They Ate the Waitress Page 5

“He’s my buddy,” Napoleon grunted. “The wife makes me keep him here at the store because he makes noise when we make love. I never saw what the big deal was. She made those noises first!”

  Nick was suddenly desperate to change the subject. He introduced himself and quickly explained the situation: Renée’s apparent murder, the missing body, his joke about the Donner party, everything. “Have you received any damaged bones in the past month?” he asked. “Shattered skulls? Fractured femurs? Cracked coccyx?”

  “No, can’t say I have. Everything is usually in perfect condition. The bones Mr. Sweeny sends here are always sealed in packing foam.” Packing foam was a chemical spray used in the shipping industry. After an object was coated in it, the packing foam expanded, providing a layer of rubber-like protection. It was also a tasty dessert topping.

  Nick pulled his transmitter from his pocket. “Even so, I would like to call in a forensics team to examine your inventory. I know it’s a bit of an imposition but, if you have any of Flockhart’s bones here, it would help me find the killer. You could be a hero. Think of it! You could have a low-budget, made-for-TV movie loosely based on the story of your life!”

  “I don’t want people looking around my shop,” Napoleon snapped. He yanked the transmitter from Nick’s hand and tossed it roughly onto the counter. “It’s not like when I was a kid. This is my property, and I don’t have to let anybody come in here. Private property is sacred, damn it! You have to respect that, even in the middle of a murder investigation. It would be better to let a thousand murderers go free than to see the rights of one innocent man trampled underfoot!”

  “I’ll give you twelve dollars.”

  “Sure.”

  ◊

  A white van pulled in front of the shop. It had a blue light bar on the top and a red and gold magnetic sign on its side. “Bend Forensic Investigation - Homicides, Sex Crimes, and Assaults - Also Available for Children’s Parties.” Four women and three men in white lab coats piled out of the van and headed into the shop. While they opened the display cases and examined Napoleon’s morbid creations, Nick waited outside, enjoying a cigarette. Actually, “enjoying” is an understatement. Compared to how the rest of his day was going, smoking the cigarette was unbridled ecstasy.

  Overhead, a black and yellow airplane buzzed by like an enormous bumblebee. A dog walker brushed past Nick, grimacing and waving away his smoke. An ice cream truck rolled slowly through the neighborhood. Oddly, it was playing Ride of the Valkyries. The team supervisor, a woman with a severely shaved head and a silver nose ring, joined him on the sidewalk. Her name tag said “Wendy.”

  “Mr. Wergild,” she said, checking her clipboard, “the majority of the bones appeared to be either male or of the wrong age, so they were rejected immediately. The bones from young, petite females belonged to just three individuals. We have taken scrapings from the bones and, as guaranteed in our commercial, you will have your DNA results in about an hour. Do you have a major credit card?”

  “No, I do everything in cash.” Most credit card companies refused to do business with Nick, as he treated bills like mosquito bites: tiny annoyances that would go away if he ignored them long enough. “But not to worry. My client will be taking care of everything.” He made a transmission to Todd Sweeny.

  “What is it now?” Todd demanded, annoyed. It looked like he had just gotten out of the shower.

  “I need you to send your credit card number to Bend Forensic Investigation. I’ll give you their frequency…”

  Nick followed Wendy back into the shop. Still sitting behind the sales counter, Napoleon was feeding the parrot a spinach leaf. In between bites, the parrot emitted shrill grunts and groans. One of the investigators, a heavyset man with a pockmarked face, rushed over to Wendy. “The DNA tests are finished,” he said, showing her his wrist clipboard. “No matches with our victim. One of the individuals had her DNA on file with a genetic research company in Portland. Another individual matched the employee records at a local bank; they keep their employee’s DNA on file as an anti-theft measure. The third was obviously too elderly. Her joints had deteriorated.”

  “They won’t do that if you roll them properly,” Nick said.

  “I have something else that might catch your interest,” the investigator said, addressing Wendy. “I happened to look out the back window, and it looks like the shopkeeper is stripping bones in the alley behind the store. The thing is, the chemicals he’s using are known to cause cancer, birth defects, and excessive bleeding from the eyes. He’s just letting the chemicals run down the street and into the sewer! I’m sure his insurance company wouldn’t be too happy about that!”

  Wendy moaned, exhausted. “Mr. Wergild, I’ve had a very hard week, and I would really like to get home to get some sleep. Would you mind taking care of the old man for me?”

  “No problem.” He smiled, lighting a cigarette and walking out to the alley. “Hey Nappy!” he called. “We’ve got to have a little talk.”

  “What’s about?” the old man asked, grimacing like he had a lemon wedged in a very uncomfortable place.

  “Do you have health insurance?”

  “Of course. How else would I have lived this long? You kids think new livers grow on trees?”

  “Not in this climate. Listen, Nappy, every insurance company in the country has public health provisions in their contracts, which you have broken. Hell, you didn’t just break them, you stomped on them and smashed them into little pieces. Unless you have about a half million dollars to turn over to your insurance company, I’m going to have to arrest you.”

  “You can’t do this!” Napoleon screamed. His bird squawked in fright, flapping its wings futilely. “You’ll bankrupt me! They’ll take my store!”

  “Relax. They will probably just take the lion’s share of your money now, and then seize whatever’s left when you die. It’s just like having kids…”

  “I’ll get you for this, Wergild!” He balled his hands into fists. “I’ll bash in your skull!”

  “The last time I punched an elderly man, it ended up on the local news. Turns out, he wasn’t even the real Elvis. So let’s skip the fistfight, okay?”

  “Well, can I at least run away?”

  “Fine. I’ll get your cane.”

  Napoleon didn’t get very far. Nick waited for a security team to arrive and take the old man into custody. He would be held just long enough for evidence to be collected and for the insurance company to investigate the rate of cancer in the area. The insurance company would reimburse any victims, using Napoleon’s fines to cover their losses. If he had anything left over, he would probably lose it in the numerous lawsuits that were certain to follow. All things considered, not his best day.

  On his way home to Vancouver, Nick set his transmitter on the dashboard and contacted Todd Sweeney again. “I may not have found Flockhart’s bones,” Nick said, “but the trip was still worthwhile. If the art dealer doesn’t have Renée’s remains, that only leaves two options: the killer still has them, or disposed of them someplace else. I’ll try to find out if an unidentified skeleton has been discovered in the Vancouver area. In the meantime, I think I need to visit your restaurant again.”

  After that, he put in a transmission to a friend at Seattle Safe Harbor, a crime insurance company. He was forwarded to video mail. Either his friend was away from his desk, or he was avoiding Nick’s calls. Probably both.

  “Hey, buddy.” Nick always called his friends “buddy.” It was easier than learning their names. “I need you to do me a favor. Let me know if there have been any Jane Does found in the past month. The one I’m looking for should just be a pile of bones by now. If you find her, I’ll consider deleting those photos of you with your mistress. …Is that the right term? Not sure what to call it when it’s a horse. Anyway, call me back.”

  Chapter Six

  The sun slid below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in crimson and violet. The lights in the parking lot flickered on, buzzing like trapped
houseflies. “And here I am again,” Nick thought, “at a restaurant for white collar cannibals. I still can’t believe it. It’s even worse than that place that sold chicken tartare…”

  He watched a cluster of foreign businessmen walk inside, grinning and laughing at some private joke. Even at a distance, he could tell that one of their suits cost more than what he made in a decade. Behind the businessmen came the local weatherman. He was wearing a baseball cap, scarf, and sunglasses, obviously trying to keep from being recognized. A few minutes later, a baseball player from a Portland team walked in, his wife beside him. She was holding their infant daughter.

  “At least she’s too young to eat meat,” Nick decided. “For a few more months, anyway. And then it can be pureed…” He shuddered involuntarily. Noise from across the road pulled him away from unpleasant thoughts.

  The strip mall across the street was dominated by a gaudily-painted bar called “J.B. Funambulist’s.” The owner was Steven Jenkins, a local celebrity who had written a popular book on speed-reading. Most people finished the book in under an hour thanks to his great tips, and the fact that it was only ten pages long.

  A handful of protesters stood outside the bar, waving signs and shouting something he couldn’t quite hear over the traffic noise. A man near the front of the group was wearing a three-piece suit, a top hat, and a monocle, like a caricature of a nineteenth-century railroad tycoon. Nick waited for a break in the traffic and hurried across the street. Stepping into the bar’s parking lot, he could finally make out their words.

  “One, two, three, four! Evil millionaires who eat the poor! Five, six, seven, eight! Does human flesh really taste that great?”

  Nick wandered over to a woman holding a bullhorn, apparently leading the chanting. “Excuse me, but do you realize you’re protesting the wrong business? Hand to Mouth is across the street.”

  “I know that!” she said slowly, slurring her words. “Don’t you think I know that? We wanted to protest over there, but the owner said we couldn’t use his popperty… property… without buying something. And everything he sells has human flesh in it. And that’s… icky.”

  “And J.B. Funambulist’s let’s you protest in their parking lot?”

  “They sure do,” she laughed “as long as we buy a round of drinks every twenty minutes!”

  The top-hatted man stumbled to the edge of the parking lot, shaking his fist more or less in the direction of the restaurant. “You evil, heartless bastards! I’ll show you! I’ll show everybody!” Apparently the thing he was so desperate to show everyone was in his pants. He fumbled with his belt, dropped his trousers, and made a sound like a lovesick moose. Nick lurched back as the man regurgitated several pints of beer onto the pavement.

  Nick placed his hand on the leader’s shoulder, guiding her away from the putrid muck. “I noticed you folks are all wearing gold pins,” he said, reading the engraving. “What’s ‘Scunner Consulting’?”

  “They paid us to be here today. Next week, we’re protesting a slim… skim… a scrimshaw dealer a couple towns over.” The woman put a finger to her lips. “Shh! That’s a secret! Who told you that?”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to chanting slogans.” Obviously, she was far too intoxicated to be helpful. He left her to her drunken faux activism and returned to the restaurant.

  The maitre d’ at Hand to Mouth was a tall, lanky man with a neatly shaved head and a wispy mustache. His name tag said “Paulo.” Paulo peered at Nick suspiciously, like he was a maggot swimming in his foie gras. “Do you have a reservation, sir?” he said in a tone that clearly indicated “sir” was code for “you underclass piece of filth who couldn’t afford to eat here even if you brought your own food and ate it while cowering in the men’s room.”

  “Actually,” Nick explained calmly, “I just came inside to tell you that your car is being stolen.”

  “What? Not my baby! Oh my sweet lord!” Paulo ran from his station in a panic. Heading for the door, he grabbed a potted plant from the lobby, apparently to defend himself against the would-be car thieves. Smiling to himself, Nick wondered what kind of person would consider an angel-wing begonia a dangerous weapon.

  The tables at Hand to Mouth were highly-polished, black mahogany decorated with carvings of medieval and Renaissance art. The tops of the tables had circular indentations marking recessed plate warmers. The chairs were high-backed thrones with feet like lion’s paws. Everything else was trimmed in gold or studded with jewels or expensive for other reasons that only the absurdly wealthy could understand.

  A waiter spoke to a table full of young women, awkwardly explaining how the chef prepared the Rocky Mountain oysters. Two children in overalls chased each other, laughing, steak knives in their hands. Their parents didn’t seem to notice. Sitting near the back of the restaurant was Dr. Günter von Plumpsklo, a plastic surgeon and minor celebrity. He was famous for being the first doctor to perform cosmetic surgery on internal organs. It was important to look your best at your autopsy. After all, those would be the last photos of you ever taken.

  Nick wandered over to a table and threw his coat over a chair. Taking a seat, he waited for a server. At the next table, a young woman was sitting by herself, eating the last few bites of a steak. Her hair was cut in a short bob, dyed pink, almost the same color as her low-cut cocktail dress. Around her neck was a black leather choker studded with pink diamonds. It looked like a remarkably expensive cat’s collar. Nick cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, but I’ve never been here before. What would you recommend?”

  “Oh, anything, really,” she said casually, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Your second meal is the one that really matters. The first time people try the food, most of them are too focused on what it used to be to enjoy the taste.”

  “What’s it like to eat another human being?”

  “It is a miraculous, life-changing experience,” she said, closing her eyes. “Like giving birth in reverse. Instead of bringing a miracle into the world, you take a miracle into yourself. The moment I first heard about this place, I knew I had to come. The first bite was like touching the face of god. It made me feel immortal. I knew, somehow, that I was eating the person’s soul.”

  “Do the steaks come with a baked potato?”

  “And your choice of soups.” Opening her eyes, she smiled brightly. “The ‘clam’ chowder is to die for – No pun intended!”

  “I’ll have to try that.” He offered her his hand. “By the way, I’m Rick Welding.”

  “Gabrielle.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do, Ms...?”

  “It’s just Gabrielle. I’m a singer/songwriter,” she said, pronouncing the slash as a separate word. “And what do you do, Rick Welding?”

  “I’m the entertainment manager of a new nightclub on the south side of Portland. We’re opening in a few days. I’m supposed to audition some performers.”

  “What kind of performers are you looking for?”

  “The usual… Strippers, showgirls, plate spinners…”

  “Oh, you! Be serious!” she laughed, touching his arm.

  “Actually, we do need singers. There’s just something about the sound of a woman’s voice that makes men want to buy overpriced mixed drinks.”

  “Well, well, well! Why don’t you come over to my place sometime and I can audition for you privately?” Rising from the table, she handed him a business card with a tiny hologram chip embedded in its surface. He rubbed the chip with his thumb, and a tiny Gabrielle appeared on the card. The hologram waved, blew him a kiss, and then flickered and vanished. “I have an appointment right now,” the real Gabrielle said, “but you can trans me tonight. I’ll be up outrageously late. Ciao, baby!”

  As he watched Gabrielle slink out the door, Nick heard a familiar voice coming from behind him. He turned in his seat to see Todd Sweeney having an animated conversation with one of the waiters. The waiter was a man of about twenty, with
bleached blonde hair and a sallow complexion, wearing the same white shirt, red tie, khaki slacks combination as the rest of the male staff. He had a silver ichthus, the “Jesus fish” symbol, tattooed on his wrist.

  “For the last time, Aaron,” Todd barked, “I do not want you in the back with Gordon! You are to remain in the dining hall with the rest of the waiters! You are banned from the rest of the building!”

  “Alright! I’ll stay out of the damned butcher shop! Now, if you are finished publicly humiliating me, I have customers waiting.” Aaron pulled a notepad from his apron, switched it on, and strode across the room to Nick’s table. “Hello,” he said listlessly, “My name is Aaron and, as the cliché goes, I’ll be your waiter. What can I get for you this fine evening, my good sir?”

  “Does everything have people in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even the bread?”

  “Especially the bread.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll just have a beer.”

  Aaron made a mark on his notepad. “Good choice, sir. For first-time customers, all of our beers come with a free basket of ‘chicken’ fingers.”

  “Oh, lucky me.”

  Glancing up from his notes, Aaron eyed Nick suspiciously. “And… don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “You might have seen me on television,” he replied. “I was in an ad for a plastic surgery clinic. I was the ‘before’ picture.”

  Aaron’s face showed that he didn’t believe Nick, but realized that he was not in the proper social position to call him a liar. After all, he was bringing him food, not reading his resume. Forcing a smile, he said, “Oh, I remember you now. I’ll be right back with your order.”

  Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t returned. But Nick didn’t mind. In fact, he was rather relieved. “A chance to do undercover work in a cannibal restaurant without having to eat any of the food!” he thought happily. “Boy, this worked out well.”

  “And here’s your chicken!” It was Jessica, the flirtatious redhead from the other night. Her hair was pinned into a bun with silver chopsticks. She wore a distractingly short skirt and a blouse that looked tight enough to cut off her circulation. “Oh, you’re that magazine guy! Dick, right?”