Mara tried not to breathe audibly. Tried to feel the protective powers of her red jacket, her amulet. Tried to not to wonder if crouching behind Booth 12, the farthest possible point from the back door, was the right move.
She was there now.
Tommy was diagonal across the six-booth island. His pasty face underlit by lights on the half wall. Knife a jutting horn low on his silhouette. He could go left or right. Her big bet had been on him going right. The decision hung between them.
“Mara?” Tommy called again.
She couldn’t figure out his tone. Was he pleading with her? Did he want to explain something?
Or was he taunting her?
The shadow of the soda machine with its lights off. A tub of rolled silverware. Sugar ramekins. The server’s station wasn’t going to be much help.
She had to make it all the way to the kitchen.
Then it was get a knife or get out.
“Hey, what are we doing here?” Tommy called.
The knife drooped at his side.
“Mara? Can we talk? Thought we were friends, Mara.”
She heard his weight shift. Saw him glance in the direction she didn’t want him to go. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine running the opposite way, past the host stand. More to trip on over there.
“The sautée man at one of my old jobs. Carlo. Old school guy. I mean, I know I watch a lot of movies, but this guy was straight out of a Scorsese film. Widow’s peak, thin gold chain, all that. One day he brought a huge Tupperware in from home, stuck it in the walk-in. Coulda been like a week’s worth of soup. Except it was duct taped shut. Duct taped. Two days later, some Armani-suited guys roll in, sautée guy takes a smoke break. Next time I went to the walk in, duct taped Tupperware was gone. You think I asked him about it? No. I’m not even telling you his first name.”
Tommy turned toward the host stand. Took a step. Took another. Head searching.
“What I’m saying is we’re not like normal people, Mara. We follow a higher calling. We’re restaurant people. A righteous underclass upon which this whole society gets its fuel. We are the unsung, the under appreciated. Same as all those wannabe rockstars you spend your time with. They’ll never be Cobain themselves, but they serve a vital, undervalued role in society.”
Another step. Mara saw her move clearly in her mind. The jacket was starting to feel like armor, even if she wasn’t sure about its ability to stop a knife. Her knees burned from squatting. She was coiled, but she needed to go or stretch soon. She saw Tommy twist, look over his shoulder. Then back toward the host stand.
“People like us play by different rules. We’re pirates. Haven’t you read Kitchen Confidential?”
A couple more steps to the host stand. If he looked behind the host stand, she could run while he was off balance. If he recovered, though, he’d have a straight sprint to her. Her legs ached. Part of her brain was screaming to take the chance.
“I was getting better, too. I’ve been on a mental wellness journey. I’ve been in such a better place since I started working at Olly’s. I’ve gotten out of the rat race, gotten out of spiceless tacos for yuppies. Let go of Michelin star ambitions. Devoted myself to this purity of community. I thought I’d really found a home here, you know. I thought we were friends. When I worked at Chili’s? I don’t even remember the name of my old GM. I put a brick through his head, though. I don’t remember corporate sending any ‘we’ll miss you, Tom’ or ‘gone but not forgotten, Dick’ or ‘sorry you died with BBQ sauce on your chin, Harry.’ I don’t remember anyone caring that I put a brick through a restaurant general manager’s head. I don’t remember anyone looking all that hard when some entitled prick got murdered at Lilypad. I don’t remember anyone looking all that hard when some asshole landlord got stabbed in an alley. Well. I guess I do remember you, Mara. You and Diego. You looked for Gerry.”
Mara’s knees were screaming. She bit the insides of her cheeks.
Tommy bent over the host stand. Looking under, where the menus and cleaning spray were kept. Looking between the stand and the lobby bench.
Staying low, with long strides, Mara made her way to the opposite side of the booth island. Before she could make the final dash to the kitchen, though, Tommy stood upright.
“You’re good at your job, my friend,” Tommy said. “You know all the hiding spots in front of house. That’s okay. A chef is nothing if not thorough.”
He walked more into the dining room. Stopped to look under some tables. Stepped again. He was even with Booth 12, the exact moment his body was lined up diagonally on the other side of the booth island.
Mara made her move.
Tiptoeing. Holding her breath. Still, she was an unmistakable stir, an unignorable movement. Her shoe squeaked and she turned on the jets. Sprinting, she made it through the kitchen double doors before Tommy could fully react.
The knives were hanging about eye level. She wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t hearing. She was barely seeing. She grabbed a chef’s knife, sharp and comfortable in her hand. A question took over her mind. The point of the knife was sharp to her finger, drawing a drop of blood with a slight touch. She sucked her finger. Then grabbed the bottom of her jacket, pulled it as taut as she could, and plunged the knife in.
A bounce, like poking a medium rare steak. All that witchy shit Melissa was always talking about. Amulets. Well. Mara zipped the jacket up. A little too long, it hung over her shorts. Still—a cocoon. A knife-stopping cocoon.
There was a noise, loud and insistent. She turned back to the dining room. Peered through the double doors.
Tommy wasn’t concerned with Mara at all.
Tommy was waving to the front door.
Where Parth was pounding and yanking.
Mara watched as Tommy, knife behind his back, walked over to the door.
Mara was frozen, watching Tommy turn the lock for the glass door, then moving to the storm door.
One thing about Tommy, he could unlock those doors and keep that knife hidden behind his back. The same way he could crack eggs one-handed, the same way he could move a skillet from burner to burner with one hand while stirring a roux with the other. The skills that Martín had called the Human Julienne.
Knife in hand, he opened the storm door.
Parth stepped into the space between the doors.
Tommy stabbed Parth in the chest, knife handle sticking out like some unsubtle prime rib serving station at a rich people party.
Mara didn’t mean to scream, didn’t do it consciously. Didn’t tell her legs to move, either. Barely registered the air whooshing past her ears, didn’t worry about her not-non-slip shoes on the restaurant floor. Didn’t even think about the knife in her hand, either.
She ran across the dining room and put her knife through the back of Tommy’s throat. Blood spurted all over the plastic storm windows. When Tommy turned toward her, the point of the knife stuck out where his Adam’s apple was before. Blood spurted some more.
Tommy made a horrible gurgling noise, something pleading. In that noise was the void of the entire universe, a moving pit that threatened to swallow Mara with it. It was a noise that seemed to have little to do with Tommy’s vocal cords. It was a noise Mara never wanted to hear again as long as she lived.
Then Tommy collapsed, and as his breaths slowed and stopped, the blood began to simply leak.
“Dude,” a voice said. Parth lay on the dusty square where a welcome mat usually was. There was a lot of blood, and it was hard to tell which was his.
“Are you?” Mara said, not completely sure what she was asking.
“It hurts like a motherfucker. But I think he missed the important stuff?” The blade looked like it was just above his heart.
“Oh my God!” a voice from down the sidewalk. Melissa was running, Martín and Amparo on her heels.
“I told them—follow me. In like, 10 minutes? If I don’t,” Parth was trying to say.
“I get it, don’t talk,” Mara said. “Melissa! Call an ambulance!”
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