Aftertaste Page 11

  “Do him or I do you both,” Jolby says.

  “All right, Jol. All right. I’ll do it.”

  Zilch manages to turn halfway around to look at Chev only to catch the flat part of an oar rushing at his face. He sees stars and feels hands cupping under his armpits. He doesn’t put up a struggle. He can’t. Every part of him feels heavy, as if he’s had lead shot into his bloodstream and now it’s collecting at the ends of his limbs. He sees the undulating glimmer of the sun on the lake water and watches helplessly as it rushes up at him.

  Some of the tightness comes out of his limbs now that drowning is imminent, muscles relaxing, relenting. Zilch bobs to the surface and gasps for air. He looks at Jolby peering over the edge of the canoe at him. He actually looks apologetic, momentarily, until the oars come sliding back out and hit the water. The first stroke comes and Zilch can feel the soft push of the water moving past him, brushing his belly—the lake water is doing his gaping wound no favors, the duct tape keeping no water out whatsoever. Bubbles come up around his chin and he feels the cold water rush in, filling him. The S.S. Zilch is sinking.

  Zilch reaches up and grabs the canoe edge. He can feel himself filling up more and more. “Jolby. Wait a second. Just wait. Hey.”

  Chev slides an oar down between Zilch’s chest and the canoe, ready to peel him off.

  The oar flashes in front of the sun—clonk, again. A whoosh of cosmos dashes his vision a second time. All sound snaps away as he goes back under the water. Raking his hands, he draws himself back to the surface—gasps—and sinks again.

  Trying to pull yourself to the surface when you have a giant hole in you is about as easy as climbing out of a grave. Zilch manages it, barely. He surfaces, gasps, doggy-paddling to the muddy bank. Mud sucking at his shoes, he stands, turns, and sees the back of Chev’s spiky blond head. A pinprick, distant, already at the beach. Jolby, hood low, hops out of the canoe before it’s even at the shore and goes bounding up over the sand to the parking lot, Chev right behind him. They get looks by people passing in bathing suits, raising sunglasses in disbelief at what they’d just seen. Two candy-colored cars start up and peel out of the lot, one after the other.

  Zilch takes off his jacket and wrings a gallon of brown water out of it. “That could’ve gone better.”

  A jet-ski comes growling near, piloted by an aggressively mulleted man in a brightly colored life preserver. Fish-tailing to a stop, white water crashes against Zilch’s legs, who stands wondering what fresh hell this dickhead might bring. The man straddles his gurgling watercraft and drops his wraparound shades, showing Zilch the violet glimmer in his eyes. “Hello, employee.”

  “Eliphas?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Fine time for you to show up.” Zilch struggles to get his sodden jacket back on. “I really could’ve used a hand about five minutes ago.”

  “You know I cannot interfere.”

  “I know.”

  “It’d seem you’ve become ill-equipped to handle this mission.”

  The employee delivery module in Zilch’s pocket weighs heavily. “I can do it. I just wanted to give him a chance to volunteer for it.” Zilch meets Eliphas Dungaree’s gaze. “To go into it willingly, not against his will, like something that happened to somebody I know.”

  “Jolby Dawes does not deserve your mercy, Saelig. He is a selfish and contemptible monster. Kill him and end the mission.” Eliphas studies the sky. “My brothers are already preparing another employee. They don’t have much faith in you completing this to any degree of success in the time allotted.”

  “Look,” Zilch says. “Galavance didn’t seem like somebody who could take having a dead boyfriend, piled onto everything else, in stride. He might be a piece of shit, but it’d ruin her.”

  “Is this about the present situation,” Eliphas says, dropping his gaze to look at Zilch again, “or are you towing personal feelings into this—as we cautioned you against doing, at the beginning of your employment with us? Because one young woman’s emotional status does not mean risking the lives of countless others, should the parasite take over Jolby Dawes entirely.”

  “Exactly my point,” Zilch says. “It’s a parasite. So can’t we just dispatch the thing making him act like an asshole and leave him alone?”

  “That’s not the mission. The mission is to eliminate the Lizard Man.”

  “Technically,” Zilch interrupts, “not to be that guy about it, but Jolby is more of an Amphibian Man, actually. Lizards don’t spend a lot of time in the water. And our guy is pretty froggy-looking.”

  “Why do you care, Saelig?”

  “What?”

  “About the well-being of that girl’s emotion-part. You are unlikely to ever see her again.”

  “I just think if we can do this with as little collateral damage as possible, it might be good. He’s a shit, sure, but she seemed nice enough.”

  “None of that matters,” Eliphas says. “Without the parasite there is no lusus naturae, and the objective of your mission is the lusus naturae, not its cause, or surrounding elements such as Galavance Petersen. Besides, severance between host and parasite, at this late stage, is unlikely. It would likely kill them both anyway, if you attempt. So, end your mission as you wish.”

  Eliphas scoots forward on the jet-ski’s padded seat to free up the back. “Would you like a ride across the lake so you can continue with your task?”

  Zilch doesn’t climb aboard. “She doesn’t deserve to go through that.”

  “Are you letting your own experiences color your expectations for the outcome of this mission? Because I’d advise against that.”

  “You want me to keep fucking up.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Because then, stripped of everything that I remember, I’ll be a perfect little employee then, wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t follow your logic, Saelig. There has to be a penalty system to keep everyone working at peak performance.”

  “Why not an award system? People like working if they get treated well now and again.”

  Eliphas gives Zilch a blank look. “That just wouldn’t work. Let’s return to a more pressing issue; you’re not swimming in time, especially given your somewhat haggard state—which I see has gotten worse since we last spoke.”

  Zilch tries to find ammunition to add to his argument but comes up dry. He sighs, and splashes out to the jet-ski. “Just get me across, man.”

  Eliphas rockets them across the lake and burbles up to the muddy beach’s banks. Zilch starts to climb off, having thought of something cutting to use as parting words, but before he can manage any, the jet-ski whips around, recoats Zilch in a wash of lake, and speeds off. Zilch runs a hand down his face to get the water out of his eyes, watching the agent—behaving very un-agent-like—pull some sick jumps from a passing boat’s wake. Zilch turns and moves up the beach, feet squishing in his waterlogged burial loafers, and begins the walk back to the highway, coughing occasionally. The pain swiveling around in his head, the thing marking Jolby’s growing distance from him, is once again Zilch’s only companion.

  His shaking hand moves into his pocket, feeling across the cold metal of the employee delivery module. No. Not yet.

  “What about lemon juice?” Galavance says, pulling open the walk-in cooler by its giant industrial handle. There’s a gallon jug of the stuff next to a few enormous cans of sauce and a salt shaker as big as her head.

  Patty steps in, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill.

  “It might cut the flavors we keep getting from the sausage,” Galavance explains.

  Patty is skeptical. “Lemon juice?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Galavance says. “The order form says this is one of our cheaper ingredients. It’s not fresh-squeezed, but maybe it’ll work.”

  Patty shrugs, but Galavance can tell she, too, is excited at the prospect of this possible citrus savior—even if she’s playing it down in a very regional manager kind of way. “Who knows, let’s try it.
”

  The entire kitchen staff for that morning’s pre-open meeting are test subjects again. When they see the pan come out of the combi-oven and the tin foil peeled away to reveal three containers loaded with green peppers—the color falls from everyone’s faces so quickly you can practically hear it.

  Using tongs to put one pepper each on a paper napkin for everyone present, Patty says: “Now, give ’em a chance. These are different. Miss Petersen and I started working very early this morning to get these things just right, so please bear with us and lend us your taste buds one more time. They have to be better than yesterday.”

  Everyone exchanges looks. The dread is palpable.

  “Just try them,” Patty urges. “A couple bites aren’t going to kill you.”

  Since it’s clear no one has a choice, everyone steps forward and, with no shortage of disinclination, accepts a pepper.

  Galavance stands by and watches as everyone takes the first bite. It’s quiet for a while, but no one’s face twists up, no one rushes off to the bathroom. She watches hesitation dissolve into intrigue, then mild pleasure. Huh, each face seems to say, these aren’t the worst thing in the world. Galavance tries hers, and the pepper is cooked to perfection—it’s soft but still has a bit of a crunch, and the sausage isn’t awful anymore. There’s a real faint aquatic tinge in there, but it’s hidden, a subtle hint in the back of her mouth. Who would’ve thought Chev knew how to cook?

  “Could I speak to you a moment?” Patty asks Galavance. Everyone else gets the hint that they’re off the hook and can go back to work.

  Patty takes her into the area just outside the kitchen, in the narrow hallway adjoining the dining area to the bathrooms, and customers as well as employees are brushing past. It’s the lunch rush. “I just wanted to tell you, Galavance, that I’m really pleased with what I saw today.”

  “Can I … say something, quick?” Galavance says. “My friend told me to use lemon juice.”

  “I figured, but I thought I’d let you have that one,” Patty says.

  “I’m sorry I lied. I wasn’t raised to steal credit.”

  “You didn’t steal it. You never said ‘I thought of the most amazing idea, Ms. Patty, let’s use lemon juice!’ You reached out to someone, they knew the answer, and you used your resource. Like a leader would. We only flounder alone.” That last line is in the company handbook somewhere, Galavance recalls, some sort of a bad fish pun.

  “My colleagues often draw conclusions based on what they’ve seen in just one day,” Patty continues. “But after today, I’m glad I took the time to let you shine. I’m going to put a word in with corporate to move you up into the next pay bracket—provided your punctuality remains reliable. You’ll technically be on probation, as you were when you started, but I think you have a lot of potential.”

  “Patty, I don’t know what to say,” Galavance gushes. She could let her fakeness drop aside now. This joy she feels is genuine. “I mean, I guess after what you said to me yesterday, I kinda sunk in and I just—wow, thank you so much. I—”

  “Hold your ponies, girl,” Patty says, chuckling. “This deal comes with a caveat. Today, you were given a task, a problem, and stuck with it until it was solved. Those peppers were—I’ll admit—were dreadful. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass that around, me saying that. But every one of your coworkers actually swallowed this time. You fixed one problem. But I need to see that it wasn’t a fluke, that you’d be willing to do this every day. I need your help with another menu item that has sausage as an ingredient. Unfortunately, I don’t think this one can be fixed with lemon juice.”

  “Okay, I understand,” Galavance says, but her mind is racing, she’s imagining taking the trip with Patty back to corporate in New Orleans, maybe even getting a job at headquarters, moving out of Raleigh and living somewhere else for the rest of her life. Mardi Gras! Bourbon Street! The thought is almost overwhelming.

  “Today was work,” Patty points out. “And so will this next project, too. We’ll have to meet at my hotel, because not even the cooks making this secret recipe are allowed to know it.”

  “What about Cheryl? She went to cooking school.”

  “She did. But because of that, our head cook here is trained in one very specific way. I need someone who can still think outside the box, who’ll be willing to try anything even if it goes against ‘the rules.’ Look, Galavance. Frenchy’s wants this next item perfected, photographed, and under the menu lamination for all thirty-five Frenchy’s locations across the American South in less than two weeks. And I know I can’t trust my taste buds. I need yours.” They pause and step apart as a customer passes, heading to the restroom. Patty’s got a smile on her face. “Well? What do you say? Do you have time to make Frenchy’s next hit?”

  It’s not quite dusk but the moon is already out. Zilch looks at it as he wanders along, thumb out. An eighteen-wheeler blasts past, knocking him into a stumble with only its wind.

  A carload of drunk twenty-somethings veers off the road to give him a scare.

  A mile on, his thumb is still only yielding middle fingers. He feels like something that’s been skinned—a lone creature without its protective metal mobile shell. He passes a flattened raccoon wearing a pink dog collar. Odd.

  The pain compass start to ring, but it’s dull. Vaguely thataway, it’s pointing. Zilch keeps moving, shuffling backward, thumb out. No one stops for the sorry, soggy fuck on the side of the road. The clouds are lit from beneath up ahead, something bright on the ground blocked from his view by a thicket of pines. He lowers his thumb and stops walking backwards and meanders towards it.

  Black Top Oasis is one of those super gas stations with three dozen pumps and a full restaurant inside. He crosses through the lot, and the folks in their minivans all clunk their door locks as they notice him.

  Inside, it’s frigid with air conditioning and he’s so damp, every inch of his flesh goes goosepimply. The skin across his cheeks is tight and when he catches himself on a CCTV monitor bracketed to the ceiling, he sees a so-pale-he-looks-monochrome asshole in a soggy suit clunking around in ill-fitting shoes—an undead Charlie Chaplin. He can smell the roller dogs and liquefied “cheese.” He stares at the crushed ice drinks being churned, mesmerizingly, by a machine.

  “Can I help you?” someone says, the real question (“Buy something or beat it, weirdo.”) barely disguised.

  “You guys got a phone?” Zilch asks the cashier. He hears his own voice, croaky as Jolby. He coughs into his hand, looks at it, and wipes it on his pant leg.

  The cashier, who’s not even trying to hide his disgust, points toward the doors, back outside. “Pay phone, out there.”

  Out in the humid twilight again, Zilch picks up the receiver and mashes the zero, hard.

  “Operator.”

  “Yeah, hi, I’d like to get connected with Galavance …” He stops. “Shit.”

  “Galavance Shit? Seriously? At least try to make it funny if you’re gonna do this crap.”

  “No, sorry, it just hit me I never got her last name.”

  “Sir, I need a full listing—first and last name—if you’d like to be connected.”

  “Could you just look up ‘Galavance’? There can’t be that many.”

  “This isn’t the White Pages, sir. If you look under the phone at the booth you’re at—”

  “There isn’t one here. Who the hell steals a phone book?”

  The operator sighs. “The name again, sir?”

  “Galavance. Youngsville, Wake Forest, Franklinton, somewhere in there.”

  “I have one Galavance, a Galavance Petersen. There’s no landline listed, only an address.”

  “What about a cell phone number? I kind of need to talk to her pronto.”

  “We don’t have those records, sir. I suggest if you and this Galavance Petersen are acquaintances, perhaps when you get in touch with her again you can request that she jot down her number so that you two can remain in contact whenever an occasion such a
s this may arise and—”

  “Just the address, then. Holy hell, lady.”

  “I can’t give you that.”

  “Would that be information that would be in the stolen White Pages?” Zilch asks, wringing the ribbed metal cord where the phonebook used to be attached.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what difference does it make if you give it to me or I read it from the phonebook?”

  “I already said that I am not the White Pages, sir.”

  Zilch clutches his head. It’s not the pain compass, but that ache that comes from dealing with bureaucrats. “Please, lady. Help me out here. I’m begging.”

  A trailer court: Focal Point Fields, she tells him.

  Off of Kit Mitchell, roughly where Galavance ran him over Friday morning. He repeats the address to himself until it hardens, memorized.

  Next, he asks for the number to the local Frenchy’s franchise. He’s counting on her still being at work, not only because that means she’s away from Jolby, but also that she might be available to take his call before she sees him again. The operator patches him through, glad to be rid of him, but the girl who answers at the restaurant says she’s not allowed to say if Galavance is there or not. Company policy. “Stalkers and whatnot, creep,” she elaborates and hangs up.

  Zilch stands holding the receiver in his hand. In the glass front of the Black Top Oasis, he can see the reflection of not only himself but the several well-lit awnings over the pumps behind him. Stepping out from between pumps three and four, he sees a vague smudge of a silhouette—its cut is familiar to him, the trace of a hip and a long arm hanging to one side, nails painted black. Her hair is long and tied back, a raven length of it reaching nearly to the waist of her dark jeans. In the window’s reflection she is an approximation of her beauty—and he’s not even sure if she is actually her (A gift? A promise from his employers to keep doing a good job?)—but he savors the moment, not wanting to interfere but only, for this snippet of wonderfulness, to behold her.

  She turns and the harsh light from the awnings above the pumps makes dark shallows where her eyes should be. Below them, her lips curl into a smile. She speaks, and it’s her voice, as he remembers it.