by Matt Wallace
“I’m sorry it didn’t work.”
“Oh, it worked. It just . . . took a little too long. We were coming down to the wire. I’m not immune to panic. I apologize for Claudius. I apologize for sending him into your place of business, and for threatening your staff. This was not my intention. But I simply could not allow Luciana to carry out whatever machinations she and Allensworth were preparing.”
“Why does he want you out?” Bronko asks. “Why does he care who becomes president of the Sceadu?”
“Your Allensworth . . . he’s far more than he presents himself to you. This Henry Kissinger of the extrahuman world performance of his is just that. He has his own designs, his own ambitions, and I don’t fit into them. I’m not a puppet. I have my own ideas for the future of my race and the other forgotten races of this world.”
Bronko stares into his empty champagne flute, processing that. His expression becomes so heavy with concern Lena finds herself watching him, worried.
Eventually he looks up at Consoné.
“Is there a war coming?” he asks the candidate.
Consoné smiles at him, a sad smile very much like the one Lena found Bronko leveling at her back in his office.
“Chef Luck,” he says, “the war started quite a while ago. But . . . you just cook the food. What have you to fear?”
Bronko nods, his expression unchanged. “Right. Well. Thank you for your time. I believe you’ve answered all of our questions as generously as can be expected of you.”
They all stand, as if on cue.
“It was my pleasure, Chef. I’m a big fan of yours. And your fare for my events here has been flawless. Thank you for that. And again, I apologize for the position this all wedged you into.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Bronko says, reaching inside his smock and placing Claudius’s Venus dagger on the table between them.
He takes out his wallet and removes a hundred-dollar bill, folding it in half and balancing it atop the flat of the blade.
“So your man can buy himself a new pair of pants,” he says. “That was our bad.”
“Thank you, Chef. I respect an individual with a sense of their own personal debt.”
“I know what I owe, Mr. Consoné,” Bronko says, darkly. “I know what I owe.”
He carefully navigates the space between the sofas and the delicate-looking glass furniture.
Lena finds herself lingering behind, gaze held by Consoné’s.
“Is there something else with which I can assist you, Chef Tarr?”
“You were some kind of guru, right? Before you ran for . . . whatever. You advised people. Powerful people.”
“I always offer counsel to my friends, when it’s requested. Do you have a problem?”
“A couple of ’em, actually. I . . .” Lena hesitates. “You know what? Nevermind. Thanks for being honest with us.”
“If you change your mind, I expect we’ll run across each other again. There’ll be a wealth of catered events in my immediate future.”
“Right. Good luck in the election.”
“Thank you.”
Lena is suddenly in a great hurry to escape Enzo Consoné’s line of sight.
“So, what are we going to do, Chef?” Lena asks Bronko when they’re alone in the hotel elevator.
“We’ll hand Luciana over to Allensworth. No other choice, really. We’ll gamble he’s more pissed about her failing than us monkey wrenchin’ another one of his schemes. We’ll gamble he’s got bigger concerns than us just now. We’ll gamble and we’ll lose, because that motherfucker knows everything. But there’s nothing else we can do.”
“Then what’s going to happen?”
Bronko shrugs. “Folks still gotta eat, Tarr. I expect he’ll get over it.”
Lena looks up at him, suddenly feeling more lost and afraid than she’s allowed herself to feel in years.
“What if he doesn’t?” she asks. “What if he doesn’t get over it?”
Bronko sighs. He rests a hand gently on her, practically encompassing her shoulder in his grip.
“We’ll try to be ready,” he says. “And if Hell’s comin’ for us, then Hell is what we’ll give ’em.”
EPILOGUE MISSING FROM YOUR TO-DO LIST
Ritter feels as though he hasn’t been home in a month, and even if that’s not true, a large part of him hasn’t been leaving the office lately. He’ll be surprised if his brother isn’t renting the place out, or hasn’t turned it into a flophouse, or both by now.
The first thing Ritter hears as he opens his front door is Stravinsky playing over his absurdly expensive sound system. This is particularly odd, as the only classical music his brother has ever listened to is REO Speedwagon.
“Marcus!” he calls out, receiving no answer.
Frowning, Ritter retrieves his dragon bone–loaded shotgun from the coat closet and ascends the steps to the first level of his home, holding the weapon at the ready.
The first thing he sees over the shotgun’s sights is Allensworth, sitting at Ritter’s dining room table with his feet propped up next to an open box with a half-eaten pizza inside it. He’s holding a slice, waving it like a maestro’s wand to the music.
“Ritter!” Allensworth greets him. “Welcome home! Your brother ordered pizza. It’s delicious. You have some lovely eateries in this neighborhood.”
Ritter lowers the shotgun, though he doesn’t relinquish his grip on it. He knows it would be a last-ditch effort, however. Allensworth is always prepared, and for the absolute worst.
Marcus is kneeling, naked, on the carpet. His wrists have been duct-taped behind his back. His ankles have also been taped together, and blood from his nose has run over the strip covering his mouth. He stares up at Ritter with desperate, pleading eyes.
A rotund man wearing a dark Armani suit and an executioner’s hood is holding the muzzle of a suppressed automatic pistol to the back of Marcus’s head.
Allensworth replaces the slice of pizza in its box and wipes his hands against each other.
“It seems your brother lost his way en route to his team’s next mission,” he observes, sounding thoroughly neutral in the matter. “Which is a shame. They’re having a bear of a year with ice harpies in the Alaskan Range.”
“This is just a misunderstanding,” Ritter assures him.
Allensworth nods. “I see. How have I misunderstood you harboring a deserter, exactly? Your brother or no, that’s just bad form, Ritter. Especially with the favor I’ve shown you in the past.”
Ritter keeps his voice calm and even. “I meant to call you. We’ve all been very . . . distracted at the office lately. I’m afraid it fell by the wayside.”
“Ah, yes. I see. Well . . . your timing always was abysmal, I’m afraid.”
Ritter can feel the pulse in his fingertip beating against the trigger of the shotgun. If he goes for it, is Marcus cognizant enough to hit the deck as soon as Ritter begins raising the weapon? If he doesn’t, the blast will never reach the executioner before he squeezes his own trigger and puts a bullet through Marcus’s brain.
“Now, Ritter,” Allensworth begins, with a sudden gravitas, “you have several options at this point. Would you like me to tell you about the ones that don’t involve a shootout?”
Ritter stares into his brother’s terrified eyes, holding his gaze like a lifeline. His mind is playing out every permutation of what’s to follow.
Several dozen mental bloodbaths later, he bends at the knees and carefully places his shotgun on the carpet.
“All right,” he says to Allensworth. “Let’s talk options.”
About the Author
Photograph by Earl Newton
MATT WALLACE is the author of The Next Fix, The Failed Cities, and his other novella series, Slingers. He’s also penned more than one hundred short stories, a few of which have won awards and been nominated for others, in addition to writing for film and television. In his youth he traveled the world as a professional wrestler and unarmed combat and self-d
efense instructor before retiring to write full-time.
He now resides in Los Angeles with the love of his life and inspiration for Sin du Jour’s resident pastry chef.
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Also by Matt Wallace
THE SIN DU JOUR SERIES
Envy of Angels
Lustlocked
Pride’s Spell
THE SLINGERS SAGA
Slingers
One Fall to Finish
The Victim Hold
Where Gods Cannot See
Savage Weapons
The Failed Cities
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
PART I
SHORT ORDER
NO FEAR
THANES OF OLDE
OUTSIDE HIRE
PROBLEM CHILD
WRECKS OF GALWAY BAY
PASS THE AWKWARD, PLEASE
BY THE CREATURES, FOR THE CREATURES
EARTH, AIR, WIND & FIRE
THE MAD PASTRY CHEF
THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
PART II
WHO ONCE MADE THE EARTH MOVE
THE GRIND
EXILE ON PASTRY STREET
FAMOUS RED RAINCOAT
RELATIONSHIP MILESTONES
VISITING HOURS
BACKGROUND CHECK
ROOMIES
MELLON
PART III
WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?
EXTREME INGREDIENTS
SLEEPLESS FOR HIS OWN REASONS
FUCK SUN TZU
PAN-FRIED
THE CANDIDATE
EPILOGUE MISSING FROM YOUR TO-DO LIST
About the Author
Also by Matt Wallace
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
IDLE INGREDIENTS
Copyright © 2017 by Matt Wallace
Cover photograph © Getty Images
Cover design by Peter Lutjen
Edited by Lee Harris
All rights reserved.
A Tor.com Book
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ISBN 978-0-7653-9002-8 (ebook)
ISBN 978-0-7653-9003-5 (trade paperback)
First Edition: February 2017
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