expression brightened briefly before dimming again. “But you didn’t come.”

  “It’s not because of you,” Keith said quickly. “It’s because of the restaurant’s owner. Bring up Trent Bullock’s file in the NIAD base and you’ll see what I mean.”