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

room, he naturally gave a glance to his mystery accomplice on the floor. His leg contained a new valley above the ankle. There was no longer flesh there. Just a sickeningly thin mess of blood, bone, and pant leg. Did Coco pound it away? Was that even possible? The poor man had a leg made of partial ribbon.

“I have a question.”

Back to the mission. Alvin just had to deal with the food. Or appear to deal in as much. One of the older men had some renewed interest in Alvin, as he served the last of the plates.

“Sir?”

“How often do you find yourself in the weeds, cooking this food? Is it always a scramble, or you find you have more than enough time from concept to plating?”

Come again?

“You wise guy,” another man croaked. “He watches so many of those cooking shows now. Thinks everything is a cooking challenge with a prize.”

Coco took charge of the gathering.

“There will be plenty of time for that later on. Eat up, gentlemen. Can’t let this food go cold.”

“Way ahead of you,” another spoke.

What was this? Some panel of supreme justice? It started to feel like Coco was giving her testimony in the middle of a court proceeding.

“Well, good,” Coco smiled. The rest of you look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

The multiple sounds of tasting pleasure melted from the tables.

“Funny thing, too. I want to tell you I tried each one of these personally, to make sure they were up to your standards. And in our association, that is one of excellence.”

More grunts of agreement and cooperation.

The first one who spoke, with the insightful cooking show question, paused from his meal momentarily to speak up again, a little sauce sliding down under his chin.

“This is amazing. Quite good, Al – is it Alvin?”

“Al is okay.”

“Al, what are we eating exactly?”

“Hold on, Dean. I’m getting there. In fact, I’m right there.”

The measured firmness in Coco’s voice meant she had to fight for herself to be heard on more than one occasion. In a club full of boys, she probably had to assert herself more than they did.

“You should have been past it, with that diseased rat behind you. Why is he still alive?”

The man next to Dean spoke up for the first time.

“He’s a federal agent. I’m all for roughing him up. But we can’t just off him.”

“Why can’t we,” Dean retorted.

Instantly, Alvin’s last conversation with Matts sprang into his mind and boules. The guy on the floor was the FBI’s. Undercover. Not so much anymore. But he must have known he was close to being made. Or he found what he needed to blow up the group’s shadowed presence.

Was this some elaborate ruse to get Alvin to talk? Did the undercover operative give him up? He was just a chef, as his pretense went. This was too much a show to put on for little old him.

It was becoming apparent that Coco belonged to some sort of collective, but Dean was the closest thing to a leader they had. Authority was beginning to radiate from his words.

“We can cover this up, just like in Canada. We’re almost up to six of the Bureau’s boys on our payroll.”

Another man in the club chimed in, “Coco, you really should be running a tighter ship here. What could have you have been so busy with that you let that pile of puke slip through the cracks?”

“Believe me,” Coco quickly replied, “you have my regret and sincerest sorrow.”

Alvin worked for his boss long enough to know when she was losing patience. And she had just enough left in the tank to show her superiors the same amount of respect a child would show their parent, after the stern father or mother told them to eat their steamed, unseasoned carrots. The child knew it had to be done, and she would not give much lip, but the kid’s mind state was the latest sleazy episode of the Jerry Springer Show – outfitted with all combinations of fussing and cussing imaginable.

“I got sloppy. Can’t hide from that. Being under your tutelage for the last year, I know I should not have. I hope these individual, special meals will begin to build my bridge to you all, and the organization.”

“Alvin might be your guardian angel today. This food is to die for.”

Coco sparked a scary smile. And the giggle that followed. The cook never heard something so genuine as that real life, maniacal laugh. She was not a villain yet. This was her baptism into taking on such a mantle.

“I’ll have you know, our heavenly being here today is actually so gifted, I gave him a bit of an extra credit assignment for your plates. Just to maximize his display of talent.”

“What’s that, Coco?”

“I have gained so much from you men. Not only how to carry myself in this business of ours, but peculiar quirks from you all as well.”

She managed to make the room fall silent. In a group of wicked, organized men, with dominant, harsh personalities, Alvin did not need to be around the fraternity too long to know that hushing them was a supremely difficult thing to do. Were they interested or concerned?

One of the men across from Dean started to fidget with his necktie quietly.

“Smith, you tend to be in a bad mood on Tuesday evenings. The day is the best part of your week, because you’ll get to see your kids. But afterwards, you’re reminded of how terrible a man you are for them. How they are always in inherent danger because of who their father is. That’s why you didn’t put up a fight when your wife of sixteen years couldn’t take it anymore. And she left.”

The look of murderous anger on Smith’s face was reaching a point of explosion. But he did not do anything.

“You were destroyed when she promised to take the kids, you’re precious babies, but you were relieved. You could be dad of the year some of the time. And you could be