It was five o’clock and Tommy wanted to get this presentation right. He liked to do that sometimes—kind of a warmup for the dinner rush. One dish would get worshipped, every piece getting extra special attention, and Tommy would have a standard to aspire toward for the rest of the night. The kitchen ideal was consistency. Do it perfect every time.
The spiral of avocado would have looked perfect had Tommy not had to deal with this bandage. All things considered, this salad looked incredible. Chopped uniformly, tomatoes summer-fresh, pop of purple from the onions, smooth drizzle of house made dressing. Perfect, though? Well, the avocado spiral, Tommy knew he could do that better.
He was healing, though. Slowly. But healing.
Of course, there probably wouldn’t be a dinner rush. Summer night like this, people were firing up grills in their backyards and patios. Olly’s kitchen was slow enough that Tommy was running all the food himself while Juan Carlos deep cleaned the walk-in. Tommy did not mind making a salad though. The restaurant was a team, a family of weirdos, and he needed to brush up on the salad builds. He should know every part of the kitchen down in his bones, if he was going to be part of this family.
Six o’clock turned into 6:45 and the dinner rush never appeared. Even Luis seemed to have run out of things to do, having deep cleaned the entire dish pit already. The kitchen doors swung in and Martín entered with Diego in tow. “Hey Chef!” Martín called. “How do we feel about throwing the new blood into the deep end, eh? See if he can climb his way out of the front of house and into our glorious kitchen?”
Tommy froze, trying to come up with a reply. It wasn’t time for Diego. He had just been hired. There were steps to be taken, a path to forge. This kid started shaving yesterday, now he was trying to earn the chef knife? But Martín had already taken him to a prep table before Tommy could even think of a reason to stop them.
“I’ll teach him how to chop, maybe he can help until the Human Julienne is back up to 100%.” Martín laughed good-naturedly. Clapped Tommy on the shoulder. Left to get produce.
Diego put on an apron. Smirked at Tommy.
Don’t let him get to you. These people are your friends.
“Hey Tommy, how’s the hand?” Diego asked.
It felt like a thousand needles had been shot at Tommy’s stomach. He stayed calm, though, and he didn’t launch into any bullshit. An order for a steak salad came through, and Tommy prepared it.
—
The slow shifts continued at Olly’s. Diego spent more time in the kitchen. Everyone seemed to think he was a natural back here. Even the servers would willingly bus their tables, so that he could get some prep time.
Tommy wanted to be a team player, but tried to subtly make his displeasure known. He was plating his dishes with extra attention, making sure all of his work was completely perfect, above board. Let it be known that there’s a standard here.
It wasn’t his restaurant. It wasn’t his decision to make. But couldn’t they see that this wasn’t the order of things? Diego needed to be crushed in the dish pit for several weekends in a row before he even looked at a knife. He needed to leave every shift soaking wet and smelling like a hundred half eaten meals, knowing he barely scraped $16/hour while doing it.
Diego had not earned what was being given to him.
—
It was nearing the end of Tommy’s breakfast shift one afternoon and he was taking out the trash. When he went out the back to the alley, he saw Diego smoking a cigarette and sitting on a milk crate.
“Now I’m a real chef, huh?” He said, holding the lit cigarette up. “Only in the kitchen a couple weeks and I’ve already picked up the bad habits.”
How dare he. Calling himself a chef. “I guess the real bad habit of the kitchen is coke,” Tommy said. “So as long as you stay away from that, you’re good.”
Diego didn’t seem to hear him. He looked around the alley for a few moments. “I wonder if any of the apartments have cameras in their windows. I mean, I know those cameras are fake and meant to deter break-ins,” he pointed to the cameras a ways down, behind the Cash Exchange. “But maybe some weirdo who never leaves the house has a camera to keep himself entertained?”
“Maybe,” Tommy said.
“Buenas tardes,” a voice called from the mouth of the alley. Mara made her way over to them. “How was it today?”
Diego stood up and stamped out his cigarette. “Slow, but I learned how to build all the salads. Pretty soon I’ll be taking Tommy’s job.”
Tommy knew Diego was messing around, but—what else was there to say? That simply wasn’t true. Diego would never be taking his job.
Mara laughed. “I don’t know. Tommy’s pretty incredible behind the line, even with one busted hand.”
Tommy felt his mood lift.
“You two will just have to settle on being the dream team, I guess,” Mara said, and disappeared inside for her dinner shift.
The dream team? Now that was bullshit, if Tommy ever heard it. Theirs was a noble calling, but come on. It was eggs and hash browns.
“Ah shit,” Diego said. “Left my wallet in my locker. Can’t get home without a Ventra card, right?”
Tommy grunted his agreement.
“Alright, well. See you tomorrow, navaja.”
Wait a minute. Tommy knew that word.
“What’d you call me?” he asked.
“Navaja, homie, you know,” Diego said. He waved a tight fist around, then made stabbing motions. “Cómo se dice, man, uh—switchblade! That’s your new name! Pretty tight, if you ask me.” Diego was laughing.
“Switch—navaja?”
“Oh, man, come on. We still doing this? Man you did not cut your hand on no pairing knife. I know you’re OG. Out in these streets. A danger.” Diego’s laughing sounded like it was meant for the whole alley. Here’s the guy! Right here! Diego seemed to call. Let’s draw and quarter him! This gel-haired punk knew the truth of Tommy. Maybe not the murder, but he knew the deception, and he was going to leverage it to take Tommy’s place.
Just one more problem to solve.
The fatigue of the shift was gone. Adrenaline coursed through Tommy. He had to fix this. He had to figure out how to get Diego on his own, preferably far away from the restaurant. Just one more problem to solve.
Diego was still chuckling as he took a long rip from his vape—of course he had a weed vape. Legal weed. Just another thing Diego’d never had to earn the hard way. The kid turned to enter the restaurant. He was probably lying about leaving his Ventra card. He just wanted to buy some time, let Tommy leave, and then reveal the truth to the others. Tommy could not let this happen. He had to act now.
He followed Diego inside, grateful for the total absence of cameras in the back of the restaurant. Cameras in the dining room, to protect the profit. Cameras in the kitchen, to protect the product. But nothing to observe the basement.
Diego didn’t seem to notice Tommy tailing him down the stairs. He was already at his locker—back turned—when Tommy made it to the foot of the stairs.
He had to do this just right.
One fluid motion, with enough force? Tommy could move past all of this.
He took a deep breath and in three quick steps, he made it to Diego. Tommy grabbed the back of Diego’s head and shoved it forward into the open locker with as much force as he could muster.
His plan had been to stun Diego by smashing his face and then crushing his windpipe, hopefully minimizing blood. What else was there to say? Problem solved.
He didn’t expect Diego’s head to catch the top of the locker and his neck to bend back. The snap was like crisp lettuce.
Diego seemed to have died relatively painlessly, all things considered, but the end result was far more gruesome than Tommy would have thought. His neck was bulging like spoiled food in a pierced vacuum seal while his head lolled back like a snapped chicken wing, drool coming out his open mouth. The dryer buzzed behind Tommy.
He had to get rid of the body.
It seemed impossible to do midday. He opened his own locker and managed to prop Diego’s corpse upright inside it. He had to think. The noise of the dryer felt like his brain was in a blender. He had to think, but he had to get out of Olly’s first.
Coming back up the stairs, breathing a little harder than these stairs deserved, Tommy saw Mara. Tommy had probably forgotten the trash can liner, and she was getting a new bag.
“Oh hey, you’re still here,” she said.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, certain he was breathing normally. “I, uh. Left my wallet in my locker. Can’t get home without a Ventra card, right?”
“Sure can’t,” Mara said. “Can I squeeze by you? I’m getting clean towels for Maria.”
“Oh. No need to go down there. I’ll grab them for you.”
“Yeah no, you’re off work. Go home. I’ll get towels, you go.”
She pushed past him. Tommy found himself following her before he’d thought up a good excuse to be doing so.
“Really, Tommy,” she said. “Not trying to be radical-punk-Mara or whatever, but you should go. You already work too much, don’t do unpaid labor.”
She was opening the dryer and filling one of the laundry sacks with towels, barely looking at him, but she must have sensed him staring.
“Is everything okay?” She looked concerned. “Diego was just teasing you about taking your job, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Tommy was trying to steal glances at his locker when she was looking away. Diego was dead, right? Tommy was pretty sure no one could live with their neck like that, but he also had seen saliva coming out of him. Was that normal for a body?
Mara finished getting the towels and noticed Tommy staring at the lockers. “What’s this?”
Tommy’s heart plummeted. She knew. Somehow, she knew.
Mara turned to lockers and Tommy wished he had his knife bag. This was out of control, but he could fix this. Mara went to Diego’s locker, the door still ajar.
“Diego is always leaving his locker open. Not like anyone wants to steal his work shoes, but still.” She pushed the door shut, but there was a catch on the top of the locker. “Huh. Never noticed his locker all bent like this. Guess that’s why it never closes.”
Tommy felt bile rise in his throat. Would Martín notice if Diego’s locker was bent up?
Mara turned and saw Tommy staring at her. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tommy?”
Tommy almost believed her concern. Maybe she didn’t suspect anything. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Maybe time for a nap though, huh?”
“Maybe, but it’s definitely time for me to get back up there, so. Can I sneak by ya? Again?” Mara gave him a lip smile.
Tommy stepped aside and she disappeared up the stairs. He took another look at his locker. He had to deal with this, but now was not the time. He needed a drink and a plan.
—
On the bus and halfway home, Tommy’s heart hadn’t slowed. It wasn’t the killing that had rattled him, though maybe it should have. It was the recklessness of it, and the situation it placed him in. Now he would have to come up with an excuse to get into the restaurant without prying eyes. And that was the easy part. How was he supposed to get the kid’s body out of the basement?
He stepped off the bus and took a deep breath. He had about six hours before the restaurant was empty, so he had some time to think. He considered walking back a few blocks, hitting up Jimmy’s Pub. The place where a man could clear his head. It meant walking in the direction of Olly’s, though, and he wasn’t ready for that.
In his apartment, he picked up his paring knife. It had been washed, thoroughly. Re-sharpened. Almost like a new tool. The paring knife didn’t remember Gerry, the paring knife only knew that it was chopping some oranges right now. Why couldn’t everyone be more like Tommy’s paring knife?
Muddled sugar and bitters and cherries. Maybe he could cut the body up and get it out that way. A fistful of ice, Buffalo Trace. He had watched enough butcher videos on YouTube and he had that cleaver he never used. Probably too messy, though. Garnish with orange, squeezing just a little. No water today. And what about Mara? She never gave the impression that she mistrusted Tommy, but something was different ever since Gerry was found. What had to be done about Mara?
The kitchen ideal was consistency. Do it perfect every time. Diego hadn’t been that.
This Old Fashioned, though. It was perfect. Tommy made sure to savor it.
Details of a plan started to come together.
He made another Old Fashioned.