Sin du Jour: The Final Course

Sin Du Jour: The Final Course

Matt Wallace

A Tom Doherty Associates Book

New York

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About the Author

Copyright Page

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Idle Ingredients

Matt Wallace

A Tom Doherty Associates Book

New York

PART I

NEW REGIME

SHORT ORDER

By her sixth egg of the morning the water in Lena’s poaching pan is a cloudy mess, but the breakfast rush affords her no time to change it out with new water and bring that to heat.

Her concentration is that of a Japanese zen archer’s as she cracks a fresh, cold egg into a small ramekin with one hand. At the same time her other hand is using the handle of a slotted spoon to stir the hot water in the pan until a gentle whirlpool forms. Dropping the contents of the ramekin into the swirling water, Lena focuses through the milky remnants of her previous poaching to make sure she doesn’t lose track of the fresh egg. The whirlpool prevents the white from feathering and wraps it around the yoke.

The most difficult part for Lena of poaching an egg is leaving it the hell alone.

Christian, the Puerto Rican kid a few years younger than Lena who nonetheless is already a master of the line’s grill, slides a warm plate next to Lena’s station. On the plate two small, slightly charred tortillas have been hastily pressed around house-made chorizo, fresh diced jalapeño peppers, and melted cotija cheese. It looks as though one half of the tortillas have been jammed against a hard surface. The poorly executed quesadilla has been laid over a square of traditional corn cake.

Exactly four minutes and forty-eight seconds after dropping it into the water, Lena dips her slotted spoon into the pan and retrieves a perfectly poached egg. The white has hardened into a delicate sphere around what Lena knows will be an oozing, rich, golden yoke. She gently lays the tiny cloud atop the misshapen quesadilla on the plate and ladles chipotle hollandaise sauce over it. She finishes the dish by garnishing the top of the egg with a halved cherry pepper.

Order up! Lena calls out mechanically, setting the plate on the shelf of the window between the kitchen and the front of the house.

She’s been working the egg station in the kitchen of the Ugly Quesadilla for a little over a week. It’s a stopover diner in Vermont, about thirty miles outside Montpelier, so named for the intentionally malformed quesadillas that became the restaurant’s signature dish decades back when it was just an uneven roadside stand on a soft shoulder of the highway. Lena stopped for lunch one day and on an utter and uncustomary whim asked if they were hiring. She mastered the Ugly Benedict on her first attempt, and has only become more efficient at replicating the dish dozens of times a day.

After the breakfast rush has died down, Lena takes her break out behind the diner. Sitting on an empty produce crate and drinking a cup of coffee (which has also improved in the Ugly Quesadilla since she started working the line), she thinks for approximately the millionth time about calling to check on Darren. She hasn’t spoken to anyone from Sin du Jour in over a month, not Bronko, not Ritter or Dorsky. She has over a hundred unheard voice mails in her phone, most of them from Darren and only slightly fewer of them from Nikki.

The day they all flew back from Los Angeles, a part of Lena already knew she couldn’t return to Sin du Jour. That evening she had a silent, more than slightly awkward dinner with Darren and turned in early. The next morning, on her way to work, Lena saw a battered 1970 Triumph Bonneville with a for sale sign taped to the headlight, sitting outside a garage in Long Island City. Following the first in her recent series of uncustomary impulses, she inquired inside.

The engine caused the entire bike to shake as if whoever designed it thought it might move through solid matter if it vibrated fast enough. Lena went to the nearest branch of her bank, emptied her savings account, and bought the vintage British motorcycle. She was staring at the Manhattan skyline in its dingy rearview mirror before dusk.

The Ugly Quesadilla’s service door opens and Christian emerges with a grin on his young face, a plate of food balanced on his fingertips.

Morcilla? Lena asks him, genuinely excited.

Christian shakes his head. Lechón. My cousin Yahir did the pig yesterday. I brought in what was left for family meal.

He lowers the plate of slow-cooked pork under her nose and waves it back and forth enticingly. Lena only briefly inhales before reaching up and snatching it from him eagerly. She grabs the fork and loads its prongs with the succulent meat and some of the arroz con gandules accompanying it.

Gracia, pai, she says, taking her first bite.

Christian laughs. Your white girl Spanish is coming along quick.

Hungarian, Lena corrects him around a mouthful of pork.

He shrugs.

It’s awesome, she assures him, forking her way through the dish.

Thanks. Hey, you want to come out with us later? We’re going to this new place up the freeway. It’d get you out of that shithole motel room for a night.

I like my shithole motel room. It’s quiet. Peaceful. And the vending machine has Andy Capp’s chips. Do you know how hard it is to find those?

Christian stares down at her blankly.

Lena shakes her head. Thanks, though.

He spreads his arms and drops his head in a pose of mock dejection.

All right, he says. But I’m gonna keep asking.

Lena shrugs. You gotta do you.

With a wink, Christian turns and walks back inside.

After he’s gone, the notion to call Darren and check in returns to her. Lena can feel the phone in her front pocket, like a sudden and oppressive weight. She’s felt that many times since she took off. Every time she feels it, including this time, the image of Darren staring down at her, his expression helpless and petrified, as a soldier from an ancient demon clan was trying to slit her throat flashes in her mind. Eventually the phone feels lighter in Lena’s pocket.

She’s not angry with Darren. She was never angry with him. But she’s also done taking care of him.

Lena finishes the plate, and her coffee. She carries both back into the diner.

She hears his voice booming throughout the kitchen before she even rounds the corner from the stocking area in the back, and it stops her cold.

"Now, the thing to remember is masa lives and dies in the kneading, all right? Water alone won’t ever do it. Too little and ya got masa harina crumbles, too much and it’s a damn sticky mess, and you’ll never get the ratio right all by itself. You gotta work it and aerate that business to achieve the perfect texture. And y’all, corn tortillas are all about the texture. . . ."

At first Lena thinks they must have a television on, tuned to some cooking channel playing a rerun of one of his shows. Then she remembers there are no TVs in the kitchen, or the front of the house.

She walks back into the kitchen.

Bronko is standing at one of their prep stations, wrist-deep in a wad of dough. It’s the first time she’s seen him out of his chef’s whites. He’s wearing ripped jeans, an absurdly large belt buckle with a ceramic chile pepper on it, and a faded T-shirt bearing a half-worn-away logo of his bankrupt Deadman’s Hand restaurant chain from the ’90s. He’s borrowed an apron from one of the cooks.

The rest of the kitchen crew has gathered around to watch him, as if they’re the captive audiences for one of his old cooking shows.

Now, once the masa stops clingin’ to your hands, you’re ready to—

Chef? Lena blurts out in shock.

They all turn toward her, including Dave, their middle-aged day manager who currently looks starstruck.

Jesus, Tarr, why didn’t you tell me you studied under Bronko, er, Chef Luck here? You’d be runnin’ the damn kitchen.

I didn’t ‘study’ under him, I just worked the line in . . .

The rest of the words die on her lips. Lena feels like her brain is locking, unable to accept that Bronko is standing there in front of the Ugly Quesadilla’s grill.

What are you doing here? she finally asks him.

Bronko smoothes his hands over the stained apron he’s borrowed, then reaches for a kitchen towel.

Someone had to keep her company on the drive up, is all he says, motioning with his heavy chin through the kitchen window.

Lena stares out at the front of the house.

Nikki is sitting at the counter, waving back at her through the kitchen window.

Now Lena is actually speechless.

Y’all mind if I borrow her for a few minutes? Bronko asks, removing the apron strap from around his neck.

Sure, of course! Dave says immediately. Can I grab a quick selfie with you first, Chef?

Bronko hides his distaste for the word selfie with the easy practice of celebrity.

Sure thing, boss.

There are picnic tables out front. The trio finds the one most removed from the others and settles around it.

You followed me here? Lena practically hisses at them both when they’re alone. Do you have any idea how creepy that is?

Nikki frowns at Bronko. I told you we should’ve called ahead.

And I told you when folks are running away you don’t give them warnin’ in advance, Bronko fires back.

Don’t fucking talk about me like I’m not here! Lena explodes. Jesus!

Hey, we’re sorry, Nikki says in her soothing way. Okay? We’re not, like, stalking you. But we had to find you. It’s about you, not us.

What does that mean?

You have to come back, Tarr.

Nikki frowns even deeper at him and his bluntness.

We don’t have time for this! Bronko snaps at her without waiting for her reprimand.

I’ve heard enough, Lena insists, rising from the picnic table bench. You two should go.

Nikki reaches out and gently cups one of Lena’s hands. Lena, please, wait. This is serious.

She stiffens at the touch, and her eyes seem to refuse to look at Nikki, but the tone of Nikki’s voice somehow manages to soften Lena. She sits back down, albeit with obvious reluctance.

You’re not safe out on your own right now, Bronko tells her. None of us are. Not after what happened in LA. If we learned anything it’s that Hell don’t forget. Not ever. Now, we came through that party by the skin of our teeth, but ain’t none of us going to survive without protection. Allensworth and his people are bargaining with the other side to keep us safe, but that only applies to Sin du Jour. If you’re not on the line then you fall outside that protection.

You’re saying they’ll come after me?

You can bet your knives on it, girl.

So I don’t have any choice? I have to work for you. I’m a fucking slave.

No, a slave’s a slave, and I imagine anyone who actually was that wouldn’t take kindly to your exaggerations.

Don’t give me semantics, Chef!

Hey! Nikki breaks in before either of them can escalate the argument further. Chef, can you give us a second? Please?

Bronko nods silently, pushing himself up and away from the picnic table.

They watch him walk back into the Ugly Quesadilla, then Nikki looks at Lena while Lena continues to avoid meeting her gaze.

Nikki leans back and folds her arms tightly.

Why can’t you look at me? she finally asks.

Lena just shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed.

Lena—

I watched you die! she unloads, tears breaking the dam of her closed eyelids. "You were gone! I know what that looks like. I’ve seen it. I watched you die covered in your own blood and come back."

Nikki stares at her, wide-eyed. Well . . . isn’t that a good thing?

Of course it is! But how can you be so calm about it?

I . . . Nikki looks around as if she’ll find the answer to the question on the grass at their feet. I mean . . . what other choice do I have? I’m happy. Obviously. I got a reprieve I don’t figure a lot of people get. I’m not going to waste it being freaked out about what happened, I guess.

But I let you die, Lena says quietly, hands curling into fists against the tabletop as more tears come.

Nikki reaches over and strokes her fingers through Lena’s hair, then leans across the table until their foreheads touch just so.

You didn’t let anything happen, she whispers. We’re not soldiers, Lena. We’re chefs. You can’t live the way you cook, okay? You can’t control life that way, especially where we work. You just have to roll with it. Don’t beat yourself up. I’m here. You’re here.

Lena inhales deeply, bringing herself under control. She leans away from their brief contact.

I’m not mad at you for what happened in LA, Nikki continues, "and I’m not mad at you for running after, okay? I get it. I know you’ve always felt dragged into working at Sin du Jour. I feel bad about that, and I feel worse because I’m not sorry you were. Dragged into working there, I mean. I love the place, despite everything. I always have. But for a long time I was also . . . alone. In my little kitchen with all my ovens, and now I’m not. Or at least I wasn’t. And it was so good to have you back there with me all the time to drink and talk and joke and just generally be awesome together."

Lena doesn’t respond to any of that, but she is finally meeting Nikki’s eyes with her own.

You don’t have to say anything, Nikki assures her. I know you like me too. You wouldn’t be torturing yourself like this if you didn’t.

I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry I took off without saying anything. I just couldn’t . . . if I had to walk back into that place that day I was going to break apart. And then when that feeling went away I just . . . I couldn’t stop going.

"You have every right to go wherever you want and do whatever you want, but what Chef is saying is true. I’m sorry, but it is. This is a dangerous time and a dangerous situation, and you have to come back, Lena. You just have to, at least for now. I can’t . . . I don’t even want to think about what might happen to you out here on your own until Allensworth is sure it’s safe for all of us."

How can he possibly protect us from something like this? And why would he? Why would we stand up against . . . all of that?

They need us. There’s an election coming up.

Lena frowns. What the hell do the elections have to do with anything?

Nikki’s lips tighten. "Not . . . those elections."

NO FEAR

With a taped-up left fist Darren shoots a jab into the heavy bag, then throws a right cross at the exact same spot. He no longer has to remind himself to follow through by rotating his hip with the punch. Darren repeats the combination again and again and again, pummeling the surface of the bag, breathing in ragged bull snarls through his nose.

Time! Ritter calls, staring at the stopwatch app on the screen of his phone.

Darren halts immediately, taking a step back from the heavy bag. He inhales and exhales deeply, using his taped hands to smooth the sweat from the dark beard he’s been growing for the past month. It’s thicker than he ever knew he could manage. He’s never tried to grow his facial hair out before. The furthest Darren ever got was experimenting with a permanent five-o’clock shadow when they first moved to the city, but he shaved when another chef on the line told him it looked gay.

It was three days after Lena blew town when Darren’s mind, wholly against his will, began entertaining the possibility she might not come back. It was two days of unreturned calls later that he began to accept the possibility as a reality.

The day after that Darren went to see Ritter.

Teach me, he’d said.

Ritter could watch creatures from Hell rise bleeding fire and brimstone with his signature passive expression, but even he’d been unable to mask his confusion.

Teach you what?

How to be like you. How not to be afraid. Lena almost died because of me. One of those things . . . back in LA . . . was trying to kill her. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t move.

That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not everybody is built for combat. Fight or flight is an option for a reason.

It’s more than that! I’ve been afraid as long as I can remember. My whole life. I’m sick of it.

Afraid of what?

"Everything. Everyone. My folks, kids at school, other chefs. Everyone. Except Lena. And I didn’t help her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t . . . do anything."

You’re not a soldier, Vargas. No one expects you—

It doesn’t matter! That’s not the point. I can’t even stand up for her to Dorsky and the line.

She doesn’t need that.

I know. But I do. I always do. And she always stands up for me. I should be able to do likewise for her, whether she needs it or not. And, y’know, for myself.

What are you asking me to do, exactly?

Can you just help me? Please? I’m sick of being scared. But I don’t know how to . . . Lena went to war. You know? That’s how she . . . but she was always braver than me, even before that.

Vargas . . . Darren . . . you’re a good guy. I can tell. But I’m not your dad. I don’t know what you want me to do.

Well, what was your dad like? What did he teach you that made you like you are?

Nothing you want to learn. Trust me.

I do. I do trust you. That’s why I’m asking you.

Ritter couldn’t say no to that.

Not quite knowing what else to do, he’s been teaching Darren how to fight. Boxing, Hapkido, knife attack defense; Darren’s a good athlete and he picks up the physical training quickly. That’s opened the door to talks about things like threat assessment.

"If you learn what to look for, what to actually be afraid of, Ritter told him a couple of weeks ago, maybe you’ll stop being afraid of everything."

He also explained to Darren that fear isn’t a bad thing, or something to be extinguished. Fear is a tool, like anything else. The trick is learning to use it without it turning on you.

Are we sparring today? Darren asks, leaning gently against the heavy bag.

No, you’re blown up enough. Go change and go home. Grab a shower. I need to do the same.

Tomorrow? Darren asks with the enthusiasm and expectation of a child on Christmas Eve.

Ritter grins. He doesn’t do it often, and when he does Darren feels like he’s won some small victory.

Sure, Ritter says. We’ll work on that wheel kick.

Darren walks out of Stocking & Receiving and makes the long trudge up the old industrial stairs to Sin du Jour’s main level. Most of the staff has gone home for the day, as has the construction crew that’s been repairing the damage the building sustained when Satan sent a demonic version of Santa Claus to destroy them all.

Bronko told them the company’s parties can get a little out of control.

Anyone who’s actually seen a Manhattan kitchen crew party wouldn’t find that the least bit suspicious.

Sin du Jour’s chefs change in an area that looks more like a high school gym’s locker room than a facility in a high-end catering company’s headquarters.

As he enters, Darren spots James sitting on one of the long benches in front of the rows of lockers, typing something on an iPad with a We Are Wakanda sticker on the back of it.

I told you you didn’t have to wait for me, Darren says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt and tossing it in a bin of dirty chef’s whites.

James doesn’t look up. It is okay. I wanted to write my mother an email anyway. I have a lot to tell her.

They have email in Senegal?

James laughs. We do in Dakar. Why does no one in America think no one in Africa uses technology? Is it the way they show us in movies?

Darren tries to laugh, but he can’t help feeling like an asshole. Yeah, actually. I think that’s exactly what it is. Sorry.

James looks up at him and smiles. Don’t worry about it. You are cute when you think you have said the wrong thing.

Darren grins. A month ago he’d have already fled the room, feeling embarrassed and ashamed.

He reaches out and gently pulls the iPad from James’s hands, resting it on the bench beside him. One of Darren’s taped palms strokes the perfectly smooth dome of James’s scalp. The other palm cups the back of his neck. Darren leans down and kisses his lips fiercely, gripping him tightly by the head and neck. James lets himself be steered into the kiss, wilting gratefully under it.

Just let me change and we’ll go home, okay? Darren says when their lips part.

James nods, more than a little breathless.

As Darren begins stripping the tape from his fists, he notices James rubbing his forearm across his mouth.

Is the beard still bugging you?

No. You keep it nice. Just don’t grow it any longer. You will look like a villain from one of those movies where Africans don’t use technology.

This time Darren does laugh. He wads up the used athletic tape and tosses it into a nearby trash can.

You want to Red Box one of those—

In his locker, Darren’s phone begins playing a song he hasn’t heard in over four weeks.

The sound of it freezes his blood and drains the mirth from his face.

What is wrong? James asks, frowning at the change in his expression.

Darren reaches inside his locker and removes his phone, staring at the caller’s name on its screen.

It’s Lena, he says.

THANES OF OLDE

Ritter stands at the base of the stairs leading up from his front door to the first level of his Canarsie townhome. He didn’t need his key to open that front door, which he returned to find unlocked and ajar. He’s gobsmacked, because it should be impossible to break into his house and yet it’s happened twice in as many months.

The perpetrator of the first incident was a demon assassin sent from Hell, corporealized as the Easter Bunny. Ritter had to use half the magical items in his collection just to survive long enough to bash in the creature’s skull.

He has no intention of repeating that kind of epic battle with this intruder.

Opening the door to the small coat closet at the bottom of the staircase, Ritter reaches inside and comes out with a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun. He’s emptied the shells loaded into the weapon of their buckshot pellets and replaced those pellets with shards of dragon bone. It’s a load that will bring down a bear, or a wizard, or a wizard who has shape-shifted into a bear.

Ritter ascends the stairs, shotgun muzzle leading the way. He takes the final three steps at a run and springs around the corner.

Ritter suddenly finds himself pointing a loaded firearm at the head of his younger brother.

Marcus Thane is lounging on Ritter’s treasured recliner, drinking one of his exotic rums from an ice-encumbered tumbler and watching porn on Ritter’s television.

Really, really fucked-up porn.

He holds the tumbler in one hand while the other cradles a framed photograph. The picture the frame is protecting is of four men in camouflage, posing in a jungle. Ritter and Marcus are two of them.

Marcus smiles at him, a brilliant, dangerous smile that Ritter has watched seduce women and men on three different continents. Ritter is the brother who can get lost in a crowd. Marcus has always been the standout. They both have the same dark hair and dark eyes, but Marcus’s features are just a little sharper, a little finer. More than that, however, is his mastery of all-day swagger where Ritter rarely lets an emotion bleed into his expression or body language.

Ritter lowers the shotgun, lips tightening just a little.

His younger brother holds up the picture frame. I didn’t know you kept this.

"Why wouldn’t I?

You aren’t the sentimental type.

Sure I am, Ritter says, the complete lack of sarcasm in his tone somehow highlighting the sarcasm in his words.

Do you remember who took the picture?

Our guide’s boy. Angelio, I think his name was. He had a way with the pack mules.

Marcus nods, staring up at the ceiling as if he can see the memories there. Right. Do you think he was under some brujo’s spell when he stuck that blade in my lung, or was he just on the take? Paid off by the cartel?

I know which would be more comforting to believe.

Yeah. Considering you practically took his head clean off when you cut his fucking throat, I imagine one scenario would be more comforting than the other. Of course, whether he was bewitched or just a rat, his old man sure seemed not to know what was up. It’s a shame we had to—

Whatever point you’re making, Marc, you’re making it badly.

You saved my life that night.

You saved mine, too. The jungle’s like that.

You miss it at all?

How’d you circumvent the seal? Ritter asks, ignoring his brother’s question.

Marcus shrugs. It wasn’t that tough. You still confuse shoplifting a few enchanted goodies from WET lockup with being some kind of warlock yourself. Took me five minutes.

Ritter folds his arms over his chest and stares down his little brother.

Marcus grins. All right, it took me a little longer than that. Whatever.

Are you on leave?

Marcus tips his glass and drains its amber contents. Permanently! he announces.

Ritter frowns.

How?

His brother shrugs again.

Ritter’s frown darkens.

Marcus . . .

You left, he fires at Ritter, suddenly irate. What? I can’t figure out how to leave too? Am I not as smart as you?

I don’t know. Are you? Because if you just bolted they’re going to hunt you down and peel your cap like it’s an old-timey photograph. And if I’m harboring you they’ll probably do the same to me.

Marcus waves his glass around the apartment drunkenly. You’ve got the . . . fuckin’ . . . magic kibosh shit. What are you worried about?

I’m not set up to shade you from that kind of tracking. You know that.

You’ll come up with something.

Look, things at Sin du Jour are popping off right now—

The catering company? What’s ‘popping off’ at a catering company? Did you serve the lobster bisque cold?

You don’t know.

Then explain it to me.

Stop stalling!

Marcus sets his glass down, loudly. Fine. Fuck it. What do you want? I’ll go to a Motel 6 or some shit.

Just tell me what happened.

I cracked. All right? You said it would happen and it happened. I should’ve listened. I should’ve got out when you did.

In that moment Marcus almost looks like a grown-up.

Just tell me the truth, Ritter bids him, his voice suddenly gentle. Did you run?

Marcus nods.

Ritter inhales deeply. All right, he says as he exhales, his mind obviously racing. All right. You can bunk here. I’ll talk to Allensworth. We can square this. All you did was go AWOL?

Marcus nods again.

Nothing else happened?

Marcus shakes his head definitively.

Ritter doesn’t fully believe him, but neither does he see any percentage in pursuing the question.

OUTSIDE HIRE

Anyone of only passing acquaintance with Jett Hollinshead might be surprised to see her outside of her Louboutin heels and Chanel suits, let alone donning stained overalls to spike drywall with a nail gun as large as her torso. Anyone who knows Jett well, however, is aware that her defining quality is getting all the shit done there is to get done and by any means necessary.

How’s she coming, Jett? Bronko asks, walking up as she stakes the last new piece of drywall to Sin du Jour’s refurbished lobby walls.

A few more days and you’ll never know Santa Claus and his demonic elves rampaged through the building and tried to kill everyone in it! she proclaims without the faintest hint of irony and the most genuine, resolved smile on her face.

It’s one of the things Bronko loves about her the most. Jett has the ability to normalize even the most fantastic of situations. It’s a stabilizing element to have in the world Sin du Jour services.

Byron, I’m also thinking the entire wing could use a face-lift, at the very least new paint. In my head I’m seeing a burnt fuchsia, with a sunburst in the lobby, possibly.

Uh . . . yeah. Yeah, we could all do with a touch of the new, I reckon. You just . . . do what you feel, Jett. I trust you.

She beams up at him, hoisting her nail gun aloft in a salute.

Bronko can’t help laughing and shaking his head.

Excuse me, Chef Luck?

They both turn their heads to see a statuesque woman in a sleek black and white business suit standing in the lobby. Dark, shining curls fall around a face whose features originated somewhere in the Mediterranean. She wears large-rimmed glasses with cherry-red frames and carries a vintage attaché case, alligator apparently dyed to match her glasses.

Bronko blinks rapidly and without stopping for several long seconds. Jett thinks she can actually feel the heat suddenly emanating from his every pore.

He stumbles over an attempt to respond. I . . . uh . . . that is . . . can I help you, ma’am?

My name is Luciana Monrovio. I believe you’re expecting me.

Bronko furrows a heavy brow beginning to perspire, then recognition lights up his eyes.

Oh . . . ? Oh! Right! Yes! You . . . Allensworth sent you?

Luciana nods, just once, almost a bow of her head.

Um, pardon me, Jett chimes in. Allensworth sent you here to do what?

Luciana doesn’t look at Jett. Her eyes are focused solely on Bronko.

I’m your new liaison, she explains. I’ll be consulting on all your planned events, coordinating those events with sensitive personnel, and facilitating communication between your staff and Mr. Allensworth.

Sin du Jour already has a full-time staff member with consulting, coordinating, and communicating on their résumé, Jett informs her. And I am she.

Er, calm down, Jett, Bronko says. With everything that’s been going on lately Allensworth wants some boots on the ground from his camp, that’s all.

Jett stares down at the six-inch heels of Luciana’s Stuart Weitzman pumps.

He chose an interesting pair of boots, she says.

Luciana strides forward as if the sound of Jett’s voice doesn’t register. She extends a slender, manicured hand to Bronko.

It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Chef.

Bronko rubs his hands against the front of his chef’s smock before reaching out to gently take hers.

You’ll pardon me, ma’am. I suddenly feel as if every grease splatter I’ve taken in the past thirty years is clinging to me.

"On the contrary, Chef Luck, you look positively camera-ready. And may I say I always enjoyed you on television. I remember your Good Morning, America appearance, in particular."

I . . . you must not have been old enough to—

What? Know better?

Bronko grins and giggles like a schoolboy.

Jett clears her throat, loudly and without the slightest pretense of subtlety.

Byron? she interjects. What’s happening here? Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?

Does Chef Luck ordinarily share interoffice policy with maintenance workers? Luciana asks, still looking at Bronko even though she’s addressing Jett.

I am an executive event planner, but I’m quite sure you already knew that, Miss Basic Corporate Undermining Tactics!

Jett, will ya calm down now? Don’t get us off on the wrong foot with our new go-between here. This is important stuff. You know that.

I should apologize, Luciana says good-naturedly. It must be your rustic ensemble that confused me.

Jett opens her mouth to retaliate, but she’s stopped cold, literally, as Luciana finally looks directly at her. Where she could feel the heat Luciana’s presence created in Bronko, the woman’s wholly ordinary gaze suddenly fills Jett with a chill that extends through her entire body, causing her conscious mind to want to retreat from the sensation and its source.

Her grip tightens around the handle of the nail gun she’s holding. She feels the sudden, insane urge to—

Jett, why don’t you finish up here? Bronko says, the sound of his voice snapping her out of it. I’ll show Miss Monrovio—

Luciana, please, Chef.

. . . I’ll find her some work space in the building.

Jett blinks, her brain still locked and her body shivering slightly.

I . . . um . . . I usually take charge of orientation, Byron.

That’s all right. You’ve been workin’ overtime lately. I’ve got this.

Without another word Bronko ushers Luciana down the corridor that branches off from the lobby, moving past Jett so quickly she has to jump to one side to avoid him.

She watches them go, clutching the giant commercial tool against her chest.

"What the hell just happened here?" she whispers to herself.

Jett was an event planner for celebrities and CEOs long before she came to work for Sin du Jour. She had no problem adjusting to a climate of monsters, magic, mayhem, and occasional demonic assassination attempts. Jett firmly believes every business landscape is essentially the same, regardless of how the topography changes. Monsters are just another feature of the valley of commerce at the end of the day. They don’t scare her.

What does scare her, however, is the knowledge that outside hires, not monsters, are the most dangerous creatures in the corporate world.

PROBLEM CHILD

White Horse sits outside a local police precinct in Flushing. He’s been waiting for over an hour, and he had no intention of spending any of it staring at badges and holstered Glocks. He doesn’t like entering government buildings, let alone loitering inside them, and police stations are probably his least favorite government buildings.

The staples in the old man’s side are still tender, as is the pierced organ beneath. He’s still having nightmares about being skewered by the debris after Santa Claus hurled an exploding box wrapped like a Christmas present at Sin du Jour’s lobby desk. That part isn’t so bad, really. It’s the part of the dream where he actually remembers what Little Dove did to save him from the hellish assassin that causes him to wake up covered in sweat.

He doesn’t remember in his waking hours, and he prefers it that way.

White Horse pulls out his phone and taps the icon of the off-track betting app Little Dove keeps erasing while he sleeps. He’s already placed three bets, and he’s considering a fourth when Little Dove walks out of the police station.

She’s carrying a yellow manila envelope and a few stapled pages of paperwork, and is looking haggard in the way people who spend the night in a jail cell do. She squints against the harshness of the sunlight and fishes inside the envelope for a pair of sunglasses, fitting them over her eyes with an irritated groan.

White Horse replaces the phone in his pocket and stands up from the bench he’s been occupying. Every nerve in his torso seems to protest the action, and he curses under his breath from the pain.

You okay? he asks her.

I wasn’t drunk, she insists.

Sure you were.

I was not! It was a political protest.

How is throwing a bottle of bottom-shelf Old Crow through a window a political protest?

It was the Water Board’s window. All this shit on the news about the water in Flint. We’ve been drinking poison water on the res for as long as you’ve lived there.

We’re not on the res anymore.

The water’s still poison.

The reservation isn’t even in this state.

It’s the same thing!

Right. I’ll bet that made all kinds of sense when you were drunk.

I wasn’t . . . ! she begins, then her whole being seems to relent and her shoulders slump as she sighs.

Did you tell anyone at Sin du Jour? she asks, sounding penitent for the first time.

No, but I’m gonna have to. They want to arraign you next week. Bronko knows people who can squash it. You’ll end up doing six months at least if they don’t make it go away.

I don’t want Bronko to know.

Tough. You want some food? You gotta be hungry.

For a moment she looks like she’s about to say something shitty to him, but she either doesn’t have the energy or can’t come up with anything worthwhile.

In the end she just nods.

They walk down the street, White Horse holding on to one of her slight shoulders for support, until they come to a local pizza place. White Horse orders them two slices of pepperoni with jalapeños and a couple of sodas while Little Dove settles gratefully into a seat in front of a table by a large window.

Neither of them has talked about what happened during the False Idols’ attack on Sin du Jour, not even to each other. But the power she unleashed that night in her fear and panic is all White Horse has thought about since.

You know I’m no good at this kind of thing, he says, placing the food in front of her and carefully navigating his old, broken body into a seat.

Tell me about it.

I remember the last time you pulled a stunt like this. You were thirteen. I had to come and get you then, too.

Because you were the only one left.

I told you about your mom that morning.

I was there. I remember.

She was a good lady. She loved you. She tolerated me. She just couldn’t find it to treat herself with as much kindness.

I said I remember.

I remember you running off. Didn’t even say anything when I told you what happened. I was worried about what you’d do. To you, I mean.

I’m not like her, Little Dove says through clenched teeth.

I was actually relieved when they called to tell me you threw a rock through that bilagáana cop’s windshield. Even if I had to pay for the damn thing.

They let me off. Sympathy for the little Native girl whose mother just killed herself.

White Horse sighs. This is all my fault, in a way.

‘In a way?’

I sensed the power in you when you were a little girl—

I don’t want to talk about this.

It lay deep and dormant. And I just thought . . . I hoped . . . it would stay there.

I’m fine, she insists.

You don’t want to deal with what you are, with what you’re becoming, so you’re trying to be that pain-in-the-ass kid again. Acting out. But you can’t go back. You can only go forward.

Into what, Pop? Huh?

White Horse rubs a hand over the grizzled contours of his ancient-looking face.

Look, I know I ain’t worth shit, all right? I never was. Not to any of my wives, not to your folks, not to you, and not to our people. I don’t have the stuff Hatałii are supposed to have. But I was born with the power. Just like you. And just like you, I’m stuck with it. I don’t know why. The elders didn’t know why. The other Hatałii, the dedicated ones, all painted up and waving their hands like idiots, couldn’t one of ’em call a spirit forth if you gave ’em their own reality television show, they definitely didn’t know why. They only knew they hated my wrinkled ass. Maybe if it’d been one of them, born like this, our people’d be in better shape. But I doubt it.

Little Dove is hugging herself, near tears. "Pop, what’s your point? What do you