Under the Table(3)
“A meeting won’t be necessary. I’m interested in a five-course meal, including sorbet, with a Cajun theme, not too heavy on the fish. For myself and seven guests. Nothing that requires a lobster bib or can get a person messy. Just the staples are fine, you don’t have to go overboard with creativity. Are you available next Thursday?”
She was; her work mostly filled up her weekends. That served a dual purpose. She made money and had a built-in excuse for preventing her sister from dragging her all around town. She wanted to take this time in NYC to clear her head, not cloud it further, and it was working for her. But this whole conversation was becoming highly unorthodox. He didn’t want to meet her, wasn’t asking for references. He wanted to give her free rein. “I do happen to have that day open. I would need a few hours to work up a price quote.”
“Would it be possible to give you my number and you can call me back with the details?” the ultrapolite Tristan Malloy asked, making Zoey all the more intrigued, and slightly suspicious. She wanted to insist on a meeting, to verify that he wasn’t wasting her time with some prank.
“Do any of the guests have food allergies?” Zoey asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. Let’s keep away from peanuts, just in case. Shellfish should be fine for at least one course. Mix it up though?”
“Would you like me to email you the details so you can have them in front of you as we chat?” Zoey offered.
There was a long pause before “That won’t be necessary. Just call me back with your final total. Feel free to add the cost of a server on too.”
Zoey made a mental note to bump up the price and do the serving herself. She could present to eight people with her eyes closed. And a man who wasn’t interested in dickering about the price probably had a nice kitchen . . . or was a psychopath. She took his phone number then checked the expiration date on the can of pepper spray she’d bought when she arrived but had yet to use. Why didn’t he want an email? Everyone wanted some sort of confirmation in writing. That was just good business. Unless it’s someone who doesn’t want to leave a trail. A chill ran through her and she chastised herself for watching too much Law & Order: SVU.
Zoey did her research and called him back with a menu of Shrimp and Sweet Potato Bisque and Broccoli Salad for starters; Sausage Jambalaya, Crawfish Mac & Cheese, and green beans for the main course; with a bread pudding for dessert. She recommended lemon sorbet for the palate cleanser.
He listened patiently and then there was a pause after she wrapped up her spiel, quoting him two prices, one with him providing the food and one if she had to buy it.
“Don’t worry about having to purchase the food, Zoey,” Tristan said. “But the mac and cheese dish is a bit much if you’re serving it with jambalaya. Let’s switch that up with an eggplant and corn casserole I have a recipe for. If you would be so kind as to fax me the rest of the menu and the ingredients that you need at this number, I’ll make sure it’s all here when you arrive.”
Zoey knew what she’d be doing this week. Trial running recipes. But she had to admit, the eggplant and corn dish sounded delicious.
It also wasn’t unusual for a customer to buy their own ingredients to prevent her from marking them up. But fax him? It was so odd. Tristan Malloy didn’t sound like a dinosaur. After taking a minute to wrack her brain about where she might find a fax machine, Zoey remembered Ruth’s office had one that was gathering dust. “Is it all right if I get it to you tomorrow, Mr. Malloy?”
“That will be fine.”
He gave her his address and a noon arrival time. Before hanging up, he added, “And, Zoey?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Please call me Tristan. I look forward to meeting you next week.”
And then he was gone and she was left staring at her landline’s receiver.
Zoey spent the days leading up to Thursday buying a cell phone and trying to anticipate all the things that could go wrong while Ruth teased her for being overly paranoid. Then when she tested the recipes she had chosen, the end result on some of the dishes was less than she had hoped for. By the time she was ready to leave the apartment, she was strung tight as a drum. Now Derek was incessantly calling a cell phone number he wasn’t supposed to know. It added a layer of foreboding.
She should’ve insisted on a meeting. Then she wouldn’t be walking into this whole situation blind. But he sounded so . . . what was the right word? Polite? Honest? Shy? Maybe the word she was looking for was innocent. If Zoey wanted to take advantage of him, she would have no problem doing so. It was the levelheaded politeness that had set her off-kilter. Now was not the time to let her guard down.
Zoey made her turn onto East Seventy-Ninth Street and began looking at building numbers. When she found 139, she breathed a small sigh of relief. A beautiful high-rise, complete with front awning and a doorman. If she was walking into some sort of trap, at least there would be a witness who “saw her last.”
She announced herself and the older man with the row of shiny buttons didn’t call up to any apartment, just directed her to the end of the hall on the twelfth floor.
Zoey got off the elevator, taking her first few steps. She hated the huge buildings with the long hallways. They were broken up by nothing but closed doors, waiting to pop open as she passed them. It was eerily quiet, and with each of her footfalls on the carpet getting her closer to her final destination, she could almost hear “Redrum” in the background.