The Dollhouse(47)

Darby pulled Esme close and lowered her voice. “What was that? Who were they?”

“Just some guys who think they can tell me what to do.”

“What did they mean, you have to work harder?”

“Stupid stuff. They have a deal with all the businesses in the neighborhood. They offer protection, and in exchange the owners let them skim off the top. Which means they’re always pushing me to do certain things, you know, for the customers. To bring up the tips.”

“Mr. Buckley makes you do that?”

“The girl before me did, so everyone thinks I should, too. But they don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m not a cockroach they can step on.” Esme reached into her handbag and pulled out a switchblade with a silver handle. “See, I can take care of myself.”

“A knife? You need a knife? Why don’t you tell Sam what they did? Maybe he can help. Reason with his father somehow?”

Esme gave out a bitter laugh. “You got a lot to learn, girl. A lot to learn.” She shooed Darby out of the tiny room and fitted herself inside. “Go see your man. Maybe he’ll give you a taste of something sweet.”

The steamy front entrance to the club was nothing compared to the junglelike humidity of the kitchen, where the line cooks banged pots against the stove and yelled at each other over the steady drone of the ventilation system. Sam led her to the grill, where a chunk of marbled meat sat on a plate. Burgers sizzled over the fire, and he used a spatula to rearrange them and make room before placing the steak in the center.

The flames flared up. “Here, smell this.” He held a small white dish to her nose, filled with yellowish powder. The color reminded her of the maple tree outside her window at home, after the peak of autumn had past, a burnished mustard. The smell was bright and savory, a mixture of toast and turmeric.

“You see, I rub the steak with it and let the meat rise to room temperature.” His eagerness was that of a young boy. She wished he’d had a father who would take him under his wing and tell him he was doing well, the way Daddy had done when she’d disappointed Mother yet again.

Once the steak had cooked to his liking, Sam let it sit for several minutes and turned his attention to what the rest of the kitchen was doing. He had an air of authority about him, speaking to a waiter in clipped tones to correct an order, before turning to a busboy to help him lift a tub of dishes into the sink.

He returned to her side and poked the steak with his finger. “Not quite yet. Esme said you go to secretarial school, is that right?”

She didn’t want to be reminded of her uptown life. “I do. It’s awful.”

“Why?”

“I’m a terrible secretary. Or I’ll make a terrible secretary. I wish I could do something creative, like this.”

“What would you do?”

Charlotte’s offer still tantalized, but there was no guarantee she’d remember making it, or even meeting Darby, when she returned. “I really don’t know. Is it ready yet?”

He cut into the steak, its juices running red onto the wooden cutting board. “Try this.”

The texture of the beef mingled with the spices and sent her mind racing, the same way the jazz music had done that first night. Flavor flooded her palate, first savory, then a strange flowery bitterness, before the spices amalgamated into a final burst of clove.

“Astonishing.” She wanted another bite and another.

He fed them to her, laughing at her voraciousness.

“Sam, I’ve never tasted anything like this. It reminds me of what it’s like in the fall back home. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Do you want it explained?”

“I do.”

“Then follow me.” He took off his apron and grabbed her hand. She took it, eager to see where he was going to lead her but reluctant to leave the juicy steak behind.




Sam walked quickly, darting through the crowded streets and pulling Darby along after him. Below Houston, the streets ran in every direction, and she had no idea where she was. The rain had stopped, so she wasn’t wet, but she felt naked without a coat. Sam didn’t seem to care, just forged through the crowd.

She didn’t even have her purse, having left it with Esme. Sam turned around to check on her, puzzled at her distress.

“Where are we going?” She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dress.

“I can’t tell you; it’ll be a surprise. But if you liked the steak, you’ll love this.”

Maybe he was taking her to dinner at a restaurant that served curries and other exotic foods. She hoped she’d be able to eat what was served, that it wouldn’t be spiced innards or something too gooey.

He stopped at a nondescript building where laundry hung limply from the fire escapes. The sign on the door was written in unfamiliar characters, the number 12 the only symbol she could recognize. Even stranger, the window was blacked out.

They stepped inside and she was assaulted by the scent of a thousand spices. Almost every surface was covered with wares. Barrels were heaped with dried red chilies, their skins shiny and bright. Open boxes of colorful powders and strange seeds lined the floor, and the shelves on the walls held jars filled with dried plants and stems. Years of foot traffic had grooved the narrow aisles. Sam shouted a loud hello. From the back, a voice called out in response. She couldn’t identify the accent, but the sound was deep, with the reverberations of a double bass.