Security(26)

“What if it isn’t?” Brian says.

“Isn’t what?”

Brian gives Tessa the stank eye.

She gives it back. “Isn’t a training exercise? Then Bri?” She claps her hand on his shoulder. “It’s been great knowing you.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Tessa does. “Chill out. Honestly, you haven’t met the guards here. They’re the most intense bunch of suits that ever existed. They take it personally when stuff gets by them.” She blows a strand of hair out of her eye, comfortable now in her own explanation. “That mask. Franklin wore it to scare the staff on Halloween.” She scoffs. “They could’ve at least come up with something original.”

Brian jumps when the elevator dings at the nineteenth floor. Delores is on the bandstand; she’s sweeping in preparation to mop.

“See?” Tessa says, reading his relief at this tidbit of normality.

The elevator doors glide open. He follows her into the ballroom.

The volume of Henri’s music shoots to a deafening level. Tessa and Brian cover their ears. Tessa says, “Del! Delores!” as she and Brian skirt the bandstand, but Delores can’t hear. Delores, oddly, favors heavy metal. Tessa jogs toward the kitchen door, bursts in unnoticed for all the noise, crosses to the portable stereo on a shelf near the pantry, and only when she’s hit the “Power” button do Justin and Henri stop yelling at each other and look at her. “What the hell,” Tessa says, “is going on up here?”

Brian, per his promise to stay out of the way, is lurking unassumingly by the dishwasher. He peeks underneath it and taps its controls like a friend.

“I told him,” Justin says, stepping away from Henri. Justin looks as angry as he ever does, his forehead a lightning storm. Jules’s forehead is confused: her husband’s sense of righteous offense is out of proportion with the crime. “Have at him.”

Henri’s cheeks are fading from plum to a uniform maroon as he says petulantly, “They need—”

“The musique?” Tessa says.

Henri’s lower lip quivers. He knows that Tessa is kind, but not nice. She is accommodating, but not a pushover. He has pushed her, and she will not go over.

She turns to the stove, where the sous--chefs are feeding Jules spoons of cherry coulis experiments. “Sous--chefs go hang out in the ballroom,” Tessa says. “We’re waiting on an all clear from security, and then you can go home.”

“Mais non!” Henri throws his hand towel, as his sous--chefs flip the burners dark and set down spoons. “You stupide children, you shall remain here with me until—”

“Henri—”

“Stupide! Stupide!” he shouts—not at her, but at the sous--chefs hanging up their white smocks. Tessa blinks on a pellet of Henri’s spit as he shouts, “Cochons de lait! Putains!” He moves to intercept his assistants as if Tessa’s not standing five feet ahead of him. He knocks into her. Tessa totters on her boot heels.

Henri’s coat makes a farting sound as the back of it splits. The white fabric is tissue in Brian’s grip. Brian places Henri against the wall, like Henri is a troublesome robotic knickknack marching off the end of a mantel. He holds Henri there by the front of a cherry--stained smock. The sous--chefs hesitate by the walk--in freezer. The walk--in freezer locks. The walk--in refrigerator does not, because the secret elevator is hidden behind the shelf that holds the juice concentrate.

Tessa has regained her balance. Brian seems to realize his own obviousness. He holds Henri against the wall, huffing a hard breath in annoyance at himself. Jules and Justin both have their eyebrows high up on their heads, and they blow on spoonfuls of cherries periodically, like all of this is an excellent show, complete with food.

Tessa tells the sous--chefs, again, “Go to the ballroom, guys. I’ll tell you when it’s time to leave. Start bright and early tomorrow.” She looks at Henri and says with a level of calm he should recognize as dangerous, “Shall we say seven?”

Henri sticks his nose in the air.

“Seven,” Tessa tells the sous--chefs. “Go have a seat. Don’t mess with the place settings, no card games.”

The sous--chefs mutter, leaving.

Tessa goes closer to Henri. She looks at Brian as if to say something, but Brian shakes his head. Tessa was ready to say, “Let him go,” and Brian was saying, “Don’t tell me to do that, because I won’t do it.” They are painfully transparent.

Tessa points at Henri. “You’re a brilliant chef, but you should keep in mind that there are chefs younger than you, less choleric than you, who would eat rat droppings to work in this facility. I’m thinking of a dozen names right now. I’m thinking of their phone numbers, because I’ve memorized them, because your brilliance is not worth what I have to do to keep you in check.” Tessa goes still closer to Henri. Brian lets Henri go, because Henri is crying quietly. Henri does this often; he’s faking it. “Stop crying,” Tessa says, “or I’ll fire you right now. I don’t give a f*ck what it does to the opening.” Henri’s trembling lip drops. “You can go home,” Tessa says, “or you can stay here. But you play your music at the volume I indicated with a fluorescent green piece of tape to mark where it’s not splitting everybody else’s ears. If you decide to stay, you’re going to take an hour and eat. You haven’t eaten all day, except sampling, and all the sampling has been cherries. Your blood sugar’s going nuts. That’s why you’re being such a pill.”