The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard by Elijah Douresseau (top books of all time TXT) 📕

strange timeout sent him viewing his kitchen companion as he made grotesque steps toward the chef. He had to rely on what he heard and the guard’s steps were slow.

Alvin sensed he wanted to keep the scene plausibly deniable, should their gathering increase.

Unnerving.

For all the cook knew, it was all over. The house was surrounded, besieged by the authorities just seconds away from storming the mansion’s grounds. Was some caped superhero going to make an appearance? The way Matts spoke the other night, they might exist.

Did the suit behind want some of Alvin’s food on the downlow? He did not have to be scary about it.

The guard stopped. Alvin could tell he was behind the counter, in the cook’s bubble. Already uncharted territory. Only Coco, the chef and maybe Hendrix needed to occupy the space. And Hendrix, only if something were wrong.

“Continue with what you’re doing. I’m not really here.”

“Wh—”

“Just listen.”

Alvin set down the mixing bowl and opened the fridge, fake browsing.

“Don’t give it up. Even after what you see and hear later. Make sure you tell it like it went down. And keep an eye on the final moments. Everything will be useful. Nod if you understand.”

He most certainly did not understand. He started to turn—

“Nod,” the guard repeated in a stern whisper.

Alvin would figure it out another time. He nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to. He closed the fridge door and the gross shape reflected behind him was gone.

How could he keep cooking after that? Something was going to go down at an undiscerning time. But all signs pointed to the dinner party. How much would Alvin be involved? The guard thought he was important enough to be warned about something.

Really, how much were house cooks worth to the rich, awful people, involved in some elaborate crime operation? The help would probably all be home by the time the cavalry would show up in a shakedown.

The extent of intertwining the cooks with the scheme would be the chase or the close combat scene in the kitchen, in a movie. In which case, he was supposed to look shocked and stay out of the way of the flying knives and swinging frying pans.

Alvin would continue to stay in the background. Whatever soundtrack the food was going to provide to the hold-up in the front of the house, it would do its part by working against whatever pretense the cook, and an unknown number of others were closer to betraying.

The house chef was on edge for the next ten minutes. Who else was going to walk through that door? With guns next time? Or worse. What would have been worse?

All the A-game food would go to waste in that instance. Alvin would try to convince the gunmen to at least take a couple bites of the Antiguan butter bread before he was offed. And they should just go ahead and take a to-go plate.

Thankfully, nothing but peace ensued for the next few hours. Coco was finishing whatever plot she was cooking up herself, somewhere else. The other guards were guarding, as they should have been.

They were also on edge lately. Paid to be the embodiment of Coco’s will, they were probably mounting up for something far beyond what they thought they were hired to do in the first place. The harsh offensive was going to be sounding off from around the corner soon.

It was not lost on Alvin that his food was going to serve as some Trojan Horse for Coco’s plans. The natural-looking surface to her land mines. And he had not the slightest idea where they were planted.

He had immunity. Whatever he would have been an accessory to, his double agent role would make it so he was unaware as anyone who drove by the estate. The lowly cook? What could he possibly have to do with an honor society of wealthy, dangerous people?

The part Alvin had to play was coming together. The eight dishes took a while, only because their bases were all different. He could not make a roux for several at the same time. If rice was involved, the specificity of grain dictated the amount he could make at once. It was mostly an organizational job. Keeping the different dishes separate, but where ever he could double up on the most subtle of ingredients, it would save time later on.

The chef was in his element. Any problem he had, he had time to evaluate it. But the long moments felt like a stressful Thanksgiving. Everyone wanted different things. He had to accommodate various diets. No one could eat what the other was going to have. And everyone wanted their own meal on a single plate. He was the matriarch and patriarch willing to get it painstakingly right.

The back of the house at a restaurant was a similar place to be. But there was cohesion in that setting. There tended to be one region of cuisine, with the all-American staples to pull from, and about several cooks to fire down the dishes.

But it was just him in Coco’s kitchen. And the other bosses were not going to be ordering aloof from a menu.

Alvin smiled. It was enough to make his grandma complain. She would do her job. Though she would also find the holes in such a request.

“I would make omelets eight different ways. And dare them to complain about it.”

“She already gave me exact instructions on ingredients, and some of these things won’t really work with eggs.”

“That’s the beauty of it. You say omelet, and those folks will have their expectations. Then you get to astonish with your different colors and mouth feels of eggs.”

“Not a bad idea, Grandma.”

“When have you known me to have any of those? Plus, it wouldn’t be cutting corners. People need their protein anyway. Oh, and you could also use different grains and fruits for the sides. You know, like how those magazines arrange the plates. Just a well-balanced table of something.”

It was true. He was only confined