Beating Ruby

by Camilla Monk

  “But since the servers got destroyed, it’s difficult to know what files were used and what happened to them. Ruby’s code might have been replicated with the intent of being used again,” I added, not daring to look at Ellingham, and instead focusing on the way Chef Mesa was superimposing millimeter-thin slices of horseradish and banana on large black plates.

  Ellingham’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks when the chef handed him the first plate and announced a “Vegetal Essence Carpaccio.”

  “When will you leave for Zürich? I’ve already warned Professor Premfield of your imminent visit. He’s the head of research in our Swiss subsidiary.”

  Alex seemed a little taken aback, while my mouth just fell open. How the hell could he already know? “Sir, are there, like, bugs in our offices?”

  “No, Miss Chaptal.” Ellingham exchanged a smug look with March. “You might, however, want to invest in a metal case for your phone.”

  On the counter Alex’s fists clenched. “She certainly will.”

  So that was how March had known about the progress of our investigation. As too often, I had no idea if I wanted to strangle him for his controlling streak or hug him for being my guardian angel. And it was neither the place nor the time for either. I let out a long, calming breath. “Can I ask you to refrain from accessing my personal devices in the future, Mr. November?”

  March’s eyes softened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Seriously? Okay, next time we were alone together, he was definitely getting that slap.

  Around us, the musical ambiance had changed to something more spa-ish, with light bells and shamisen. I looked down at the plate I had just been served, sighed, and grabbed my chopsticks. It wasn’t awful, but the whole combination didn’t work all that well, mostly because of the banana. I could tell Alex was a little resigned as well, whereas March sported a faint smile, no doubt due to the perfect organization of each element on his plate.

  All three men were done with their carpaccio, but I was still toying with mine when I noticed the music had stopped. Above us, the spotlights turned red, and Chef Mesa moved to stand before us again in his Madonna position, while threatening Japanese flute notes rose in the darkened dining room. Two sous-chefs appeared from doors located at each end of the kitchen behind the sushi bar, scuttling toward their rock star. One was struggling with a couple of live eels, while the other carried . . . a Japanese sword? I cast an alarmed look at March, who responded with a reassuring smile. On his left, Ellingham seemed perfectly at ease with whatever the hell was going on.

  Chef Mesa took a deep breath through his nose and extended both arms, receiving the unsheathed sword in one hand and a wiggling eel in the other. He spoke in a sepulchral voice. “The essence of life . . . is death. The beauty of death. Unagi!”

  I bit back a scream and shielded my eyes when he secured the eel on the wooden counter with his left hand and brought the sword down with a battle cry to chop it in half. I think right afterward Alex leaned toward me to make sure I was okay, but I couldn’t focus. Because in the dark, March was holding my hand, squeezing it tight, soothing me and wrecking my defenses at the same time. Neither Alex nor Ellingham seemed to have noticed, and while Chef Mesa cut his eel to pieces, I looked up at March. He still hadn’t let go. His touch felt hot; his thumb kept drawing light circles on my knuckles. He glanced at me with a masterfully controlled poker smile, but the slow caress on my skin belied his mundane expression.

  My breath was getting a little short, and I think time stopped. Until that obsequious waiter snuck between us to serve us glasses of mineral water from Easter Island or whatever, forcing March to let go with an imperceptible sigh. My cheeks felt on fire, and I registered Alex’s questioning eyes when I fidgeted on my chair. I tried to concentrate on the way Chef Mesa was sprinkling cherry flower petals on what were essentially dices of raw eel, all while prattling about the beauty of birth and death. I didn’t give a damn. All I knew was that for a few blissful seconds, my connection with March had returned.

  But it was gone already. And now I had to eat raw eel and I wanted to cry.

  Near us, Ellingham was digging into his plate with a feral expression. I shivered at the sight of him munching on the reddish dices. March and Alex ate quickly as well, but out of a clear intent to shorten this regrettable shibui experience. Alex drank from his sake to help the last mouthful of eel go down. He then peeked down at my plate, still full, and at Ellingham, who was watching me expectantly.

  I’ll never forget the expression on Alex’s face. The look of a man sacrificing himself, championing a damsel in distress. “I’ll take yours if you don’t want it.”

  I gave a weak nod.

  March stepped in. “It’s all right; I’ll have it. I can’t get enough of such a delicacy.”

  Alex’s hand had already moved to take my plate; his eyes narrowed in response. My eyes traveled back and forth between them; I swallowed pitifully. “You . . . you can share if you want.”

  I’m pretty sure neither wanted to both lose the cockfight and have to eat the beautiful dead eel, but they welcomed my offer like gentlemen and split the “delicacy” in half with tight jaws under Ellingham’s amused gaze. The lights returned, and Chef Mesa retreated behind the kitchen doors, presumably to oversee preparations for his next performance. The waiter came back with an assortment of tsukemono for us to nibble on while we waited for the rest of the show; I was grateful, because those traditional Japanese pickles, while coming with tart and strong flavors, were okay. Alex and March seemed to share my relief: they raided the long rectangular plates with deadpan faces. Alex even ate the little blue flowers in his, even though I’m almost positive those were for decorative purposes.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Ellingham began, before biting on a crunchy piece of bright yellow takuan. “I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten me on a specific point.”

  Alex schooled his features in a good-cop smile. “I will if I can.”

  “I’m grateful—EMG is grateful—as you can imagine, that our government is helping us deal with this crisis. But I’m wondering why the CIA took over this particular case, rather than, say, the FBI.”

  On my left, I noticed March’s shoulders straighten ever so slightly, and I realized that Ellingham’s piercing aquamarine gaze was no longer set on Alex, but on me. I gulped down a bite of sour and salty umeboshi and responded with an uncomfortable grin.

  “What do you think, Miss Chaptal? Are you, like I am, left in the dark? You, whom I was requested—I dare not say ordered—to allow to help Mr. Morgan in his investigation, during your work hours . . .” His eyes had narrowed as he said this, and the fingers of his right hand were rapping slowly against the wooden counter.

  A sheen of hot sweat formed on my brow. “I-I’m really just helping Agent Morgan with technical stuff and—”

  “I’m sorry, sir, Miss Chaptal’s collaboration with our division entails high levels of confidentiality. I’m afraid we have to end this track of conversation.”

  Ellingham’s eyebrows shot up—I bet it wasn’t often that he heard someone telling him to get lost—before he regained his composure. “I see. Well, let us hope that the opacity in which you operate is not a mere guise for incompetence.”

  Ow. I practically heard that banderilla stab Alex in the face. Leaving his victim to nurse his ego, Ellingham then looked at March. “As for you, Mr. November, I count on your involvement to speed things up. Our mutual friend spoke greatly of your ability to . . . solve such issues.”

  March welcomed the compliment with the faintest smile creasing his dimples; my ears perked up. Mutual friend? What kind of friend? Could Ellingham know about March’s old job? Alex looked interested too, but we weren’t given the opportunity to further question Ellingham. Chef Mesa had returned, the lights were dimmed again, and this time, I got worried. I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat something that came served with Albinoni’s “Adagio” as a background soundtrack.

  The chef brought his han
ds up, fingers curling and trembling, his face a mask of pain and concentration. “Life. The struggle for life. Kodako!” he roared, throwing his fists in the air.

  Sweet fricking Jesus. I knew what kodako meant, but I had this moment of doubt when the waiter waited for the organ solo to bring four large black square plates. My mind couldn’t reconcile their content with the notion of edible food. Not just because this sensory shibui experience seemed to be squirming quite a bit, but because I had never envisioned eating a live baby octopus before. Especially one wearing a delicate purple wig made of red beet shavings. It was so cute. It reminded me of Katy Perry’s hairstyle.

  I watched mine struggle to remove its wig, wading in what I understood to be a mixture of truffle oil and sudachi lime juice. March and Alex seemed just as disconcerted, but when Ellingham picked his up mercilessly and shoved it inside his mouth with a sinister gulp, they took the hint and imitated him.

  Alex’s wouldn’t let go of the black plate, its suction cups sticking to the smooth material in a desperate fight for survival. He kept pulling, stretching the tiny white limbs like gooey elastics until they let go with a series of wet popping sounds, only to wrap themselves around his chopsticks instead. His eyes screwed shut as he gobbled the helpless creature, munching on it with the face of a man about to throw up.

  I fought a wave of nausea of my own when I watched him swallow with difficulty, his left hand clenched into a fist on the wooden counter. March went through the ordeal with more grace—mostly because his baby octopus had tangled its arms in the beet shavings, and therefore posed less of a challenge. I didn’t miss his trembling exhale as the invertebrate traveled down his esophagus, though.

  “Won’t you eat yours, Miss Chaptal?”

  I stared past March’s chalk-white face and into Ellingham’s eyes and their satanic glint. I looked down at my plate and gulped.

  Mine . . .

  Mine was courageously sustaining my gaze with its tiny beady eyes, rocking its beet wig with dignity in spite of the horror of the situation. Until it tried to escape the plate. And all that lime juice made it look like it was crying. I poked it back in a few times with one of my chopsticks, but it was no use—I was already thinking of names for him. I think it was a he—feminine intuition.

  I couldn’t do it. My eyes fell on the glass of water the waiter had served me earlier; I made a lightning-quick decision. Grabbing Krakky—yeah, that was his name now—I pulled him out of the plate and threw him in my water glass, watching with relief as he settled there.

  “I-I’m saving mine for later.”

  That earned me perplexed looks from March and Alex, and a raised eyebrow from Ellingham. Which was nothing compared to the glare I got from the waiter when I stopped him from taking the glass away. I glared back. In that price range, I was entitled to do whatever I pleased with my life essence food.

  I can’t describe the amount of joy I experienced when I saw Ellingham bow to Chef Mesa with his palms pressed together, soon imitated by pretty much everyone in the dining room, including me. The waiter came back a few minutes later with strawberry and eggplant granités, indicating that the meal had reached its end. I finished mine down to the last drop, having reached a point where eating raw mixed eggplant was more or less an antechamber to heaven.

  After he was done with his own granité, Ellingham clasped his hands together and looked at us. “Well, I’m pleased we were able to have this conversation. I’ll leave you, lady and gentlemen, to your investigation.”

  As if on a cue, the young Asian woman who had greeted us and had been waiting in a corner of the dining room with Ellingham’s bodyguards walked toward us, presumably to show us out. I took my glass—and Krakky—with me under the scandalized stare of our waiter. I hoped Ellingham wouldn’t tip that douche.

  Our host cast the baby octopus a scornful look. Then his icy gaze traveled up, stabbing me like a million tiny daggers. “Miss Chaptal, you intend to keep this creature, don’t you?”

  I took a step back, seeking refuge between March and Alex’s solid frames. “Maybe . . . I don’t know. I’ve heard they’re extremely smart and—”

  Without a word, Ellingham took the glass from my hands. I let go with difficulty and cast a pleading look at March, while that monster held the glass in front of his eyes and examined Krakky with pursed lips.

  “Denise.”

  The elegant assistant nodded.

  “Do you remember that octopus who could aptly predict soccer results? What was his name? Patrick?”

  “Paul, sir.”

  Ellingham frowned. “Yes, Paul. Do you believe we could perhaps train this one to anticipate market trends?”

  “We’ll hire the best zoological specialists, sir.”

  “Excellent. Find a suitable tank for it and put it in my office.”

  Part of me wanted to protest, but being a good parent is also wanting what’s best for your kids, and I couldn’t deprive Krakky of this opportunity to slither up the corporate ladder. I watched with a heavy heart as he pressed his little tentacles against Ellingham’s fingers on the other side of the glass. He had probably already forgotten about me, and it was better this way. Hadrian Ellingham would be his new family. Which was really horrible if you think about it, since the man had eaten one of his siblings not so long ago. Such is the harrowing journey of a young octopus in this cruel world.

  Ellingham handed the glass to his assistant and seemed ready to take his leave when I remembered something. This might, after all, prove my only chance to pierce the darkest secrets of a man who sent me quarterly e-mailings to remind me that he and I were working together as a team to build the future, because with EM Group, “Tomorrow Comes Today.”

  “Sir, can I ask you a question?”

  A contemptuous sigh escaped him. “You can always try.”

  “What’s her name? Your new girlfriend?”

  Behind me, March and Alex cleared their throats in unison. To my amazement, Ellingham sort of blushed. Not a full blush high on the cheeks—that would have looked very weird on him—more like a diffuse pinkness in his neck and ears. Then it was gone, replaced by flaring nostrils and arctic blue eyes.

  “Out of my sight, Miss Chaptal.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Limbos

  “They collided together like fiery particles, their joining a passionate fusion of every single atom in their bodies.”

  —Christie Dolan, Physical: A Hopegrove Nuclear Plant Novelette

  “God, I need a cup of black to wash that stuff down!”

  I would have agreed with Alex if I liked coffee; I personally contemplated forgetting the Mesa experience with a two-dollar cream cheese bagel. As for March, he had been silent ever since leaving the restaurant, lost in his own thoughts. I knew for a fact that he was almost as addicted to coffee as he was to mints, though, so I suspected he shared Alex’s opinion.

  “So, are we still going to visit Thom’s place?” I asked Alex as we stepped out of the Time Warner Center.

  “Yes, we’ll go there immediately,” March announced.

  I looked up at him in mild surprise, and Alex cocked an eyebrow in a fashion I understood to mean “Who the hell put you in charge?”

  “Follow me,” March ordered.

  Alex and I exchanged puzzled looks but complied, allowing him to lead us around the building and to a line of cars parked on West Fifty-Eighth Street. He pulled out a key fob from his right pocket, pressed it, and the lights of a gray Lexus sedan flashed twice.

  “What happened to the Mercedes?” I asked.

  March let out an irritated sigh as he opened the driver’s door. “I understand that room must be made for Mr. Morgan.”

  I fought a grin. “Thank you.”

  “But you really didn’t have to,” Alex said.

  The passenger door clicked open—for me, I assumed. I had a moment of hesitation. I gathered March expected me to sit up front with him, but I figured it would only piss off Alex further, especially after what M
arch had done to his car. I shook my head with an apologetic look, and climbed into the backseat under March’s displeased gaze.

  Alex was about to follow me when his head jerked up. A smile lit up his face at the sight of a tiny food truck parked a few yards away from us. “I’ll go get myself that coffee before we go. You guys want anything? Island?”

  Oh. In the mirror, I saw March’s eyes turn to slits. “Um, Alex . . . maybe we can stop for drinks later?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll drink it in the car.”

  March’s tongue clicked in rising aggravation; I grabbed Alex’s sleeve before he could leave. “You can’t really do that in March’s car.”

  His brow twitched, and he stared past my shoulder at March, but said nothing otherwise, consenting to get into the car. I gave him a thankful smile, buckled up, and . . . the car didn’t start.

  God. Mr. Clean was giving us the full Monty. I winced at the sight of March’s obstinate blue eyes in the mirror. “Alex, your seat belt,” I whispered as the stickman light kept blinking on the dashboard.

  Alex’s mouth formed a little O of perplexity before he submitted to March’s iron rule with a diplomatic smile. I relaxed in my seat when the engine finally hummed to life, at the same time that the first notes of a neurasthenic country guitar rose in the car.

  “Is that the only kind of music you have?”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose with trembling fingers. “Alex . . .”

  “Conway Twitty earned forty number one Billboard country hits. He was a genius,” March hissed as he drove us toward the monumental steel frame of Queensboro Bridge.

  I saw Alex’s mouth open, ready to discuss the merits of Conway Twitty’s musical contributions. I grabbed his right arm and squeezed it, shaking my head with a warning look. He nodded in understanding and took my hand, his thumb grazing the underside of my wrist.