The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen (15 page)

He opened his eyes. He saw a tunnel, a single beam of bright white light. Slowly, it closed in on itself until there was nothing but a charcoal canvas and then, total darkness.

The paparazzi were gathering en masse outside the restaurant. Dirk had made sure of that. A few anonymously placed calls had started the ball rolling. And by the time he showed up at ten in his gaudiest ride—a yellow Lamborghini—word had spread, and now every celebrity-watcher and opportunistic tourist in the city was waiting for him. As he climbed out of the car, their cameras flashed, and when two models in seven-inch Louboutins emerged from the passenger seat, they went crazy.

A handsome maître d’ with impeccable hair and a Spanish accent escorted them through the bar to the dining room, where the white linen table coverings were crisply starched, the silver polished and gleaming, and the candles flickered in crystal dishes. The restaurant—Blue Toro—had become the flavor du jour of the Hollywood establishment ever since its celebrity chef owner had opened it two years ago. The menu was fusion, and so was the ambiance—old Hollywood glamour fusing with modern day adrenaline. A place where normal people couldn’t get reservations, and celebrities pulled strings and rank to get the best times and tables. The kind of place where Dirk Rathman wouldn’t be caught dead. Normally.

The waiter brought him a bottle of Macallan’s 55-year-old single malt and three glasses. His dinner companions were models. And aspiring actresses. Perfect bodies. Perfect faces. Clichés. Just like so many others in this town. But tonight they were props. His props. When you were trying to make a statement, entering a room with a pair of six-foot blonde models wearing ridiculous shoes (and little else) was a good place to start. The women—Iliana and Audrey—loved the attention. Being seen and photographed with one of the most recognizable faces in the world could jump-start their careers. They were using him as much as he was using them. Dirk didn’t feel bad for what was about to happen—not for them, anyway.

Dirk sipped his bourbon and looked out at the patrons staring back at him. A few waved, cautiously. He ignored them. They had every reason to stare. Dirk hadn’t been out in public like this in years, and many people thought he avoided the spotlight like it was a cancer-causing agent. There was some truth to that. If he did go out—which was rare—he went to venues where he had a connection with the owner; places with private back rooms and private entrances where they whisked him in and out without anyone knowing he’d ever been there. But there was more to their surprised looks than simply spotting a reclusive celebrity having dinner at the trendiest restaurant in town. There was the matter of his arrest two days ago. By now, everyone was aware that the police had busted down a hotel door to find him in bed with two women (along with a mountain of heroin in the room). Then yesterday afternoon, most of the country had watched live coverage of Dirk in a thong hitting tennis balls from the roof of his beachfront mansion. Then they watched as he somersaulted from the roof onto a fortuitously placed awning and into a hedge. Considering all that, Blue Toro was the last place on earth they expected to see him.

The waiter finished taking Dirk’s order and Dirk had to assure him that he’d heard him correctly. Twice Dirk had to repeat himself, then finally, he told the skeptical-looking man to hurry along. After finishing his second glass of bourbon, Dirk began drinking straight from the bottle. Iliana and Audrey laughed at his audaciousness, most likely assuming he was one of those celebrities who disregarded etiquette and acted like an ass simply because he could get away with it. Iliana followed suit. She was a wild one. The guests in the dining room cast leery glances at him, murmuring amongst themselves.

And then the entrees appeared.

When the waiter and two helpers arrived at Dirk’s table with eight entrees the murmuring grew louder, nearly drowning out the background music. And when the patrons realized that Dirk had ordered the same dish—eight plates of Red Tilefish with the heads still attached—a few gasped in surprise. The blonde on Dirk’s right (Iliana) laughed. The blonde on his left (Audrey) made a face and asked him if the fish were still alive.

Dirk closed his eyes to allow the moment to sink in. This was the most important night of his life. It wasn’t just his future that hung in the balance. The stakes couldn’t be any higher. His new boss had made that very clear to him, and Dirk didn’t want to disappoint. He knew he wouldn’t be given a second chance. He opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then stood up with a water glass in one hand and a butter knife in the other. Once every eye was on him, he tapped the glass with the knife, not stopping until the hum of polite conversation and the clinking of dishes and glasses faded out.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dirk began. “I hate to interrupt this public display of conspicuous consumption, but I need to say something before I take these two bitches here”—he held out his hands to indicate Iliana and Audrey—“back to my place to hollow out their vaginas.” He picked up one of the plates from his table and held it at an angle so that everyone could see the fish; it was grayish-brown and about a foot long. He pinched the forked tail between his thumb and forefinger and let the plate fall to the floor. It shattered. Some of the diners jumped back in their chairs. Dirk slipped a finger down the throat of another fish and hooked it by its gills. Then he stepped over to the nearest table where a couple in their thirties was staring at him, their eyes wide with confusion.

“Are you enjoying your salad, miss?” Dirk asked the woman politely.

A fork loaded with crumbled goat cheese rested in the woman’s hand, wavering in front of her mouth. Her other hand caressed the stem of a wine glass. She blinked, her cheeks flushing as red as the wine.

“That salad you’re nibbling on,” Dirk continued amiably, “costs more than the daily wages of the illegal immigrants washing your dishes in back. And that wine—fine choice by the way—could feed a family of four for a month.”

“Oh,” she managed to squeak out.

“Punishment is in order,” Dirk said, his voice gathering strength. “For your excess, your greed and your sense of entitlement, I have been commanded to punish you.”

The man seated across from her started to stand and his napkin tumbled to the floor.

“Wha—” she began to say.

Dirk slapped her across the face with the fish he was holding by the tail, hard. The fish snapped in half, and the part with the head slid greasily down her blouse and nestled in her lap. She screamed. Scales, crisp and smelling faintly of lemon and oregano, clung to her cheek. The man got to his feet, staring dumbfounded. Dirk drew the other fish back steadily, unrushed, and swung it in a tennis style backhand, hitting him between the eyes. This fish was more solid, meatier. The man swiped at his face, falling back into his chair, digging at the fish particles in his eyes. Dirk landed four more smacking blows before the fish was stripped clean of flesh.

The room went deathly quiet. A piano concerto played in the dining room.
Daft Punk
in the bar.

Quickly, but without any urgency in his movements, Dirk strode back to his table and snatched up two more Tilefish. With a discernible purpose in his step and both fish hooked securely through the gills, he approached the table to his left and began pummeling two dapper men who were old enough to be Dirk’s grandfathers. Too startled to defend themselves, the men covered their heads and screamed for help. They took a pounding. Dirk didn’t end the assault until the cowering men were blanketed with little bits of flesh, bone and scales.

As Dirk turned to retrieve more fish, a man in a dark suit and the maître d’ converged on him, walling off his path to the table.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dirk shouted at them as if he was deeply offended. “Do you know who I am?” He paused and then shouted it again, louder:
“Do you know who I am?”

The men looked like they were afraid to act, which was only natural since protecting customers from drug-crazed celebrities fell far outside the parameters of their job descriptions. Another man in a dark suit rushed over and joined them, but he simply fell into line, appearing even more lost and embarrassed than the others. The three of them stood there side by side, heads down and eyes on their shoes like an auditioning trio nervously awaiting the judge’s critique.

“I’m speaking to you!” Dirk screamed at them. When they didn’t respond, Dirk scrubbed his hands down the front of the maître d’s white shirt, streaking it with fish oil. The maître d’ made no move to stop him.

A plump Asian man came hurrying into the room in an awkward waddling trot. He looked around, breathing hard, and his face went pale. “What happened?” he asked the maître d’.

The maître d’s eyes skipped from the Asian man to Dirk, then he set his jaw and said nothing. He was probably hoping to get into the ‘business’ and realized that making enemies with someone like Dirk Rathman would guarantee that would never happen.

The woman with the fish scales clinging to her face pointed a shaking finger at Dirk.

The Asian man’s eyes followed the direction of her finger and his eyebrows arched in surprise. He muttered something in Japanese, his eyes moving throughout the room as if he expected one of the patrons to come to his aid. “Mr. Rathman,” he said, sounding clumsy and out of breath. “I’m Takamoto. The owner. I’m sorry, but I have to—”

“I’m going to have a seizure,” Dirk announced calmly.

“Sorry?” Takamoto stammered.

Dirk hit the floor like a bolt of lightning had struck him. His legs stiffened and his body went rigid. Since he wasn’t really seizing, he acted as though his brain was freezing up, picturing bursts of bright orange light flashing behind his eyes. He cradled his head, thrashing like a guppy that had escaped its tank to find life without water much less inviting than it had anticipated. He heard someone shouting for a doctor. But for the most part, the patrons remained calm, serenely watching the spectacle as if this was simply another scene in the evening’s entertainment. Dirk wriggled and writhed himself over to his table. The blondes were still in their seats, but now they looked less pleased with themselves.

Dirk reached up and clutched the tablecloth tightly in his hand. Then he gave it a hard tug, sending everything on the table flying through the air: crystal glasses, tableware and the bottle of Macallan’s shattered all around him. A plate of Red Tilefish slid across the floor and came to rest at the foot of an anxious-looking man guzzling scotch.

Little pools of bourbon, water, and half-melted ice cubes now studded the floor. Dirk pushed himself up to his feet, making a big show of what a struggle it was, then staggered and stumbled his way out of the dining room and through a hallway and into the bathroom. He reached out wildly for one of the sinks as if he needed it to steady himself. Someone was standing in front of the mirror. Dirk turned to him and screamed: “I’ll fucking kill you! Get out! Get out! Get out!”

The man got out, leaving his hand towel on the floor.

Dirk looked at the mirror and smiled. This was actually kind of fun. His face was shiny and slick with sweat. Just faking a seizure was hard work. He splashed cold water on his face. “Anyone in here?” He stepped over to the stalls and checked for feet. None. He went to the door and listened. There were voices. Excited voices. Shouting. He couldn’t hear the background music. Someone must have turned it off. He went back to the sinks and ran the water, wetting his hair and spiking it up until it looked wild and out of control. He waited. Timing was everything. The voices outside were growing louder.

“Here goes,” he said softly. He placed both hands on the vanity and screamed at his reflection: “He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s coming!” Then he checked his watch and waited. He’d give it ninety seconds.

Ninety seconds later, Dirk came tearing out of the bathroom, yelling like a madman: “He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s coming!” The crowd congregating outside the door turned and ran in terror. He followed the stampede down a long hallway and into the bar where the customers were packed in tight like passengers on a Tokyo subway train. The panicked patrons collided into chairs and tables, knocking them over. Glasses shattered. Liquid sprayed across the floor. Pinned up against the wall, a bald man screamed in pain. A woman was pushed over an upended table and hit her face on the floor. Blood flowed from her forehead. She shrieked. Her friends screamed. More people fell to the floor. They scrambled to get to their feet, crawling frantically to get away. The crowd moved closer to the exit, tripping and pushing one another. Dirk kept screaming: “He’s coming! He’s coming!” The panic and fear in the air surged. Everyone rushed the exit, fighting to squeeze through the narrow door, trampling anyone still floundering on the floor. Those who made it—including Dirk—streamed out onto the sidewalk like bees escaping the hive.

The sidewalk was overflowing with paparazzi and what appeared to be several busloads of senior citizens (probably shuttled in on a celebrity sightseeing tour). As the frenzied horde escaped from the restaurant, Dirk shouted maniacally, “Terrorists! Terrorists! Run! Run! Run!”

Chaos ensued.

All at once, as if someone had fired a starter’s pistol, the crowd scattered in every direction. An elderly man threw his walker at a blue sedan for no apparent reason. Dozens flooded the street, stopping traffic in both directions. The sound of screeching brakes filled the night air. Horns blared. People screamed. Police sirens and fire trucks wailed in the distance.

Dirk weaved his way along the sidewalk through the crowd, blending in with the paparazzi, celebrity-watchers and restaurant patrons, who all lost sight of him as he sprinted across the street to a waiting taxi at the Hotel Anglia. He climbed into the back seat and gave the driver an address. As the car sped away, he looked out the back window and watched the crowd staring around at one another in stunned disbelief.

It all went perfectly. Except for one thing. If only he’d remembered to wash his hands in the bathroom. They smelled like fish.