Critique

  Critique

  Daniel I. Russell

  Published January 2012 by

  Dark Continents Publishing

  www.darkcontinents.com

  Copyright ©2012 Russell

  Front cover artwork by David Naughton-Shires

  E-book design by Donnie Light

  www.ebook76.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book contains a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s creation or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The Nook ‘lend’ feature is authorized by the publisher, and the Kindle ‘share’ feature is also authorized by the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved

  For Clive Barker, Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan

  CRITIQUE

  By Daniel I Russell

  Desolation was a strange monster. It operated on different scales, on varying shades. It could be plain or beautiful, imposed, self-inflicted, but always…empty.

  Carlos, snug in the driver seat and trying to bleed the last from the dying air con, stared out the window.

  The sun had collapsed into the horizon, and the surrounding desert was cast into a fiery pit. Scrub and scrawny cacti poked from the ground like hairs from a mole.

  Rocks and heat.

  Desolation.

  Still, better than a six-by-ten concrete cell with a cellmate who cried in his sleep. And as for the heat? Preferable to the eternally cold floor, which made three-hundred pound armed robbers tiptoe better than ballerinas. Shouts in the night and long, empty corridors.

  A different kind of monster.

  Carlos turned back to the road and ran his hand across his slick forehead, wiping it on the leg of his jeans. Not the best choice of clothing for a day-long drive through the desert, but without the luxury of an extensive wardrobe, he’d had to manage. His few items of clothing lay in a sports bag on the frayed back seat. His arms felt sore, sunburn probably, but his dark skin showed no signs.

  His unmarked cardboard box rode shotgun, secured by the seatbelt.

  He cast it a side glance, trying to imagine the street value.

  White gold, they’d told him as they weighed, bagged and stashed, and if any goes missing on transit, bro, you got yourself one motherfucker of a problem.

  The baggies were hidden in hollowed out Bibles, because a Bible salesman was obviously believable.

  “Think they been sniffin’ their own stock. Know whatta mean?” he told the desert.

  The night came quick in the middle of nowhere, and the sun had already descended to a sliver.

  Carlos concentrated on the dividing line, illuminated by the headlight beams.

  Eight hours on the road, he thought and rubbed his eyes. They don’t pay me enough for this shit. What the fuck is wrong with UPS?

  He picked up his bottle of water from the cup holder behind the stick shift. Dregs. He tipped the last warm sip into his mouth and grimaced.

  Replacing the bottle, he drummed on the steering wheel. The radio picked up nothing but static, so remained switched off. The only sound was the drone of tyres on road. Carlos yawned.

  The sign instantly caught his eye, being the only variation in the last twenty or so miles. A row of three lights along the top kept the shadows at bay and made the large white sign glow.

  Carlos slowed the car.

  A LITTLE SLICE OF HEAVEN

  1 MILE

  He sighed.

  A church?

  He considered pulling in. Church people were normally good people, his grandmother had told him that, being of the church-going type herself. Surely they wouldn’t deny him a water top-up, perhaps even a cup of coffee to stave off the yawns.

  I might even be able to sell them a few Bibles.

  He chuckled and sped on, driven by his dry throat. All his moisture seemed to be leaking out through his pores.

  Up ahead, a building came into view. Two high streetlights stood either side of the squat structure, which glistened like a mirror.

  What the hell is this, thought Carlos, squinting.

  Further details emerged as he neared. A small parking lot just off the road, with space for about eight vehicles. A second sign hanging from a frame just before the turn showed a slice of pie sporting a halo.

  The building itself was boarded in sheets of silver, which reflected the overhead lights. Its random appearance in the desert made Carlos think of crashed UFOs and Roswell. In one of the dark windows, a neon tube declared the place was open.

  It’s a diner, Carlos realised. Better.

  He indicated out of habit and pulled into the small lot. He didn’t have much money, but enough for a few bottles of water.

  He switched off the engine. Ticks rattled from under the bonnet. Climbing out, Carlos groaned and arched his back. His ankle hurt in particular, having been pushing the accelerator for so long. He stretched the tendons, making circular motions with his toes.

  Behind him, the sign swung lazily in its frame. The hinges needed an oiling; they made newborn screams.

  Feeling a little looser, Carlos leaned back inside the car to retrieve the box. It would be his life if he lost it now. With the beaten cardboard tucked under his arm, he headed for the few steps leading to the entrance.

  The door contained a window, oval, like a cat’s eye. It displayed the halo-toting slice of pie.

  Carlos pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The first thing to hit him was the air conditioning. Far from chilly, the diner had a welcoming freshness about it, driving away the clinging heat. A few booths lined the outside, furnished in gleaming red leather. In the corner, a Wurlitzer Jukebox played a choir of some hymn, which Carlos failed to recall. He watched the bubble tubes and lighted columns for a second before walking to the counter.

  A skinny man in a white shirt, black bow tie and paper hat studied him over a Bible, a Bible probably not packed with cocaine.

  Carlos checked the box was closed. If this man was a Bible freak, he might show an interest.

  The man smiled.

  “Hot out there.”

  “Yeah…” said Carlos. He glanced at the empty booths, tables and counter. “You open?”

  “We’re always open,” said the man, placing his Bible down and standing. He appeared the right side of forty, and his face bore suggestions of a hard life, perhaps ill health. His eyes were a little sunken, his cheeks hollow. His smile, however, was kind and genuine. “Are you hungry?”

  Carlos swallowed. He hadn’t eaten all day, yet the remaining bills in his pocket would keep it that way.

  “Just a few bottles of water.” He swallowed again. A rich, meaty smell drifted from the kitchen behind the counter. “Need to get back on the road.”

  “Busy man, eh? Water it is…although…if you don’t mind me saying…”

  Carlos raised an eyebrow.

  “You look like you need a little pick-me-up. Coffee?”

  Carlos nearly said yes, but again remembered his limited finances.

  “On the house,” said the man. “I’d rather lose out on a couple of dollars in coffee than see a fine man as yourself fall asleep at the wheel. Frightening things can happen when you’re all alone.”

  Carlos heard a threat in the man’s statement.

  “What you say?” He pushed out his chest and cocked his head to the side, staring at the guy. Rule of the yard number one: intimidat
e early.

  The older man smiled. “Take a seat.” He turned his back on Carlos.

  A little diffused, Carlos stepped forwards and sat at the counter. He placed the box on the next stool, out of sight.

  “Here, black.”

  Carlos’ back stood rod-straight. “What the fuck you say?”

  The man turned, holding a mug and pot of coffee.

  “I said, black? I can get cream if you like.”

  Carlos sighed and settled back down. You can take the man from the yard… “Black’s fine.” He ran a hand across his shaven head.

  The man poured and slid the coffee across the counter.

  Carlos sipped the hot brew.

  “You getting that bitterness?” asked the man. “I’ll admit, it’s not the best coffee. People come for the food. Are you hungry?”

  Carlos lowered the mug.

  “Sorry, guy. I don’t got the funds, know whatta mean?”

  Diner guy frowned.

  “Money’s never a problem.” He gestured at the empty restaurant. “Not like we’re busy. I could do with a change in company. On the house. Our pie’s to die for.”

  “Sorry, guy, but I really have to—”

  “Nonsense! We’d only have to throw it out anyway. I’ll get my partner to cut you a slice.” He jerked a thumb towards the doors to the kitchen. Carlos heard a faint radio and the clinking of dishes.

  “Really,” he said. “I just came in for a few waters.”

  The man nodded and crouching, pulled a couple of bottles from a low refrigerator.

  “Thanks,” said Carlos, dropping a few bills on the counter.

  The man looked past him. “Well look at that…”

  Spying flashing lights reflected in the shiny front of the coffee machine, Carlos swivelled on his stool.

  Out on the highway, a single police cruiser sped past. Its spinning beacons cast the diner in alternating hues of blue and red.

  “Looks like they’re after somebody,” commented the man.

  Carlos turned back to the counter.

  Ding!

  He blinked.

  A plate had arrived in the serving hatch from the kitchen.

  “Order up,” said the man, smiling. He walked over, picked up the plate and placed it in front of Carlos.

  “But I said-” He thought about the squad car.

  The meal, a single serving of some kind of pie, French fries and a few green vegetables, smelled wonderful after a long, hard day on the road. Carlos sipped his coffee.

  “What’s another half an hour?” asked the man. “Sometimes people are more concerned about reaching the destination that they fail to enjoy the journey.”

  And other people like to keep all their fingers, bro.

  “Half an hour.” Carlos shrugged. Half an hour would put some miles on the squad car.

  The diner fell silent while the Jukebox changed records. A moment later, the opening chords to Amazing Grace eased through the speakers.

  “Don’t you get a little crazy out here?” asked Carlos, drinking the hot coffee. “Middle of nowhere. No company? Bro, I gotta tell you, I’d be climbing the motherfucking walls after a week.”

  The man wrinkled his nose.

  “It’s a simple life, I suppose. I have no regrets. Got my loved one in the kitchen, the good book in my hand and God in my heart. It’s all a man needs.” He poured himself a mug of coffee and sat back on his stool behind the counter. “And what about you. What kind of life leaves you in a diner in the middle of the desert? I saw you have a box. Salesman?”

  Carlos shook his head. “I just make deliveries.”

  “Done it long?”

  “Since I got out.”

  Shit. Carlos squeezed his fist. How did that slip out?

  He glanced up, meeting the man’s eyes. Deciding to play it cool, he flashed a smile. No need to rattle the guy further.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said. “Don’t be…afraid.”

  “No no,” said the man calmly. “I wasn’t. Redemption…”

  “Say wha?”

  The man cleared his throat.

  “Redemption. We’re only human. We make mistakes, we all do. But to be redeemed…now that’s the achievement. I sought redemption in God’s eyes. You…sit here now. Out in the world. You must have been redeemed for your sins.”

  “I did my time, bro. Just did my time.”

  Carlos drank a little quicker. This guy was a Bible freak after all.

  “But it worked. You must be a changed man for your experience.”

  Carlos reached under the counter and touched the box.

  “Redemption don’t mean shit, man. You gotta do what you gotta do to stay alive.”

  The man smiled, wry and teasing. “I choose to stay alive, but I don’t choose to merely exist,” he said.

  Carlos picked up the knife and fork that lay on the plate. Let the freak preach. This brother intended to eat and run.

  “Redemption works,” the man continued. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He smiled, enjoying some private joke. “I’d be glad to tell you about it.”

  “I don’t got much time,” said Carlos, checking his watch. “And I don’t like having God shoved down my throat. Had enough of that inside.”

  “This isn’t a Bible story,” said the man. “This is about a gentleman, and the day he met a genius.” He leaned forwards and picked a fry from Carlos’ plate. He bit the end. “Mmm. Tasty.”

  ENTRÉE

  Sandy Devanche considered himself a five-star gentleman, although he never gave more than three.

  The paper loved his cutting edge, but he wasn’t nasty, just critical. His job demanded it, and so did his readers. Honesty. Thoroughness.

  A critique.

  The first restaurant of the night, an Italian called Giordana, proved to be a step up from a chain outlet. Scenes of Roman excessiveness splashed the walls in gaudy watercolours, and candles sat snug in the necks of empty wine bottles.

  Sandy scribbled a few words in his notebook: trite and uninspired.

  He stifled a yawn, listening to the waiter flex his fake accent on a couple of young women on the next table. They giggled. Sandy wondered which would be sampling the waiter’s own Mediterranean delights later.

  Another quick note. Readers deserved the truth. A sleazy waiter wouldn’t be suitable for a couple on their first date or a daughter’s sweet sixteen.

  He examined the questionable contents of the wide bowl set before him on the clichéd white-and-red check tablecloth. With a spoon, he stirred the carbonara, searching for any elusive chunks of bacon. The menu stated smoky, succulent bacon from the Lombardy region mixed in a rich white sauce. Drowned, more like. He hadn’t found one trace of bacon, either in person or by taste. The Al Dente pasta was overcooked, and the sauce? Blander than a Barry Manilow mix tape.

  I should use that, thought Sandy. He swapped the spoon for his pen and scribbled another line in his book.

  He glanced up to meet the stare of the chef, who loitered by the entrance to the kitchen. The young man, probably a few years out of culinary college and probably not Italian, bit his lower lip, watching Sandy.

  The critic gave him a nod and a small smile.

  The chef smiled back and returned to his kitchen.

  Sandy looked at the meal.

  He’ll be in for a sour shock come press time.

  He took a sip of water. It had more flavour than the white sauce.

  * * *

  The constant rain had let up for the first time in weeks, and Sandy decided to take full advantage and avoid a cab fare. The next restaurant on his list, a new place called The House of Jacob, lay a few blocks away. With the restaurant billed as contemporary cuisine with a taste of innovation, Sandy wasn’t expecting much. Experimental dishes missed rather than hit. Weird flavour combinations, food that resembled Dali paintings and chefs that should be in techno bands rather than in kitchens disturbed Sandy. He preferred the traditional arts of cooking to be respe
cted and perfected.

  But his job, and his readers, demanded a fair review.

  “Change?”

  The figure lurched from the shadows ahead, and the pedestrians gave the beggar a wide berth. He wore dirty jeans and a T-shirt, his long, scraggy hair plastered wet to his scalp. The man had obviously not escaped the latest downpour of this forsaken city.

  “Change, sir?”

  Sandy walked to the left, avoiding the scrawny, reaching hand.

  “Just a little change for a bite to eat.”

  “Sorry,” Sandy muttered, pushing on. “I don’t have any on me.”

  He prayed the coins in his pocket wouldn’t suddenly start to jingle like Santa’s sleigh with each step.

  The beggar grabbed Sandy by the lapel of his immaculate jacket, wrapping him in the stench of dumpsters, sweat and the rain-soaked streets. Sandy tried to shrug free, noticing the pock marks on the bare arm of his attacker.

  Addict. Sandy had no sympathy.

  “Please. Just a dollar? You must have a dollar…”

  “I said no!” said Sandy and broke free. He hurried on, glancing back over his shoulder. “Get a fucking job.”

  The young man stood in the middle of the sidewalk, a rock in the river of people.

  “All I wanted was a bite to eat,” he called. “I guess sometimes it’s better to starve, right?”

  “Damn junkie,” Sandy hissed.

  A distant sound of thunder. People walked faster, some already opening umbrellas, used to the whims of the city.

  Sandy also increased his step.

  He quickly walked the few remaining blocks, checking from time to time for the street beggar. Up ahead, the restaurant advertised with a neon sign over a plain door. The windows were frosted, hiding the diners.

  Sandy appreciated this touch. Most people made love to their partners behind closed doors, so why not do the same for good food? It proved just as intimate, with taste, textures and smells to be enjoyed. Sandy despised sitting by windows, having gawkers stare at him as they passed. It took his attention away from the meal.

  He pushed open the door to The House of Jacob, keen to be off the street.

  The simplicity of the exterior continued inside. A coat stand lurked just inside the door and next to that stood a small podium with a potted plant beside. The walls were decorated in a plain, dark red paper. The entrance, rather than stinking of a horrific mix of varying meals, smelled clean, more like the waiting room of a clinic or dentist surgery. Behind the podium, a short man with a neat comb-over and tiny moustache wrote in a large book. His eyes, set within a black mask fit for costumed ball, followed the lines his delicate hand scribed. Sandy detested the mask, preferring true experimental dishes over cheap, tacky gimmicks. The mask made him think of sex rather than food.