by Matt Wallace
They’re all waiting on Bronko and Jett. The only ones absent are Boosha, in official exile in her apothecary after inadvertently turning the staff into sex monsters, and White Horse and his granddaughter/assistant/chaperone, Little Dove.
Bronko enters the room a few minutes later, Jett following excitedly on his heels. She seems even more wired than usual, whereas lately Bronko has seemed unusually removed. He’s been that way since the royal goblin wedding a month ago. He disappeared inexplicably at the end of that night. They got a memo from him to take an extended weekend, and when they all returned to work Bronko’s entire demeanor and mood had changed. They rarely see him at family meals, the staff lunches and dinners they cook and share together during the long days in the kitchen. He barely leaves his office anymore. No one has yet to force a conversation about it, but there isn’t a single one of them, even and especially Lena and Darren, who hasn’t noticed and been inwardly disturbed by the change.
Sin du Jour’s executive chef is carrying a long, rolled-up ream of glossy paper. He walks to the opposite end of the table and looms there, ignoring the chair.
“I am quite frankly shocked y’all made it in here together and on time, so thanks for that,” he addresses them dryly.
Scattered, affectionate laughter fills the room.
Bronko rubs at his prickly neck. Many of them have also noticed that recently he goes abnormally longer than usual without shaving.
“I know you’ve all been busting hump prepping for the TaurusCon gala, but something urgent’s come up and we’re going to need to do a little tap dancing. I wasted a couple of weeks trying to get us out of it because frankly I think we’ve got enough on our plate, and I probably should’ve told y’all about it sooner, and that’s on me, but we are where we are now and we’re all just gonna have to deal with it.”
He extends his arm over the table and unfurls the paper on his hand, laying it down flat on the tabletop.
It’s a movie poster.
The title is Authority over Unclean Spirits and the one-sheet is dominated by an image of a very pretty actor the makeup department has tried very hard to make unpretty (which seems ludicrous to Lena, among others, considering how many talented ugly people there already are in the world) kneeling in the mud in front of barbed wire, looking to the sky.
“I know this one,” James says. He holds up his smart phone. “I have no time for going to the movies, but I downloaded the Movie Trailers app. It is very good.”
Bronko seems less than interested. “Yeah, from what I gather it’s about a mentally challenged Jew during the Holocaust who’s also gay or some such thing.”
“So their asses just want all the Oscars,” Cindy comments from the back, propping an elbow on Ritter’s shoulder and resting her cheek in her palm.
“Oh, it already has intense Oscar buzz!” Jett informs her brightly, Cindy’s sarcasm completely sailing over her head.
Likewise, the half-dozen expressions aimed at her silently asking, “Who actually talks like that?” go utterly unnoticed by Jett.
“So . . . what, boss?” Dorsky asks, not getting it. “You don’t want to go see it alone, or what?”
Bronko sighs, looking to Jett, who appears to be about a second away from her head popping off.
Bronko gives her a nod.
“We’re doing the studio’s premiere party!” Jett announces, practically vibrating.
Most of the line groans.
“A movie premiere?” Lena asks, her face slightly scrunched in a mix of confusion and disdain. “That . . . doesn’t seem like Sin du Jour’s mandate, unless I misunderstood you, Chef.”
“Gotta say I’m with Tarr on this one, boss,” Dorsky adds.
“Just this one?” Rollo asks under his breath, punctuating it with a low chuckle.
Lena looks over at him, a gunshot expression forming on her face that she quickly forces blank.
She can feel Nikki watching her suspiciously and Darren watching her judgingly.
“It seems we’ve developed a sudden rep in La-La Land,” Bronko says. “Word on the goblin prince’s wedding got out the very next damn day, it seems. Everyone in town in the know wants us. This premiere shindig is just the first request to make it past Allensworth. I guess the producers have a lot of stroke with the goblin hierarchy, and that is what we do.”
Dorsky raises an eyebrow. “They all know that the wedding was a Mongolian clusterfuck that nearly killed all the guests and not a theme party, right?”
“Can they tell the difference out there?” Nikki asks so earnestly it’s hard to tell she’s joking.
Lena snorts.
“Look, I don’t book the gigs,” Bronko says irritably.
His mood isn’t what takes them aback. It’s his admission of powerlessness. Though they’re all more or less aware Sin du Jour operates at the discretion of Allensworth and the government, it’s unlike Bronko not to maintain an air of total control.
“The fact of the matter is we’re gonna be in the weeds,” he continues. “The movie comes out next month. The movie premiere is next Friday night.”
This time the groans are louder and more contiguous.
“That’s right. It’s short notice and we’re double-booked.”
“Where are they premiering the stupid movie?” Dorsky asks. “Union Square?”
“The premiere isn’t in New York. It’s in Los Angeles.”
Everyone who groaned is suddenly hooting and hollering.
“Oh, now it’s not such a damn inconvenience.”
“Settle your shit,” Dorsky instructs the line, quieting them and badly suppressing his grin.
To Bronko he says: “That depends, boss. Who’s going to LA?”
“Not you,” Bronko says flatly.
Dorsky’s grin disappears.
“I need you here running point on the convention gala. I’ll head up LA. I know the people and the terrain better. The premiere party is a lot more exclusive, so thankfully we can keep the crew tight. I’ll take Tarr and Vargas.”
Everyone on the line who isn’t Lena and Darren is incensed, and vocal about it.
Save James, who clasps Darren’s shoulder and smiles at him in sincere congratulations.
Darren stiffens, forces a grin.
“Nikki, Jett needs you for a lot of what she’s got planned for the party. Dorsky, y’all are doing a straight buffet line with no hors d’oeuvres service and we are; so Pac, Mo, you’re on board with me too.”
“Wicked!” Pacific hollers, high-fiving Mr. Mirabel.
“Oh, come on!” Dorsky yells at the ceiling. “Bong Hits McGee and the World’s Oldest Man here get a free trip to the coast and we’re stuck doing the half-and-half con?”
“Tag, you know ‘half-and-half’ is a pejorative use of an ableist term,” Jett chastises. “Both the minotaur contingent and the centaur contingent find it highly offensive—”
“Oh-my-god-Jett-whatever,” Dorsky groans. “They’re a bunch of dudes with bull heads and horse bodies who have to have their annual love fest during ComicCon so no one will notice or hunt them for sport. It’s bad enough we had to prepare two menus because the centaurs get all uppity about eating horse food.”
“They are not horses, Tag!” Jett insists.
“Did he just say ‘uppity’?” Cindy asks Ritter behind the chefs. “Did I just hear that?”
“The point is,” Dorsky continues quickly, “does seniority count for nothing around here? We get the splooge line at the geeks and freaks carnival and the newbies and the pastry puff get to go surfing?”
Beside him, Rollo whistles approvingly and claps his hands.
“Goddammit, this is a job, not a vacation!” Bronko snaps at them, his irritation shifting to real anger. “Are you my sous-chef, or not?”
Dorsky is caught off guard, but he recovers, putting away his cavalier attitude.
“Yes, Chef,” he says seriously.
“Then act like it. I’m leaving you in charge. You’re executive ch
ef while I’m gone. I want things here to go off without a hitch. Tarr, Vargas, you’ll meet with me tomorrow on menu and pre-prep. We fly out Wednesday. We’ll shop and cook onsite. Nikki, get with Jett before then. Y’all have carte blanche on dessert. Whatever you want to do.”
“Oh, cool!” Nikki says. “Thanks, Chef.”
In the back of the room, Ritter raises his hand.
“Yeah, Ritt?”
“What do you need my team to do?” Ritter asks.
“Oh, right. Dorsky’s good and the premiere party is a mostly human, non-magicked-type menu for the most part. Take the week off. Y’all deserve it.”
“Does that include me?” Ryland asks around his unfiltered cigarette. “I am an honorary member of the department, after all.”
“No, you’re not,” Ritter and Cindy say in perfect unison.
“You’re going to prepare whatever Jett and Cindy need for the goblin portion of the guest list,” Bronko says.
“Typical,” Ryland mutters.
“Ritter, you and yours enjoy the break.”
“Then what did we need to be here for?” Moon whines.
“Boy, you are lucky I sign a paycheck for you, useful as you are most of the time,” Bronko replies shortly.
Moon appears to genuinely think about it, and shrugs.
“Fair enough,” he says, returning to his game.
“Pac, we’ll need a few more servers, but no goddamn Craigslist this time, y’hear?” Bronko instructs him.
“No worry, boss,” Pacific assures him.
“Any questions need addressing right now?” Bronko asks them.
Nobody voices one.
“All right, then.”
Bronko leaves them, his stride fast and labored.
It takes most of them a moment to shake off the bad feeling in the room.
As Lena heads for the door, she finds herself meeting Ritter in the back of the room.
“Congratulations,” he says to her.
Lena genuinely doesn’t understand.
“On what?”
“You’re moving up.”
Lena half-laughs. “Right. By default.”
“Take it however it comes.”
Ritter grins at her, just a little.
Behind him, Cindy performs a physiological miracle by rolling her eyes without her eyes ever moving in their sockets.
Ritter turns to walk out the door of the conference room and finds Dorsky casually blocking his way.
Dorsky is a head taller than him, forcing Ritter to look up.
Despite that, one would be hard-pressed not to choose Ritter as the more intimidating between them.
“You need something, Number Two?” he asks.
Dorsky grins down at him. “Nothing worthy of the Indiana Jones of grocery shopping, I’m sure.”
“Indiana Jones was an imperialist grave-robbing sumbitch,” Cindy chimes in from behind Ritter. “I hate those fucking movies.”
Ritter has no readable expression or tone when he says to Dorsky, “You’re in my way.”
“Am I?” Dorsky asks, still grinning. “I guess I didn’t notice I was in your way until just now.”
“Jesus,” Lena murmurs, mortified.
Then, louder: “If you two want to piss for distance do it in the men’s room.”
She pushes her way past them both and out the door.
Ritter and Dorsky watch her go, the sous-chef with a confused expression and the head of Stocking & Receiving with the subtlest hint of a frown.
“I like her despite myself,” Cindy says quietly.
SHARED MISTAKES
“So what’re you thinking for this thing?” Lena asks Nikki.
They’re in the small pastry kitchen that is Nikki’s sole domain and one of Lena’s favorite rooms in Sin du Jour. Nikki is carefully laying Saran Wrap over trays of beautifully molded maple rum panna cotta and trays of equally beautifully molded terrines of raw bakery waste.
The former dish is dessert for the centaurs attending the annual TaurusCon gala in Manhattan.
The latter is dessert for the minotaur guests.
She’s carefully labeling the top of each plastic-wrapped tray with Post-it notes.
Confusing one for the other would not only be the worst experience of any non-minotaur’s life, it would probably also kill them.
“Cherries jubilee, maybe,” Nikki answers her. “It’s Hollywood. I figure light something on fire, right?”
“That seems kind of basic for you. I’ll just say it.”
Nikki grins like someone with a secret. “I’ll jazz it up. What are you all doing for dinner service?”
Lena frowns. “It’s all supposed to be low-cal, low-carb, everything with a vegan option.”
“So? I cook vegetarian for my sister all the time. It doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, get inspired.”
Lena shrugs. “It’s not so much the health thing. Just feels like we’re going all vanilla.”
“Hey, what’s the static between you and Darren all of a sudden?”
“He’s being a judgmental little prick,” Lena says quite matter-of-factly.
“About what?”
“Who I sleep with.”
Nikki’s eyes go wide. She had been sliding clear-wrapped trays into a fridge. She shoves the one she’s holding in hastily and quickly swings the door shut, walking back over to Lena.
“Who are you—” she begins, and then stops herself. “Wait.”
Nikki jogs over to a pantry, grabs a bottle of wine, a cork, two glasses, and jogs back.
She has the cork popped and the glasses filled in less than ten seconds. Nikki shoves one at Lena.
“Who are you sleeping with?” she asks.
It’s an excited question, but coming from Nikki and considering the answer Lena imagines it sounds like a homicide detective interrogating her.
She frowns into her glass, hesitating.
“Look, I haven’t told you this because I got the vibe you and he have history, but I’m also not willing to lie to you about it.”
Nikki stares at her in sudden confusion.
“I’ve been hooking up with Dorsky,” Lena says, sipping her wine and coughing because it goes down the wrong pipe. “Since the lockdown.”
“Oh,” Nikki says immediately.
And then she doesn’t say anything.
Instead she drinks her wine.
Then keeps drinking it.
She keeps drinking it until her glass is empty.
“Oh,” she repeats, breathless.
“So . . .” Lena struggles. “Have I broken some lady code here? Like, how pissed are you?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not? Seriously? Because you don’t seem okay, that’s for damn sure.”
“I’m surprised,” Nikki says evenly. “But I can’t rightly be pissed at you or judge you for making mistakes I’ve made myself. That would be like, super unfair.”
Now it’s Lena’s turn to say, “Oh.”
Nikki nods.
“All I’m going to say is I get it. There’s an appeal there. But what I’d add is . . . that appeal has a very short reach. Especially when you work with him.”
Lena holds up her hands. “I don’t want to marry the dude, Nikki. It’s just . . . a thing that’s working for me right now.”
Nikki nods. “I understand.”
“So . . . we’re actually cool? Like, really cool? Not false assurances and private bloodletting followed by passive-aggressive girl war cool?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Nikki says. “So no. I’m not mad. Really. I am worried about you, but that’s because . . . you know.”
“Yeah. I know. Same here.”
Nikki nods again.
“Is this a bad time?” a young voice asks from the pantry kitchen entrance.
They both look over to find Little Dove standing there, unsure and seeming as though she wants to turn around and run.
Nikki works up her warmest smile. “Hey
, Lill. No. You’re always welcome here.”
Relief visibly washes over Little Dove. “Oh, good. You just, you both looked all intense and I didn’t want to be like—”
“It’s cool,” Lena echoes Nikki.
Little Dove slides onto a stool at the station over which they’re drinking their wine.
“I just had to get away from Grandpop for a while,” she says, smoothing her hands back through her long hair. “This is usually the part of the week where I snap a little.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Lena says flatly.
Little Dove nods. “I know.”
“So . . . bad day?” Nikki asks.
Little Dove takes a long, deep breath. “Well, let’s see. I spent an hour looking for his lost blood pressure medication, only when I called the doctor he told me Grandpop stopped taking those meds a year ago, and he just forgot. Then I had to call all of my sixty-four-year-old grandfather’s bookies and cancel the bets he makes every week behind my back. Then when I told him to stop doing that for the fifty millionth time we fought for another two hours.”
“Jesus,” Lena says.
“Yeah. He’s . . . he really is a brilliant man, in his way. And he loves me. Again, in his way. But if I wanted to spend my life as a babysitter I’d prefer actual real babies. But we’d never make this kind of money anywhere else.”
Lena and Nikki both nod with genuine empathy at that last statement.
Lena in particular feels the girl’s pain.
She takes up the bottle Nikki opened and pours Little Dove a glass.
“Oh, Lena,” Nikki waves her hands. “I don’t think she’s—” She looks at Little Dove. “How old are you again, Lill?”
“She’s old enough even if she isn’t old enough,” Lena insists.
Little Dove grins at that, taking the glass gratefully.
Lena clinks her own against it.
They drink.
“So what do you want to do, Lill?” Nikki asks.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, really. Do you like baking?”
Nikki smiles. “It’s like therapy they pay me to have.”
“I feel that way about eating what she bakes,” Lena adds.
Little Dove laughs, then a serious expression overtakes it.
“Could you . . . like, teach me? Maybe?”
Nikki stares at her, genuinely taken aback.
