by Daniel Parme
The angel with the pixie-cut blonde hair was in there, arms wrapped around her shins, knees against her chest, her head down, eyes closed, and tongue barely peeking out between her lips, the way of some sleeping cats.
Scared the shit out of me, to be perfectly honest, but only for a moment. It’s not every day one finds such a beautiful girl all folded up inside a wooden box. And it wasn’t even Christmas.
I looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to me, but they were all still aflutter about this uninvited guest and probably wouldn’t have noticed if I set fire to the place. So I squatted behind the podium, put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and gently shook her awake.
Her pupils shrunk with the sudden addition of light, and after a groggy couple of seconds she said, “Oh. It’s you. Hi.”
“Hi. Sorry, but what are you doing in there?”
“Hiding from them,” she said. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She moved nothing but her lips and eyelids. “What are you doing up here?”
“Avoiding them.”
“Why? They love you.”
I peeked out at the guests, who were now beginning to find their way to their seats around the banquet tables. “They love me, eh?”
“You know they do. I saw the way you lit up when you saw them staring at you last time, listening to your story. Why aren’t you down there, talking to them?”
“Honestly, I don’t really like them.”
She cracked her neck, yawned. “Then why are you here?”“To find out why they’re here, I guess.” It was difficult to maintain this conversation; I found myself getting lost in her face. “Why are you here?”
“Walter’s my uncle. He’s been bringing me here since I was a kid. He took me in after my parents died. Twelve years.” She may have been the saddest girl to ever hide inside a podium.
“He told me he didn’t know who you were.” I said it without even thinking about how she’d take it, but she seemed fine.
“I knew he would,” she said. “He wouldn’t want me talking to you. He wouldn’t want me to, um, ruin the surprise.”
I went from squatting to kneeling. “Oh? And what surprise would that be?”
It was like her eyes had invisible arms that reached out, took hold of either side of my head, and forced me to stare at them until she was sure she had my undivided attention.
“These people,” she whispered, “eat other people.”
The thing about working in the morgue is you’re always around dead people, so the thought of dead people doesn’t bother you. The thing about this lovely little girl telling you that you’re sitting in a room full of cannibals is that the thought of cannibals doesn’t bother you. It doesn’t bother you because you’re not surprised about it. You’ve known all along.
There are people who have convinced themselves that the Holocaust never really happened. There are people who get diagnosed with some kind of terminal disease, but then convince themselves that the doctor has made a mistake, or maybe it was all a dream, or anything else that makes it easier to sleep at night. Or maybe they don’t convince themselves. Maybe they just don’t let themselves think about it at all.
People want to know.
But not really.
And now, kneeling behind this grand podium stuffed with this gorgeous girl, in this beautiful room full of suits and dresses and wine and pearls and rich-folk conversation, I really knew.
“What’s your name?”
“Angela.”
“Are you one of these people?”
“No, I’m not. Are you?”
Would you believe I didn’t know how to answer this question? You’d think there’d be a pretty clear line on this one. Yes or no. “Um. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” I felt a panic rising in my stomach, like that myth about Pop Rocks and soda. “You want to get out of here? Like, now?”
She reached out for my shoulder. “We can’t. If my uncle finds out, he’ll get suspicious. He’s a little paranoid. I’ll get you my number before the end of the night.”
All I could do was nod. Her not-so-subtle revelation had me freaking out a little.
“It’ll be all right. Just don’t start freaking out, ok? We’ll talk more later.”
I started to say something, but she shushed me with a small, thin, red-tipped index finger to her lips, lined with dark brown and colored the same. She threw her head in the direction of the two-eyed, no-horned, buying, wealthy, people eaters.
I stood up and left her there, in the podium. Under other circumstances, meeting her could have been a lot of fun. I guess we don’t get to choose such things, though.
So I went back to the group. I just took a deep breath and walked up to them like nothing was amiss, like I was perfectly comfortable, like my mind wasn’t racing.
Everyone was still talking about either McGovern or financial matters, which was fine by me. I had some serious thinking to do. I couldn’t figure out why Synchek had left me out of the loop. If he wanted me join his little club here, why wouldn’t he have told me everything? Why try to sucker me in? Why was this girl, this wonderful hidden girl, hiding in the podium? Why wasn’t she down here with everyone else? Why had I let myself ignore such obvious truths?
It was an exhausting few minutes.
It was almost nine-thirty. Almost feeding time. People began taking their seats, unfolding their napkins, talking about how excited they were about dinner. Some of them went to the bar and refilled their glasses.
“Why don’t you come have a seat, Mr. Eliot.” It was Damien, inviting me to his table.
What could I do? I had to sit with him. By this point, my head was so fogged up I’d have said yes to just about anything. “Ok.”
“What did you think about the food last time you were here?” It was Damien’s wife, Elaine, who was shifting the centerpiece as she talked. “Exquisite, wasn’t it?”
In a cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared above my head, glowing bright and maybe exploding. The food. It was some dead guy. Or some dead woman. That was the food. That’s what Synchek had given me when I left last time. That’s what I’d eaten before taking Virginia home that night.
“I don’t know if I’d say exquisite, but it certainly hit the spot.” I’d already eaten someone.
Let’s think about that a minute. I’d already eaten someone. There was Jason, Erica, pilot guy, and now someone else. Someone I didn’t know. Someone who wasn’t survival or necessity. Someone who wasn’t anything but dinner. I ate this person, and what happened? I didn’t get drunk. Couldn’t get drunk. I took Virginia home and tore her to pieces. For three days, I tore her to pieces. I slept better. I felt more awake, aware, stronger, fitter, happier. For three days I was King of the Fucking Jungle.
And then I wasn’t. LT, he failed me. I was back to the tired and the lazy; back to, well, me. Only, not totally me. I was thinking an awful lot about the accident, and the surviving, and the corpses at work. I was becoming addicted.
I’d already eaten someone, and it was really fucking with me.
But let’s get back to Mrs. Rogers.
“Well, I thought it was exquisite.”
Mr. Rogers looked like he was ready to chuck that fucking trolley right at her head. “Oh, shut up, Elaine. It’s not a competition, for Christ’s sake.”
And shut up she did.
“Now, Mr. Eliot –“
He was interrupted by Conicella, aheming. “Sorry to interrupt, Damien, but Walter wanted me to ask Travis if he’d join him for supper.”
“Well, sure. I’d hate to continue boring him with the stock market. Poor guy.” It was a joke. “Enjoy your meal, young man.”
And with that, I was moved to the head table. The cool kids’ table, if the cool kids were twisted, man-steak eating, well-off gentlemen with law degrees and Rolexes. I thought about that table at a high school prom with all the prom court sitting around it. I couldn’t tell much of a difference.
<
br /> Tony took a seat two seats down from mine, the chair between us like the urinal between two men who respect the rules of the men’s room. “Walter and Dick both wanted to talk with you during dinner. I didn’t know you worked with Dick.”
“Yeah, I work with Dick.”
With Dick, that clever bastard who had me delivering bodies the way the Good Humor man delivers ice cream. I could’ve killed him if he wasn’t my boss and related to one of my good friends. I couldn’t believe he never told me he was a PEP member, a founding member.
“I didn’t know he was a member.”
“He’s one of the oldest. Without him, we’d never have been able to pull this off.” Tony would have been able to answer most of my questions, if only I’d thought to ask him. He seemed like the kind of guy who was more than happy to let you know that he knows. He also seemed to think that I knew what was going on, that I hadn’t been duped. “You like working with him?”
“I do, actually. He’s a pretty cool boss.”
“I would imagine so.”
And then our conversation was interrupted by the kitchen doors opening to allow Stearns, the asshole, to enter with a cart stacked high with plates covered by metal lids. He wheeled the thing around, stopping at each table, setting a covered dish in front of each person. Nobody removed the lids.
Cansellini, Conicella’s other buddy, followed shortly with another cart.
I found myself sitting at a table with six covered plates and four empty seats. I had trouble breathing as I thought about what I’d find under the lid in front of me. I knew what it would be, but was unsure about how I’d be able to handle it. I mean, eating a person when you don’t know it’s a person is one thing, but if you know, well, it brings up all sorts of interesting moral and ethical questions. It tests your constitution. It is, if nothing else, a defining moment.
The waiters, in their expensive suits and with their slick hair, took their seats across the table from me, offering a “Hello” and a “Nice to see you”.
I couldn’t speak, so I nodded to each of them. I even tried to force a smile, but I don’t think it went over too well, which didn’t really matter because they were both distracted by Synchek, Dick, and Gregor, who entered the room like hitting the mute button on the television. Everything went quiet, and everyone watched as they approached my table. Dick sat between me and Conicella. Gregor (or, John Gregory, as I’d figured out by this point) left an open seat between us, to my left.
Synchek didn’t sit down. He looked over the room and cleared his throat. “Before we begin this evening’s meal, I’m quite sure each of you have questions concerning today’s uninvited guest. Although we’re not certain how this young gentleman learned of our little group, I can assure you that the situation has been handled, and he won’t be telling anyone else of our existence. And with that, enjoy the meal.”
There was a round of applause, and then the sounds of the stacking of metal lids, the scraping of forks and knives on the china. The sounds of people – rich, classy people – talking through full mouths, mmming and ooohhing over the food. I was beginning to think that everything becomes exquisite once you have money.
I looked for Angela but couldn’t find her.
I looked at my plate, which Synchek had been kind enough to uncover for me. It did look damn good, steaming and colorful. I knew what it was, of course, but the presentation was so spectacular, so tempting, that even my morals barely managed to get in the way of my drooling. The roasted red potatoes gleamed with butter and were speckled with flecks of parsley. The spears of asparagus were there, poised to pierce taste buds with their earthy flavor and just a touch of salt, of garlic. And the meat, covered in a dark, thick sauce, whole peppercorns sprinkled over its top like tiny black snowballs – God, it looked good.
“Mangia, Mr. Eliot,” Synchek said as he unrolled my silverware from its nest in my napkin. “John Gregory made sure to give you a fresh cut. It’s quite tender. Succulent.”
They call it a moment of truth. “Um. I’m not very hungry,” I said, staring at my plate. “I think I may have had too much wine.”
Dick slapped a hand to my back, where he left it as he told me, “Food is what you need. Soak up that alcohol.”
I started to sweat. “Is this… uh… is this Mr. McGovern?”
The rest of the table laughed, and Stearns choked on his mouthful of wine, spilling it down his chin and onto his food.
“Of course not.” Synchek gave me an assuring look, which went a long way towards calming me down. I had no intention of eating anyone who’d just been murdered.
Gregor spoke up. “We have to bleed him out. He won’t be ready for at least a couple days.”
They all nodded in agreement, like this was perfectly respectable table conversation. And on the plates? In these peoples’ mouths? It was some other poor bled bastard. Right in front of me, they were chewing and swallowing, washing him down with gulps of wine.
Dick, hand still on my shoulder, picked up his glass. “Eat, Travis. This is one of Gregor’s best dishes.”
“Yes, Travis. Eat.” Synchek wasn’t making fun like the rest. He was serious. He wasn’t insisting I eat, not the way your grandmother might, not out of any desire to see me satisfied. This was a demand. A demand which, somewhere not too far beneath the surface, was a threat.
So I ate a potato. “It’s good.”
“The meat, Mr. Eliot. Try the meat.”
I now had a hand on each shoulder. I now had five sets of eyes focused on my apprehension.
I held the steak in place with my fork and cut into it with my black-handled steak knife. Medium-Rare, I’d guess. Juicy, but not too bloody. Warm, pink center. Just the way I like it.
I put it in my mouth, chewed, swallowed. They all watched me. I wanted to vomit. I wanted it to make me sick.
But it was just so fucking good.
Through his own bite of dead-man, Stearns mumbled, “Not too bad, eh?”
“It’s delicious,” I said, to the whole table as much as to him. I wished I didn’t mean it, but a man has to realize when he’s been defeated.
By the time I finished soaking up the juices left on the plate with a piece of bread, I’d almost completely tricked myself into thinking it was just another dead cow or chicken. Just another pile of heated protein. Denial is a hard nut to crack, unless you’re sitting at a table with a group of walking, talking nutcrackers.
“We lucked out tonight, Travis,” Dick said through his napkin. “Nothing like a quality cut of meat.”
The rest of the table agreed, nodding their heads and saying “mm-hmm.”
“And nothing like a little murder to add some excitement to dinner, eh?” I’d never have said this if I’d never met Virginia. As soon as I said it, I hated myself for talking to that girl.
Synchek cleared his throat again. “This, Mr. Eliot, will never be spoken of again. It is unfortunate, yes. We do regret any instance in which we must take a person’s life, but sometimes it cannot be helped. If we feel we are at risk, we’ll do what needs to be done.”
It’s funny how the threat of death will straighten you out. No more funny business. Some people just have no sense of humor, I suppose.
“I can understand that.” I was wearing my best poker face. “You do what you have to do to survive. I know that better than anyone.”
“Exactly.” He put his soiled napkin on his plate and excused himself. He walked over to one of the other tables and laid a hand on a man’s shoulder, leaning down to get his mouth level with the man’s ear. With a nod of his head, the man stood up and followed Synchek into the kitchen. The man had a narrow waist and huge, broad shoulders, like a gymnast or a swimmer. Although I only saw him from the back, I thought him at least ten years Synchek’s junior.
“Who’s that guy?” I directed my inquiry at no one in particular, figuring someone would reach out and snatch it from the air above the table.
People w
ant to know, and they want other people to know they know.
I thought it was going to be Conicella who answered me, but it turned out to be Stearns. Like a frog going after a fly, it was Stearns. “That’s Michael Devereaux. Detective, or Lieutenant, I’m not entirely certain. He’s been a member for, what, seven years?” He stood up and stretched his belly. I imagined him at home on Thanksgiving, belt loosened, pants unbuttoned, getting ready to watch football after his person leg dinner.
“I imagine,” he continued, “that Walter would like him to find out who this McGovern character is.”
I couldn’t resist. “Or, who he was, anyway.”
“Well, he’ll be a part of us soon enough,” Dick said. “That’s what a lot of cannibals throughout history have believed, anyway.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“No, Travis. I don’t really believe in much of anything anymore. Too many years of the deceased as my only company. One of the drawbacks of the job, I’m afraid.”
By this time, everyone had cleaned their plates and were again standing in their groups, like gnats waiting to get into the eyes and nose and ears of some innocent passerby.
“Come on, son.” Dick stood up, dropped his napkin to the table. “Let’s mingle with Pittsburgh’s elite.”
And mingle we did, although I couldn’t tell you with whom; it was like meeting clones of the same man, only in different clothing, with different hair-colors, different wives. Dinner was the half-time of a game that’s only rules seemed to be talking about money, trying to one-up whoever you were talking about money with, and completely avoiding the fact that you just sat down to a nice meal of broiled man-flesh.
This left me with little to say, considering I really had no interest in financial discussion and a great deal of interest in the fact that every single person in this room was a cannibal. They’d made me one of them, and then wouldn’t talk to me about what had made me one of them.
It really wouldn’t have bothered me, all this boring babble, if I hadn’t suddenly felt more energetic and talkative, more restless, antsy, weirded out, afraid for my life, uncomfortable, and more than a little bit concerned about the fact that I’d just eaten someone I didn’t even know.
