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By Root 261 0

she was cute. Because she flirted with the cooks. Because once or twice a year, after a few drinks, she took Eric, the sous-chef, into the liquor cage and sucked his dick. She sat on the ice cream freezer while she ate; a few powerless busboys and newbies poking unenthusiastically at their chicken legs nearby as they slunk off to eat in locker rooms, stairwells and hallways. Even Hector, the night porter, was being taken care of. He was eating a thick slice of pork loin with sauce and mashed potatoes, probably a payback for giving the kitchen a regular cut of all the pilfered goodie bags from NiteKlub industry parties and fashion shows. He also, apparently, threw them the occasional oddity or archeological find he'd come across when clearing out banquettes, or exploring the sub-cellars the club shared with the hotel next door. There was a covert cooks' lounge, Bobby knew, located in a disused storage closet on the fourth floor, which Hector had furnished nearly single-handedly with stolen hotel furniture, pilfered carpet remnants, even a jury-rigged phone line, so the cooks could call their dealers.

A runner arrived with a tray of cocktails for the kitchen: a large pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea, a pitcher of beer, a few Stoli grapefruits for the Chef — who was now hidden away back in his office, no doubt packing his nose with the new hostess. As soon as he'd dispensed drinks and returned from the Chef's office, two steak frites appeared (one for the runner and one for the cooperating bartender) as if by magic on the slide, and the runner wordlessly scooped them up and headed for the door.

Bobby, who'd forgotten to eat since yesterday's breakfast, approached the tray of chicken legs.

"Don't eat that shit," said Nikki, who'd apparently been aware of him for some time. "I'll make you something."

Bobby, surprised, stood upright, stammered, as suddenly all the cooks were staring at him.

"Uh . . . sure. Thanks . . . Th-that'd be nice."

"What?" said Eric, glaring at Nikki through the pass. "Did I hear right?"

"I said I'd make him something," said Nikki. "You got a problem with that? Or does he have to suck you off first?"

Tina, on the ice cream freezer, blushed slightly and the other cooks laughed.

"Whatever," said Eric, backing down. He looked at Bobby, a sustained stare for a few seconds, then went back to counting his dupes. Lenny, the grill cook, however, kept staring, a look of unrestrained hostility fixed on the new intruder.

"It's not necessary, anything special . . ." said Bobby, not wanting to get in the middle of some arcane tribal political situation. "I can have this. I can have the chicken."

"No way," said Nikki, pushing wet hair out of her face. "No way you eat that mung. I make you something nice . . . Fish okay?"

"Yeah. Great," said Bobby, no longer thinking about food at all, really. Trying not to look at the pale expanse of bare flesh between Nikki's sports bra and check pants underneath the open jacket. It looked smooth and hard.

"Ricky!" Nikki barked, calling over a runner. "Get him a chair and a setup!"

The runner dragged over a chair from the nearby wall phone, disappeared for a minute and came rushing back with a rolled up napkin and silver. Bobby sat down at the end of a long steel worktable in the center of the kitchen, feeling all the cooks' eyes on him.

"You want something to drink? We got beer, Iced Teas — anything else you want. Just ask Ricky," said Nikki from behind the line.

"Water. Water is good," said Bobby, uncomfortable with all the furtive looks and barely concealed scrutiny.

"Ricky!" she yelled, again. "Bring him una boteilla de Pellegrino! Rapidemente!"

Richard, the Chef, poked his head in the kitchen, a clot of white powder hanging from one nostril, a snap undone on his check pants. "Eric! How many?"

"About three hundred," said Eric, not looking up, the last dupe just hitting the spike.

"Smooth?"

"Like Lenny's ass. Like a well-greased machine. No bumps. We didn't get weeded at all."

"Returns?"

"Just the one. A refire steak."

The Chef grunted and went back to his