Текст книги "Irregulars "

Автор книги: Astrid Amara

Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Unsurprisingly, it was the Black guy who had spoken first. His name turned out to be Baratunde and he was the chef. He outweighed Keith by at least forty pounds but seemed overall even tempered. “I need to ask you to shut this down and bring your people out to the dining room to be interviewed.”

“What about the tickets?” He indicated the unmade orders with a wave of his tongs.

Keith shook his head. “Shut it down. For tonight, anyway. We’re already clearing the customers. This is a crime scene.”

The other man nodded slowly. Behind him, Keith could see one of the cooks texting someone. “And I’m going to ask to hold your phones for the time being, starting with his.”

Baratunde whipped his head around to fix the young cook with a glare. “Damn it, Jesse. Bring that here. Haven’t you got any sense?”

Jesse cowered as he handed over the phone. “I was just texting my girlfriend to say I’d be late, chef.”

“Your woman can wait.”

Keith found it sentimentally amusing that as an agent he inspired less fear than the chef.

Baratunde collected the phones into a square plastic refrigerator insert. As he handed them to Keith, he said, “Jesse’s just a dumb kid, sir. He wasn’t trying to disrespect you.”

“Sure, I understand.” He waved the chef into the back kitchen where they could have relative privacy.

“I’m going to ask you straight out. Have you ever been in this locker?”

“No, sir. It’s Ms. Bullock’s private refrigerator. No staff is allowed in there.”

Keith leaned back against a stainless steel prep table. “You and I both know that somebody must be allowed in. Ms. Bullock is not cooking for herself.”

This drew a slight smile from Baratunde.

“Not my staff.” The chef’s tone was final. “None of my boys have ever stepped foot in there.”

“Who then?”

“There’s a private catering company that uses this space on Monday nights when the restaurant is closed. Forbidden Pleasures, I think they’re called.”

Of course, Keith thought. “Do they share all this equipment?”

The chef nodded. “It’s part of their rental contract. They clean up fine, but they’re hell on the knives.”

“Do you have contact information for this company?”

“No, sir. We’re not allowed on the property on Mondays. Not even me.”

“Did you ever think that maybe Ms. Bullock was hiding something?”

“Sure,” the chef said. “Look at that big-ass lock.”

“What do you think is in that refrigerator?”

“Heroin.” The answer came without pause and with certainty. “Or maybe coke. Some kind of drugs anyway.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully. That is exactly what he would have assumed in this guy’s position. He said, “Do you read the newspaper?”

Baratunde’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sometimes. I’m more of a talk radio man, though.”

“Have you heard anything about the Cannibal Killer?”

The chef’s face paled to the color of ash. He swallowed and said, “Some.”

“Inside that walk-in, lying in stainless hotel pans that you probably use every day, are the butchered remains of at least three people,” Keith said. “You can see how I want to know more about this catering company that shares your kitchen, right?”

The chef did not immediately answer. Keith wondered briefly if he had misjudged Baratunde. Maybe he truly had been complicit. Then, with no warning, the man lunged sideways and puked loudly into the trash can. The uniform didn’t look very much more well, but he, at least, hadn’t been eating off the same dishes used to process human protein. Keith waited while the chef splashed his face with water and stood, leaning on the hand sink, breathing deeply. Finally, he said, “Sometimes the caterers have leftovers that they leave in our refrigerator for the staff to eat.”

The cause of Baratunde’s abrupt illness became sharply clear. “And?”

“This morning they left some posole in our walk-in. I—for lunch—” Tears rimmed the chef’s eyes. Whether they were the result of impending further illness or horrifying remorse, Keith could not say.

“Is there any left?”

Baratunde nodded. “Ms. Bullock and I were the only ones who ate any. Nobody else wanted hominy. She kept talking about how back in the day the dish was made with human flesh.”

“You better show me. We’ll need to test it.”

“I just need a second.” He leaned far over the sink, jaw working, plainly fighting the urge to vomit again.

Keith said, “Take your time.”

It only took Baratunde a few deep breaths to recover before he was able to lead Keith into the main walk-in, a long, narrow space. It was supremely clean and well organized. The chef plainly took pride in his profession.

“This is it.” He handed Keith a long insert of quasi-congealed stew, taking obvious care not to touch the contents.

Gunther ducked into the walk-in. “We’ve got the dining room cleared.”

“Thanks.” Keith glanced at him and then at the chef, whose eyes were still glassy. The big man’s hands shook slightly. Keith remained placid while he removed a small vial from his pocket. He pulled a piece of flesh from the stew and squeezed a couple of drops of tincture onto it. The tincture shone blue. He looked at the chef and said, “It’s pork. We should keep it anyway. The container might have prints we can use.”

The relief that swept across Baratunde’s face was that of a condemned man released at the last minute.

“Thank the Lord.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d go and see how your crew is doing.”

“Yes, sir.” He went, smiling.

The second the door closed, Keith crumpled the meat in a napkin, whispering, “I’m sorry—whoever you were.”

Gunther drew closer. “I thought blue meant human.”

Keith nodded. “The chef doesn’t need to know that though. He doesn’t need to have that knowledge on him for the rest of his life—that he’s a cannibal. It’s bad enough that he’s going to lose his job when this joint shuts down. Working here isn’t going to be a resume builder, either. We’ll still send it to the lab—just for documentation. And prints, like I said.”

Gunther said, “Do you need a minute?”

“No, let’s just go get this over with.”

Chapter Six

Interviews at Bauer & Bullock went quickly. Few staff knew much about Forbidden Pleasures. Keith called it quits around nine, when his jaw started hurting him too much to pay attention to their uninformative answers. He decided to save Bullock’s interview for the morning, when he was less tired and after she’d spent the night in jail.

Once they reached the hotel, Gunther went to the ice machine to make up a pack for Keith while Keith himself poured two vodka shots and drank them both in quick succession.

Returning with a softball-sized bag of ice, wrapped in a clean white towel, Gunther said, “By the way, it was bison.”

“No, the carcass in the fridge was human. Trust me.” Keith held the ice pack to his jaw, wincing at the cold against his tender flesh.

“I mean the preferred protein at my family’s midsummer meal. It was bison. You asked and I never answered.” Gunther sat down beside him on the bed. Keith’s proximity alarm buzzed and buzzed again, warning him of Gunther’s closeness. He pulled it off and threw it on the nightstand.  He didn’t need the watch to know how near the other man sat. Every part of Keith’s body seemed to be responding to the nearness—to the smell of Gunther’s faintly spicy cologne, to the knowledge of his sheer masculinity.

He needed to get laid and that was a fact.

Gunther said quietly, “Is your jaw hurting you a lot?”

“It hurts enough.” The bruise did hurt, but if he was honest, the real wound had been mainly to his pride. He said, “Getting hit by a crazy, slap-happy bitch isn’t what I wanted from this evening.”

“I admit I had other hopes as well.” After this remark, Gunther lay back and fell silent. Keith glanced sideways, wondering if the other man had somehow fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, his fingers laced behind his head. His abdomen rose and fell slowly. His expression had softened. His mouth looked supremely kissable. Keith imagined himself leaning over and tasting Gunther’s mouth, wondering if the taste of tobacco still lingered there.

And for so many reasons that was the stupidest impulse Keith had had in years.

Without opening his eyes Gunther said, “Are you hungry?”

“I’ll make myself some grilled cheese in a minute.”

“That’s pretty much the only thing you eat now, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.”

Gunther shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like that could possibly be good for you.”

“Says the man who ate two and a half packs of cigarettes today.”

“I didn’t say my diet was good. I’m just saying that you might want to take a multivitamin.”

“I ate an orange last week,” Keith said. “Grilled cheese is easy when you’re cooking for one.”

“Why don’t you include me in your dinner plans then?”

“I don’t cook meat anymore.” Keith felt like a complete weakling admitting this but also knew that Gunther probably didn’t truly understand how pathetic this made him seem in the professional cooking world.

“I didn’t say it had to be meat.” Gunther opened his eyes, regarding Keith with a steadiness that made him look away.

“You’re a goblin. Meat is what you want.”

“You know we prefer to be called Luminous Ones. And I think we don’t know each other well enough for you to know what it is that I want.”

“You’re telling me that your favorite food isn’t meat?”

Gunther shrugged. “When I was a little kid my favorite food was Christmas lights. I used to eat them right off the string like candy.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not at all. My godfather used to bribe me with them so I’d stop sucking all the butane out of his lighter. So while it’s true that I haven’t eaten many vegetables, I’m feeling very game today. So how about it?”

“I don’t really want to cook,” Keith said.

“What do you want to do then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must want something.”

Though he knew Gunther was still talking about their dinner plans, Keith felt so demoralized and tired and maybe slightly drunk from the vodka shot on an empty stomach that he found himself saying, “What I want, Heartman, is to fuck you and not have to talk about it afterward.”

Gunther didn’t immediately respond and Keith realized he’d gone too far so he added, “That’s just about the only thing that would make me feel okay about today.”

Gunther sat up and then stood up. Keith stared down at the mottled brown carpet, expecting the other man to take his coat and go. He heard the rustle of fabric.

Soon I’ll hear the click of a hotel door closing, Keith thought. Instead he just heard more rustling. He glanced up and to his astonishment realized that Gunther had shed his sport coat and tie. His cuffs hung, unfastened, while he worked the buttons of his dress shirt open.

Stupidly, Keith asked, “What are you doing?”

Gunther pulled a slow smile, looking him straight in the eye as he shrugged out of his shirt. He wore a white undershirt that molded to his flat abdomen. His biceps and forearms bulged, angular masses of muscle. “I’m preparing to make you feel better about today.”

Keith gave a dry laugh. “Okay, nice one. You got me. How about we get Thai takeout from that joint around the corner?”

“Afterward.” Gunther stepped out of his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

With a weird mix of pleasure and fear, Keith realized Gunther wasn’t joking. He said, “I don’t have anything…for that.”

“I do. Inside pocket of my overcoat.” He dropped his pants. Even in white boxer-briefs and black dress socks, Gunther looked amazing. He didn’t keep either of those on for very much longer, though. Nor did his undershirt remain in place. Naked, Gunther’s pale body seemed like it could have been cut from paper. His legs were heavily roped with muscle. Though his chest was mostly bare, a fine line of dark hair ran from his navel to his groin. His cock, like the rest of him, seemed perfectly proportioned. Long, uncut, and resting on a pair of the most even testicles Keith had ever seen.

Gunther stepped closer. Keith set his ice pack aside and rested his hands on Gunther’s hips.

Gunther shuddered and murmured, “Chilly.”

“Sorry.” Keith ran his palms up over Gunther’s abdomen, then around to his back, sliding down over his round ass, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing the tender inside flesh.

Keith watched Gunther’s face as he gently explored Gunther’s body. “You really were perfectly made.”

“Through no effort of my own, unfortunately. But thank you.” Gunther rested his hands on Keith’s shoulders, spreading his legs slightly, allowing Keith greater access. Gunther’s cock was fully erect now, the head bobbing very near Keith’s face. He nuzzled the shaft, cheek pressed against Gunther’s abdomen.

Gunther said, “I hope you will invite me into your bed soon.”

“In a minute.” Keith caught the head of Gunther’s cock, sucking it, tasting it. Now that he knew Gunther was trans-goblin he half expected some vile Zippo fuel flavor to assault his senses and kill his desire. But Gunther tasted just like he had before. He tasted just like he looked—perfectly human, while simultaneously being inhumanly perfect. Gunther arched into him, just slightly.

Keith stood and nibbled Gunther’s lower lip, sampling that flavor too, though he’d never truly forgotten it. How could he? Spicy, fragrant, rich, and slippery. Luscious as drawn butter. Gunther’s lips parted, soft and passive to Keith’s explorations. His hands rested lightly on Keith’s sides, as if they were waiting to receive a permission slip before even attempting to touch Keith’s chest.

Keith supposed that that was exactly what Gunther was waiting for, given Keith hadn’t even loosened his tie. Cheek pressed against Gunther’s throat, he said, “Lay down with me.”

Gunther said nothing. He merely climbed onto the mattress and stretched out on his stomach as he had numerous times in the past.

At the small of his back, Gunther had a tattoo. A small triangular blackwork design with a point that dipped down toward the cleft of his ass. It was just about the last thing Keith expected to ever have the pleasure of seeing again, but once he did, he could not get his clothes off fast enough.

Face resting on his folded arms, Gunther watched. He said, “I have a condom in my inside jacket pocket.”

Keith picked up the jacket, felt inside the pocket, and laid the foil packet on the bedside table, along with a small tube of lube. He lay down next to Gunther and ran his hand along the other man’s back till he reached the tattoo. He traced the inked lines, wondering what, if anything, they meant.

Keith had tattoos of his own. He’d never met a chef who didn’t. His were slightly more embarrassing, though piecemeal, work that dotted his body like pictures scattered from a scrapbook. On his right shoulder, a Jolly Roger from his pirate phase—on his left, a Celtic maze, and on his inside left forearm, a line of black stars stretching from his wrist to inner elbow—a remnant from his club period.

“I always liked this.” Keith gently traced the lines of Gunther’s tattoo.

“It’s goblin script.” Gunther looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s how you write the word ‘love.’ I got it on my eighteenth birthday.”

Keith chuckled, ran his hand down over the curve of Gunther’s buttock. “And you say you’re not rebellious.”

“It’s my one and only display. I’d seen a picture online of a man who had a tattoo right there and I thought it was beautiful so that’s what I got. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be called a tramp stamp.” Gunther smiled up at him from under his lashes. “Will you still kiss me?”

“Why not?” Keith bent to press his mouth against Gunther’s. The other man’s lips were hot and soft and supple. Keith didn’t think he’d ever kissed a man who seemed so relaxed and willing to let him take the lead. The very compliance seemed suspicious. Why in the world had Gunther taken his ludicrous bait? Had their positions been reversed, Keith would never have offered his own body—especially not to a guy like himself, with such questionable views and obvious anger issues. It seemed impossible that they should be here together this way. And yet, here they were.

 By nature Keith was not a rough or aggressive lover. He never had been. He’d played at it, sure. Lied about it to the straight guys he worked with who didn’t really understand that being gay wasn’t about plundering ass after ass after ass—not to him anyway. He’d bragged with some bravado over slaying this or that twink at the bar. But inside he’d never thought about sex that way and he couldn’t think about it that way now. He gave it his best, turning the ritual of condom and lube into teasing play, taking time to make sure Gunther was comfortable, relaxed, and overall eager to accept him into his body. Keith murmured small compliments, telling Gunther how beautiful his body was—how hot inside—as he lay, chest pressed to Gunther’s back, fingers entwined with his temporary partner’s, hands flexing and contracting, mirroring the push and pulling of their bodies.

Gunther responded with more generosity, if it was possible to supersede the hospitality of allowing Keith within his body.

Keith wound his arm around Gunther. Feeling Gunther’s questing hand, he laced their fingers together once more.

Friction became slick heat and he could no longer tell where his skin ended and Gunther’s began. Dizzying scents and sensations flowed through him. The carnal pleasure of Gunther’s skin far exceeded anything he’d ever known before or since he’d last had this man. Whether it was a trick of his goblin flesh or actual love, Keith did not know and he did not care. He thrust into Gunther’s responsive flesh, kissing and consuming him as if he’d been starved and alone for years only to stumble upon some lush, wild bacchanalia.

No number of kisses or fevered thrusts seemed adequate to slake Keith’s craving. He longed to consume Gunther utterly, selfishly. Gunther bucked back against him, then began a tense and shuddering climax. The beauty of seeing Gunther’s pleasure, feeling the other man’s delicious hunger, drove Keith to the blinding, inarticulate edge of sheer avarice. Then all at once ecstasy was upon him, rolling through his taut muscles, drawing tears from his eyes.

Afterward, Keith lay alongside Gunther and drifted, waking only briefly when Gunther rose, collected his clothes, and silently departed.

Chapter Seven

Keith was up and out the door at six the next morning. As was his habit, he walked the block and a half to Whole Foods and bought a doughnut. But rather than returning immediately to the hotel, he found himself, for the first time, pacing the aisles. Soon he had an armful of ingredients—eggs, heavy cream, milk, butter, spinach, nutmeg, gruyère, which he toted back to the hotel in a newly purchased green reusable bag. Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he began to cook. First came the crepes, completed one at a time and layered with sheets of waxed paper to keep them from sticking together. After that he prepped creamed spinach filling and grated gruyère. He brewed coffee. He waited, surfing through television channels until his proximity alert informed him that Gunther had exited the elevator. Then he bounced to his feet and began to assemble breakfast, filling the first crepe before he heard a knock.

Gunther’s manner was exactly the same as it had been the previous day. No casual observer would have suspected from looking at Gunther that they had made love less than twelve hours ago in this very bed.

Really, the only person displaying a change of behavior was himself.

Keith decided not to think about that at all.

“Want some breakfast?” he said. “I made crepes.”

Gunther smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Do you like spinach?”

“I’ve never really had a spinach crepe before, but I probably do. So far I like everything except banana pudding.”

Keith folded filling into the four remaining crepes and handed the plate to Gunther, along with a fork.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” Gunther asked.

“I already had a donut.”

“So you made these specially for me?”

“I wanted to cook something this morning.” Keith knew that this wasn’t really an answer, but he wasn’t ready to actually think about an answer either. He didn’t want to plumb the murky depths of his own motivations. It was perfectly reasonable to want to make breakfast for a man you had sex with the previous night. The urge toward hospitality contained no special significance. And yet, he found himself carefully scrutinizing Gunther’s reaction.

Again, nothing special. He was a chef. Chefs all wanted to know how their food had been received. He paid no special attention to Gunther, nor should he.

If he told himself this enough times, Keith thought, certainly he would eventually believe it.

Suddenly, Gunther glanced up, noting Keith’s stare. “These are amazing, but I really feel awkward eating them all alone.”

“I’ll get myself some coffee.” Keith rose, poured himself a cup, and to change the conversation, asked, “So do you know many other gay goblins?”

“Trans-goblins,” Gunther corrected, then added, “No, hardly any. During the transformation process virtually anything can be determined about a baby. Few parents want to give their child an orientation that will make their human lives less easy. My parents were the exception to this rule.”

“Are you telling me that you were made gay on purpose?” Goblins, Keith thought, truly were a breed apart. Apart from common sense, mainly. But then he caught himself in his own disturbing condemnation. Why shouldn’t parents want a gay child? Goblin or not?

“My parents thought my godfather was the ideal human, so they wanted me to be as much like him as possible. I joined NIAD to follow in his footsteps. You’ve probably heard of him. Half-Dead Henry?”

“The Undead Bum?” The words leaped from Keith’s mouth before he could jam his foot in to stop them from escaping. “I mean—”

“No, you got it right: the Undead Bum.” Gunther took a forkful of crepe and chewed it thoughtfully. “You remind me of him, somewhat.”

“How’s that?” Keith tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help but be slightly offended by being compared to a famous hobo.

“Your tattoos. The way you don’t seem to be able express yourself emotionally. And your terrible diet. Henry eats cold chili right out of the can. Are you sure you won’t have this last crepe? They’re very good.”

Keith hesitated, on the edge of turning back from a second refusal. Again that unthinking inspiration struck and he just said, “I would, but I’m too lazy right now to lift a fork.”

“I could feed it to you,” Gunther said. “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“God, no. I’m not a little kid. Give me that.” Keith took the plate and fork and ate the crepe in six bites. It tasted better than he expected. He wiped his mouth and, finding Gunther staring at him, leaned across the table and quickly kissed him.

“Are you—”

Keith held up a silencing hand. “I haven’t changed my mind about talking about it.”

“I didn’t think you had. I was about to ask if you wanted to question Bullock now.”

“I think it’s about time. Is she still at PPB or was she moved to the NIAD detention facility?” Keith asked.

“I’ll call.” Gunther did so. Keith listened absently, while finishing the dishes. He heard Gunther say, “I see.”

Gunther’s tone alarmed him and Keith turned back to see that his partner’s expression had grown dark. He said, “What is it?”

“Bullock was dead in her cell this morning. Suicide. I guess she knew the penalty for cannibalism after all.”