A Taste of the Nightlife (37 page)

“You mean because back in November I was standing in front of a jury while recovering from smoke inhalation, trying to explain that I shouldn’t be sent to jail for burning down a vampire bar.” A situation that was, in fact, a direct result of a clash between the aforementioned Maddox witch clan and some vampires, one of whom happened to be my brother, Chet.

“I think that qualifies as things not going so well.”

“Agreed. But they did get better.” Sort of. Kind of. Mostly. Except for some small problems like keeping ahead of the growing stack of invoices on my desk. And side problems, like how the fact that I had been seeing Brendan Maddox on a semiregular basis since last fall had not endeared me to some of the more hard-line members of that particular old, powerful, magically oriented family.

My life, in case you haven’t noticed by now, is a little more complicated than your average chef’s.

Focus, Charlotte.
“So, you called Oscar Simmons, even though you know he’s the restaurant world’s biggest prima donna. A title for which there is hefty competition. What were you thinking?”

“The society page of the
New York Times
,” said Felicity to what was left of her coffee. “And did I mention five hundred thousand dollars?”

“You’ve seen both before.”

“I know, I know.” Felicity wilted down until her chin was in danger of dipping into her mug.

A very unpleasant idea settled into my brain. “You weren’t sleeping with Oscar, were you?”

“What do you take me for? I don’t sleep with chefs. No offense.”

“You’re not my type. So, if it wasn’t personal, what pushed him over the edge?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t
know
. Yesterday, Oscar calls me and says he’s canceling. But he won’t say why. I spent hours on the phone with him. I went over to Perception and camped out on his doorstep. All he’ll say is he’s pulling out, and he’s stopped returning my calls.”

“Sounds like he’s trying to up his fee.”

“He returned his fee.”

If I’d had another sarcastic comment ready, it died an early death. Oscar Simmons had given back money? Not possible. Part of the reason Oscar was so successful was that he was an Olympic-level penny-pincher. “Oh.” I took another swallow of coffee while the gears in my head ground hard to keep up with this new conversational turn. “What about his staff? He must have a sous who—”

“He told them he’d fire them all if they took over the job.”

Which was hardly reasonable, but at least it sounded like the Oscar Simmons I knew. “And you’ve got no idea why?”

“I swear, Charlotte. I’ve tried to find out, but no one will tell me anything.” Felicity leaned toward me, and I realized that at some point in our conversation, she’d stopped blinking. “The client’s talking about postponing. The bride’s talking about eloping. . . . Charlotte, this was supposed to be the biggest paranormal event since the vampires came out of the coffin, and I’ve got no caterer and only ten days until the zero hour. You’ve got to help me.”

“Felicity, I don’t know. Nightlife’s on shaky ground, and I haven’t got a full staff. . . .”

“Did I mention the hundred thousand dollars?”

“That’s the food budget?”

“That’s your fee.”

It was a long moment before I could answer, because I had to concentrate all my energies on not leaping to my feet or starting to drool. Felicity clearly found hope in my hesitation. She was blinking again, and the color was starting to return to her ravaged face. She was also jumping to conclusions, probably assisted by her rapid caffeine intake. I freely admit the price tag she’d just mentioned was way more than enough to turn both head and attitude around. But something was missing in her story. I could feel it poking at me like a pinbone under my fingertips.

“Felicity, tell me what this job entails. Exactly.”

“Wedding day cateri includes breakfast and lunch buffets, hors d’oeuvres, sit-down five-course dinner, plated dessert, plus the cake. Besides that, you come out to the house and act as personal chef for the family and guests until the wedding.”

I let all this sink in and settle next to the internal spreadsheet that all executive chefs carry deep within them.

“One hundred thousand,” said Felicity again. “Pure profit after taxes. You can plow it all straight into Nightlife.”

I took a deep breath. “Felicity?”

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“One fifty,” Felicity shot back.

“One eighty.”

I waited for her answer, and waited some more. Felicity was used to drama brides and imperious mothers-in-law. I, however, regularly dealt with egos holding knives. As such, we were close to evenly matched when it came to negotiation. My only real edge was that I knew she needed me to say yes to this.

Given that, I also should have known she still had an ace up her sleeve. “One seventy-five,” said Felicity. “But you come with me right now to meet the family so I can show them everything is under control.”

“What? Are you crazy? I’ve got a dinner shift.” This is the cardinal rule of kitchen work. You show up for your shift, no matter what. If your aged grandmother and all her cats are being held hostage by rabid zombie terrorists, you send her a condolence card, and you show up for your shift.

“You come with me now, or it’s all off.” She had that look in her eyes that comes when you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Slowly, I got to my feet. “’Scuse me one sec.”

I went back into the kitchen. Ignoring the quizzical glances, I walked over to my battered desk and stood there, fingertips resting on the scarred surface, staring at one particular pile of colored papers with crumpled edges. This pile represented every expense that was not a staff paycheck. Meat. Blood. Flour. Milk. Eggs. Linens. Cleaning supplies. Liquor. Electricity. Gas. All the things without which I was not in a restaurant—I was in an empty room. These invoices were all coming due. Some of them were past due and heading into emergency territory.

Felicity was offering me a solution to the problems represented by these pieces of paper. One hundred seventy-five thousand dollars was more than enough to take care of this stack. It could, in fact, be properly called a whole hell of a lot of money. Surely it was worth taking off for one shift. But my chefly sense of impending trouble had been left very sensitive by recent circumstances, and it was tingling now. Because that one seventy-five was in fact a whole, heaping, incredible, suspicious lot of money, even for an emergency. Even for an emergency involving very rich people, both living and undead.

“Zoe! Reese!”

“Yes, Chef?”

To their credit, neither sous betrayed any hint of exasperation as they came over to my desk, even though they were the ones left dealing with the million rampaging details of the impending dinner shift while their executive chef was sipping tea in the nice, cool dining room. Well, okay, I was gulping coffee, but you get the point.

My sous are a study in contrasts. Reese has a linebacker’s build, rich brown skin, cornrowed hair and the words EAT THIS tttooed on his knuckles. He swears the ink is the result of losing a bar bet, but he won’t tell me what that bet actually was. I throw him the hard cases who come into the kitchen—the ones who think they know more than they actually do, or who might once in a while consider it beneath their dignity to take orders from a woman.

Zoe Vamadev, on the other hand, is a petite young woman who has a critical eye on the level of Simon Cowell with a toothache. Her parents are from Bengal and Bali, and she came to the U.S. by way of Bangkok, Amsterdam, Edinburgh and London. She speaks more languages than a career diplomat, and she has made no secret of the fact that she wants to be my competition, and she’s good enough to give me a serious run for my money, even in my own kitchen.

I stared at the bills. Zoe and Reese stared at me staring at the bills. The bills stared back and, I swear, they snickered.

“I’ve got to go see about a catering job with Ms. Garnett. Can you two handle the dinner shift?”

That was what I said. Having been in similar situations back when I was still a sous, I can tell you what they heard:
I’m taking off suddenly, removing a pair of skilled hands you were counting on and taking with them a large chunk of institutional knowledge and kitchen authority, which will put you to a test you had no idea was coming.

There was only one answer they could give: “Yes, Chef.”