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

“A way to a crime lord’s heart, and all that other stuff,” Matts responded.

“If you say so.”

Matts waited for more of receipt of amusement, but Alvin didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The agent was the substitute teacher you wanted to frustrate. Just a little bit. Because he was a stranger. And he was not in on any inch of context, an inside joke, or an ounce of classroom culture.

“Looks like that’ll be it for tonight. Let me know if anything changes. Talk to you at the end of next week. Boot next time.”

“Gotcha.”

The cook got out of the field agent’s car and watched him take off. They were at a local park that night, coded with a moniker as plainly as “boot.” The chef enjoyed walking by moonlight in a park, under less exciting circumstances, but he had been instructed to meander for a few minutes and then promptly leave the premises.

All that Alvin discussed with Matts was food for the last forty-five minutes. Just a play-by-play of dishes. That was what he and Coco deliberated over. Besides the pep talk. What she was nearly sure her boss and the collective enjoyed eating.

She read something and saw a documentary on suggestive dining. Wine and cheese parties, revolving around a color or single source of aroma. She also spoke at length about a tasting menu in Europe somewhere that restaurant guests ate entirely in the dark.

Coco wanted to drive her attendees – her superiors – to the ground, for the sole purpose of groveling. To render them in need of direction only she could provide. Alvin’s food was going to be the inescapable poison to infiltrate the space before anyone was any the wiser.

Matts knew Coco was going to make a move of some kind. But why? For some sort of dominance? A coup?

The agent was stricken with this particular detail because he knew the boss of her organized crime institution. He concluded Coco was either insane, she was capable of being more ruthless, or she was an effective and dangerous combination of both.

There was a good chance whatever move she was planning on subjecting her syndicate to was going to open them up to the right kind of exposure, to be in breach of serious laws that would stick in court.

It was a lot of pressure for everyone involved.

Alvin, especially, had to deal with the gathering of his career, it sounded like. Of his life.

Possibly.

Either way, he had to concern himself with a boss who had “figured out” his artistic motivation and aesthetics, and was going to dang near kill him – imposing all of her neurotic perfectionism and career anxieties on his food.

For the time being, the cook had to focus on what he did best: actualizing the mind. That was how Alvin put it. He had a decent idea of what to go with for the gathering. No room for error, through and through. He had a week before she wanted to see something for the special dinner’s menu. Until around then, it was business as usual. Making Coco happy and fed.

It was the way the world worked.

Most people would never go home with a stranger and let them into their lives, in only the most intimate of ways. How you slept. Who you slept with. How you wiped after you pooped. That thing that absolutely no one could know until you were six feet into the ground. And even then, there had to be some sort of vetting process.

But strangers let other strangers prepare food to put in their bodies. They let strangers prepare clothing to put on their backs. They let strangers build the houses that were supposed to protect them and their stuff from the outside world every single day. It was a lot of implicit trust, and Alvin took it seriously. He was the best friend, the best boyfriend, the best parent. He made sure people’s reliance on a seemingly arbitrary, social human contract kept going the way it had always been. He did his job.

The chef just set foot to the landing of his apartment when a call buzzed through on his personal phone.

“Hendrix. Second time today you called me before I settle into my place. We gotta stop meeting like this.”

The chef could tell Hendrix was in a different mood than that morning.

“Just wanted to make sure you were still able to help out with the celebration this weekend.”

Alvin did not know where he would be if Hendrix was not looking out for him. He let Coco’s senior-most bodyguard taste test some empanadas once, and the big, grown man turned into a puppy.

The security specialist was stern when he needed to be. And he cared, wincing when Coco tapped Alvin’s eye like lightening, upon asking him about the spicy ketchup. But Hendrix was a professional. And he gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘discretion.’

“You know I wouldn’t let you or your Quince princess down. Got the Cuban spread ready.”

“Are you bringing the croquettes?”

“Yes.”

“The potato and ground beef one?”

“Is this your party, or is this Vanessa’s?”

“I’m just checking.”

“Don’t worry. Got it all headed your way Saturday. Just give me your gate key tomorrow so I can set up early.”

“I will. And you’ll have some coffee and donuts waiting on you when you get there.”

“You’re the best, Hendrix.”

Alvin got curious all of a sudden. He knew it was far too unnecessary to question anyone. Especially since Matts told him – stressed to him – not to draw any attention to himself. But he had to know.

“Hey. How big is this dinner party for the organization Coco’s planning anyway?”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It was the first time Hendrix flat out ignored a question. There were certainly enough seconds of silence that ticked away to signal the henchman in charge heard the question loud and clear. And the lack of answering anything directly spoke volumes. The security lead was not above getting popped by Coco either.

Or