Devour, p.4
Devour, page 4
“Tell me something, Geezer. If I could grant you one wish—like I was your fucking fairy godmother—what would it be?”
Geezer looked at Dalton like he was waiting for the quarter to drop—as if Dalton would break out laughing at any minute. “Sir?”
“Look, you’ve been here long enough to have learned your lesson. Would you say that’s true?”
Nodding yet still skeptical, he managed a quiet, “Yes, Sir.”
“How long now?”
Looking up to the ceiling, he scratched his chin. “This year, it’ll be 33 years.”
Dalton whistled, “Hell, that’s half your life.”
“No shit,” he said, before catching himself. “Sorry, Warden Dalton, what I meant was—”
“Stop,” he waved him off, “We’re in a prison for fuck sake. You’re allowed.”
Geezer grinned, then squinted when he leaned on an elbow.
“And?”
Rubbing his elbow, he said, “Well, Warden, if you were my fairy godmother and if you could do such, I’d wish for one visitor. Or, at the very least? A phone call.”
Dalton began to speak, but Geezer held up a single finger. “That would actually get answered.”
With a frown, Dalton said, “What do you mean?”
He eked out a snort, “What I mean is I’ve tried. Seriously, in fact. And for…” he looked at his bandage and pulled at a loose thread. “I don’t know, somewhere around seven, no, make that nine months now that I’ve dialed the same number on every Tuesday…of every week…at about the same time.”
Dalton frowned. “Every Tuesday?”
A nod.
“Who are you calling?”
“My son.”
Another frown pierced his brow. “But he’s come to visit you before—”
“No, Sir,” Geezer interrupted. “Not once.”
Dalton glanced to Baxter who said, “Sir, Sebastian has two—”
“Baxter, did I ask you to interrupt this conversation? NO! So, shut your little polished piehole until spoken to,” he barked, turning back to his inmate.
“Warden Dalton, I have two sons. Scott—the one who’s visited a couple times—and Michael, my younger boy…” he trailed off, dropping his head.
“What?”
Shaking his head, he mumbled, “Hell, he’s never come to see me. Or write. Not once in all these years.”
Dalton did not know why he cared about this old fart, but maybe it was because he reminded Dalton of his own father. The miserable bastard who disappeared one night after beating me half to death.
He looked around, thinking he could not show softness. “I’m not sure how I can make someone take your call, Sebastian, it’s not like—”
“Sir, what if you were to call, say from your own phone. Not the main line.”
Frowning, he asked, “What? Why’s that?”
“When I call from the payphone, I’m told it shows up on caller ID that—”
He waved for him to stop. “Yeah, I get that. So, what’s the urgency?”
Looking at the floor, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Thing is, Warden, I’m dying.”
With a careless snort, Dalton said, “Aren’t we all.”
“Cancer. Doc says three, maybe four months.”
Dalton looked from Sebastian to Baxter and thought, What message would that send to others, then said, “Maybe I can do something. What’s his name again?”
“Michael. Rogan.”
Dalton’s expression completely shifted. “What?”
“Michael—”
“No, I heard. You mean the chef who runs the restaurant downtown called Dévorer?”
“Yes, Sir, that’s it,” the old man nodded. “Read about it in the paper. Sounds like a nice place.”
Dalton stood, appearing more energized. “Nice? Only one of the best restaurants in San Francisco. Maybe the country.”
“Okay,” Sebastian said.
Dalton turned to Baxter. “How could I have not known this?” Turning back to Sebastian, he barked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Uh, why would I, Sir?”
“True,” Dalton said, rubbing his forehead. He looked at both men, then at his watch, then back to Sebastian. “Look, if I had my way, I’d just cut you loose and…”
Suddenly, he stopped and turned to Baxter. “Hand me his records.”
Baxter produced them immediately. Dalton skimmed them quickly, then—biting the inside of his cheek—slowly said, “Police report says you murdered your wife in—”
“Sir, I didn’t kill my wife. I loved my wife. It’s just, I had a drinking problem. And lost control—”
“No, you fuckin’ killed her, Sebastian,” he snorted, then shook his head and mumbled, “Funny how I never paid attention to your name.” Looking up, he stared. “Anyhow, you shot her. Pure and simple.”
“Except it wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Pure and simple. Yeah, I was drunk, and there was—”
Holding up a hand to stop, Dalton kept reading. “Shot her with a handgun. But wait, there was a shotgun found as well.”
Nodding, Sebastian said, “Part of that’s true, Warden. And trust me, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Here’s the thing, the first ten years in here, I was mad and just gave in to it being my destiny. But the next ten years, I tried to figure all the bullshit out.”
Shaking his head, Dalton said, “And the third decade?”
“Just been studying.”
“What?”
Sebastian grinned, “Law and Psychology. Trying to get to know myself.”
“And what have you learned?”
“Plenty.”
“Okay, before you get all geared up, let’s talk about why you think you didn’t kill her.”
Sitting back in his chair, Sebastian took a long breath. “It all comes down to two things. Talk to me about the weapon and the prints. Plus, the carbon discharge.”
Frowning, Dalton skimmed the file. “That was 30 plus years ago. Okay, what exactly?”
“Look at the notes about the damage to my son’s face.”
“Michael?”
“No, Scott.”
Dalton read, “Blunt force trauma.”
Sebastian gave a slow nod. “Right. Notice how it says the wound was round.”
“So?”
“So, the gun used was a .9 mil.”
“Okay.”
“Which has a flat and square butt. Also, there was no carbon found on my hand, right?”
Dalton gave a nod.
“Did anyone think to check my wife’s hand? Or my son’s hand? And add that to the report?”
Flipping a page, Dalton said, “Negative. No mention of carbon blowback…anywhere.”
They looked at one another.
“So, you’re saying you didn’t fire the gun.”
Sebastian shook his head.
“And the…” he looked down. “Round BFT to your son’s face?”
“My hunch? He picked up the hammer I was threatening my wife with, then after shooting her and me…hit himself in the face.”
Dalton frowned.
“Bear with me, Sir,” Sebastian nodded. “It was meant to look like I had attacked him. Way I see it? Yes, I was going after my wife—drunk outta my mind—but I’d never kill her, Warden,” his eyes welled with tears. “As I was going toward her, she reached in a nearby drawer, took out a gun, and threatened to shoot me!”
Dalton’s expression read: Right.
Sebastian held up a hand. “Just hear me out, Sir. Please.”
Dalton gave a tiny nod.
“Just as Mary Elizabeth was pointing that gun at me, my son came running in the house. He was all crazy for some reason. Anyhow, he saw what was happening…”
The room remained silent.
Sebastian took a deep breath and continued. “We kept a shotgun propped in the corner of the dining room—ya know, just in case. So, Scott comes in, sees what’s going on and grabs the shotgun and points it at me—I guess to scare me. She’s waving the gun around and screaming. He gets spooked because she doesn’t know how to use a gun, but then he puts the rifle down and goes to get the gun from her. Thing is, she fights him because she thinks he’s gonna kill me, but when he goes to grab the gun, they struggle and the gun goes off.”
“And?”
“As far as I recall, she was shot in the neck.”
Dalton kept frowning.
“I know,” Sebastian said, holding up both hands. “Now, she’s shot and on the floor bleeding. He’s hysterical and I’m pissed. I go toward him, you know, to grab the gun, and he turns and shoots me. Only reason I think I’m alive to this day is I held up my hand at the last second. The bullet went through my hand and skimmed my eye—which is why I’m blind in it. And my hand’s fucked up.”
Dalton is shaking his head, trying to make sense of it all. Some of it does, he thought. “Okay,” he sighed. “I follow some of that. But what about—”
“Look, my guess is he realized he had to call the police or the shit would hit the fan. He picked up my hammer—so it’ll look like I came after him—and hit himself in the face. The report said he was liquored up, too—either before he showed up or to get his courage up. Either way, they arrived and found him passed out.”
“And where’s Michael at this time,” Dalton said, looking back through the notes. “He’s what, ten, eleven years old at the time?”
Sebastian remained silent, staring at his hands.
“Sebastian?” Dalton leaned forward. “Where was your other boy at the time?”
He finally looked up. “In the closet.”
Dalton felt a familiar pang of fear. “What?”
“I’d locked him in the closet.” Releasing a slow sigh, he added, “After I…beat him.”
Dalton was torn between curiosity and rage. Fuck. “Sebastian?”
The old man looked up from the floor.
“Why did you beat him?”
Sebastian’s hands began to tremble, and he wrung them to try and hide it.
“He was crying. Screaming, actually. Just hysterical.”
“But why?”
The old man’s face appeared to age right before their eyes.
“Because I didn’t want to hear his screaming,” he whispered, “as I beat him.”
No one moved.
Dalton released a slow breath, rubbed his face with both palms and stood, then patted Sebastian’s shoulder and left the room.
6
The Restaurant
There was something Michael knew as well as if not better than cooking, selecting vintage wines, and running a successful business: positioning. It secured the best location, lured the highest spenders, and created a product and service like none other. When combined with a private club membership, weekly one-of-a-kind tastings, a personal concierge service, select discounts for best customers, private celebration bookings, and free parking—all in a city with impossible parking—a sublime restaurant is born.
At the corner of California and Mason, across the street from the prestigious Pacific-Union Club, Michael Rogan’s five-star restaurant Dévorer sits prominently in the shadow of the world famous Fairmont Hotel and classic Intercontinental. After a two-year epic bidding war, plus a down payment that could dissolve a small country’s debt, Michael had secured a ten-year lease for the location.
A Zagat critic of wide acclaim called it, “Pricier than my mortgage, but better than sex.”
An internationally-known Michelin reviewer said, “Booking a reservation on short notice is harder than meeting the Pope, but it’s one of the top five pleasures you’ll experience on this side of heaven.”
And a local, yet internationally-known restaurant critic called it, “An oasis of excellence that magically balances world class cuisine from French, Asian, and American influences with an other-worldly wine list, along with impeccable service like few else.”
That quote—along with credit to the source—not only received major exposure in newspapers and magazines around the world but was also “tattooed” into the entry lobby wall above the hostess stand.
As Michael pulled to the front of the building of 1001 California Street, Hector Ramos, Head of Security and part-time Assistant Manager, met Michael at the curb.
Getting out, he welcomed Hector with an enormous smile and warm embrace. “Hello, Hector. Thank you for coming in today.”
“No worries, Michael. Always a pleasure.”
“Promise I won’t keep you long. How about we have a quick bite and some coffee?”
“Sounds good. Let me park this for you and I’ll be right in,” he said, taking Michael’s keys.
Stepping into the entrance, Michael was welcomed by his second-in-command Manager Jasmine Barthold who stood in the doorway dressed from head to toe in midnight blue Gucci, her uniform of choice.
Jasmine was a trifecta of talent. Her first career was modeling, but she got tired of posing. Her second career was Assistant Manager at a country club in Beverly Hills, but she grew tired of the posers. Returning to her NoCal roots, Jasmine wanted to enter the restaurant business, and as fate would have it, Michael’s restaurant—in the infancy of success—was at the top of her list.
With looks, brains, and attention to detail, Jasmine became an instant and natural fit. Michael interviewed her in order to be fair and offered the job before she even left the interview. It was mutual admiration at first sight and they barely left one another’s sides. Her touches of finesse were what Michael believed took the dining experience from just good food to an exceptional experience, one customers craved repeatedly. And they did—in droves.
“Morning, Jasmine,” Michael smiled, kissing her cheek. “Lovely as always.”
The fragrance of her hair mirrored her name.
“Thank you, Michael, and you’re not bad yourself,” she said, waving him to enter. “Just put on a French press.”
“Reading my mind,” he said, entering the tailored foyer.
Michael and his investors spared no expense in crafting the restaurant. The elegant space was warm, sensual, and welcoming. Upon entering, customers immediately knew they were in for an experience. Entry walls, covered in charcoal velvet, provided two sensory pleasures.
First, the concealed lighting from above shone down, creating an illusion of shimmering depth. Second, the specific material helped mute both inside and outside sounds. Having Bose sound-cancelling technology wired into the corners of each room assisted in removing outside traffic noise. A glass structure hanging in the center of the lobby was a collaboration between artist Chihuly and the company Swarovski—simply put: stunning.
The hostess stand appeared to be an enormous chunk of ice lit from within and the art on the wall was one of a kind. Michael had met an artist named Poppy who created a multi-dimensional exhibit on an enormous gilded-framed canvas which at one moment appeared to be an abstract painting and in the next slowly dissolved into aerial shots of San Francisco’s most beautiful landmarks—an eye-catching and high-definition marvel.
Once inside the dining room, customers enjoyed a perfect balance of Feng Shui design. Comfortable chairs draped in Italian silk and booths sheathed in Italian leather provided ample seating. Each table, covered in fine linen tablecloths, was adorned with fine china, crystal, and sterling silver flatware. Jasmine’s touch was everywhere as she was fanatical about having fresh, fragrant flowers and flickering candles for extra ambiance. One of Michael’s favorite elements included a heady blend of spa-influenced jazz playing through hidden speakers, providing an unobtrusive three-dimensional sonic landscape. And the last “secret” detail was an influx of pure oxygen pumped into the dining room, further enhancing the complete dining experience in ways diners could not imagine until experiencing it.
The three enjoyed a light brunch during their highly detailed meeting. Michael and Jasmine were discussing upcoming reservations when a call came in. She excused herself and Hector quickly shared updates on the restaurant’s new state-of-the-art security camera installation.
Returning to the table, Jasmine said, “Sorry for the interruption guys, but I’m glad I grabbed that call. Looks like we’ll be having an extra large party for next week.”
“Great,” Michael smiled. “We’ll take it.”
After covering a list of special events on the upcoming month’s calendar, they wrapped their time and Hector left to take his kids to the park while Jasmine and Michael remained to finish up.
“So, how’s Natalie?”
Michael shifted his attention from people traffic on the street to Jasmine. “She’s good. Her mother and I don’t know exactly where she’s going yet. And truth be told, we don’t think she knows.”
“It’s a big decision. I’m sure she wants to stay close, but there’s something to be said for cutting the strings and flying out on your own. It was for me. I left at 19. Best thing I could’ve done.”
Michael stopped stirring his drink. “Why’s that?”
“How do I say this nicely. Dad wasn’t very nice. No, I take that back. He was nice—toward anyone who came around the house or when we were at events—while I seemed to disappear into the woodwork. However, because I was a pretty good athlete—”
“I heard exceptional,” he interrupted.
“Yeah, okay, I was pretty good. But I’m not sure if it was that he took my talents for granted, or, I don’t know, expected more? Or, maybe because he wanted a boy. What I do know is as an only child, he only had that one chance.”
“I can relate.”
“Fortunately my height made me perfect for basketball and volleyball, just like your girl. But my real passion—not sure if you knew this or not—was golf.”
He chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“Sorry. Not laughing at you, just trying to picture you on the links. I can’t think of many tall woman golfers these days.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, let’s see, Maia Schechter’s at six two. The tallest Asian-American I’ve ever seen is Michelle Wie at six feet and change. And my personal favorite—who reminds me a lot of Natalie—Lexi Thompson, who’s six even. She started playing professionally at twelve, pro by 15, and now earns millions.”
