XXXV
1543 Words
XXXV
Lucan sipped a gin and tonic in a fine dining restaurant located on the top floor of a downtown skyscraper. As the sunset filled the sky, he watched the city lights flicker on.
His jaw had been clenched shut for so long, it ached as he opened his mouth to drink. He downed his glass and flagged a waitress. A woman with blonde hair and wearing a black vest and tie made her way gracefully to him.
“Yes, Mr. Grimoire?” the waitress asked.
Lucan held up his glass, and the ice and lime wedge inside jangled. “Gimme another, will ya, babe?”
The waitress grabbed the glass with one hand and gave him a warm smile.
Lucan glanced around the room. Dinner was in full swing, and all the tables were set with white tablecloths and black dishes that made a bold statement when they had food on them.
Two men in tuxedos played a piano and a guitar from a raised stage in the center of the room. The soft, mellifluous jazz standard reminded Lucan of the beach.
He ate at this restaurant once a week. The staff knew his schedule and always had gin and tonics and crab cakes ready for him. If Celesse was with him, they’d have a bottle of rosé waiting on ice. He preferred a corner seat facing the door, not because he was paranoid, but because Celesse loved to watch the sunset.
Tonight, the sun was like an effervescent tablet dropped into a glass of purple water; the horizon was furious and full of fire—Lucan’s kind of night. He had been burning inside all day waiting for this evening meeting.
The waitress returned with a fresh gin and tonic in a highball glass.
“The usual tonight?” she asked. Her eyes drifted down to the table, which was set for four.
“I’m entertaining,” he said. “Bring me two bottles of brandy, some crab cakes, your signature charcuterie collection, lox and capers, those fantastic marinated olives, duck crostini, and...”
He picked up a single-faced, leather menu. “What’s the chef’s special?”
“Freshwater salmon marinated in our private label white wine, with a pea and horseradish purée, fire-roasted beets and toasted almonds. For dessert, a banana flan with ice cream and cherry sauce,” the waitress said.
“Yep. Four of each, please. And did I order drinks?”
“You ordered two bottles of brandy, sir.”
“Make it four.”
His phone rang. As his hand went to his pocket, he realized he was supposed to pick up his daughter for the weekend.
He had promised her that he wouldn’t miss a weekend during campaign season.
He pulled his phone out, and her photo blinked on the screen, long blue hair and a missing top tooth.
She wanted to do a video chat.
He felt guilty for talking to her in a restaurant. He usually took her out for pizza.
He checked his watch. Maybe there was still time, maybe not.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said.
“Daddy, where are you?”
Madelaide was sitting on a couch with a backpack in her lap. She had been waiting for him, and she had even worn the new white dress that he had bought her.
What did he promise her last weekend?
Right, the zoo. Or was it ice cream? Or a hike? With that dress, it must have been to take her somewhere nice.
“I’m at a meeting,” he said. “It’s an important dinner.”
“With who?” she asked. “You promised to take me out to eat.”
“I’ll make it up,” Lucan said, crossing his fingers. He slanted his eyes as he smiled. “I think I’ll have room for magic pretzels, won’t you?”
Madelaide pouted.
“Hey now, I told you I’m running a campaign...”
“You promised!”
“I know.”
“Mommy says you aren’t going to be able to keep your promises.”
Lucan raised an eyebrow. “What did I tell you about bringing the seven-legged monster into this?”
“Mommy doesn’t have seven legs.”
“Not during the day.”
“You really shouldn’t be so mean. She never says anything bad about you.”
Lucan puffed. He wasn’t doing this tonight.
Celesse entered the restaurant, wearing a sleek white dress and carrying a black clutch. Her red hair was down to her shoulders and pulled to one side. Her makeup was expertly airbrushed.
“Gotta go, sweetheart,” Lucan said. “My dinner guests are here. I’ll see you tonight.”
Lucan blew a kiss and ended the call.
He stood as Celesse spoke to the maître d’. She surveyed the room, saw Lucan and waved.
Two people followed behind her. First was Tony in a faded t-shirt; his left arm was in a sling and he had a black eye. Next to him was a tall elven man. He wore a t-shirt like his son, and ripped denim jeans. He had a beard that was starting to gray, and he had an envelope tucked under his arm. He and his son glanced around the restaurant nervously.
The maître d’ stopped them. From his hand gestures, Lucan knew he was telling them they couldn’t enter.
Celesse said something, and after a moment of frowning, the maître d’ motioned them in the direction of Lucan’s table.
Lucan stood up and clapped slowly as they approached.
“Celesse, you look radiant as always,” he said.
Celesse joined him and they sat down.
Lucan pointed to chairs on the opposite side of the table, and Tony and his father sat down hesitantly.
“That’s a nasty boo-boo,” Lucan said, eyeing Tony’s sling. “What’d you do, fall off your tricycle? You’ve even got a black eye to match.”
Tony averted his gaze.
His father cleared his throat. “My name is Bartholomew. And the reason I’m here—”
Lucan held up his hand. “Good lord, you’re trying to pitch me right away? What kind of business IQ is that, Bart?”
The waitress wheeled a cart to the table and unloaded it with so many dishes of food, she had to leave the cart tableside to hold the excess plates. Bartholomew stared in disbelief at the huge array of food in front of him.
Lucan unfolded his napkin and clucked his tongue to get Bart’s attention. “Pass the charcuterie, will you?”
Bartholomew searched around the table, unsure.
“It’s the cured meat,” Lucan whispered, winking.
Bartholomew grabbed the charcuterie board and passed it; the many strips of aged, marbled meat glistened in the dim light.
“I don’t do deals on an empty stomach,” Lucan said. “Don’t be afraid of the food. It’s not going to eat you.”
Bartholomew shifted in his seat. “I came here to talk business, not to eat.”
“Oh, so the food’s not good enough for you?” Lucan asked. “Would you rather be eating peat? Since you were blackmailing me, I figured you had an aspiration for the finer things in life.”
“Cut the crap and let’s get to it,” Bartholomew said.
“Okay, I’ll cut it.” Lucan pulled a slip of paper out of his suit jacket and read it. “Bartholomew Dyer. Your address is 1295 1/2 Candlelight Trail, Bogville. It’s near the town square. You used to work for me ten years ago on the production line. Now you’re … a park ranger. Is that right?”
Bartholomew was speechless.
“You’re surprised?” Lucan asked. “If that’s the case, then you’re more clueless than I thought.”
Bartholomew snapped out of his disbelief and said, “I don’t care if you know what I ate for breakfast this morning. You know why I’m here.”
“Go ahead, make your pitch,” Lucan said. “You certainly have my attention now.”
Bartholomew unfolded the envelope under his arm. He slipped a note across the table.
We want three million dollars and your secret is safe with us.
Lucan laughed when he read the note. A few diners at the next table stopped and watched him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
He composed himself, then laughed again, beating the table.
“That’s all you want?” Lucan asked. “Really? Really really?”
“We’ve made our demand,” Bartholomew said. “Are you going to honor it?”
“What are you going to do if I don’t?” Lucan asked.
“We’ll talk to your uncle. We’ll tell him everything.”
“Which is?”
“How you found a dragon tomb and covered it up,” Bartholomew said.
“So help me understand, because I’m missing something,” Lucan said. “How the actual hell did little boy wonder over here end up in a sling?”
“He was hurt in the dragon attack,” Bartholomew said.
“Can’t speak for yourself, Tony?” Lucan asked. “If I recall correctly, you never shut the hell up.”
Tony’s eyes were wild. “Just give it to us and we’ll go away.”
Lucan sipped his gin and tonic. “Bart, talk to me. Do you need the money that badly?”
“Are you going to accept or not?” Bartholomew asked.
Lucan sighed. “If I do it, will you sign a release?”
“Whatever you want us to sign,” Bartholomew said.
“Got it. Let me consult with Celesse,” Lucan said.
Lucan stood and helped Celesse out of her chair.
They walked into a corridor that led to the bathrooms; at the other end was the front door.
When they were out of Bartholomew’s sight, Lucan hooked his arm under Celesse’s.
He stopped at the maître d’ and handed him a slip of paper. “In five minutes, give this to the guy sitting at my table—the one with the beard. Oh, and by the way, he so graciously decided to pay for dinner.”
The maître d’ nodded.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Celesse asked as they exited the restaurant.
“Trust me,” Lucan said. “Can’t get any worse.”
The maître d’ delivered the letter to Bartholomew.
“Where’s Grimoire?” he asked.
“He told me to give this to you, sir,” he said.
Bartholomew opened up the paper and his eyes widened as he read it:
Sue me.
And have fun washing dishes.
Bartholomew yelled when the maître d’ handed him the bill.
- Writer
