North American Lake Monsters by Nathan Ballingrud Page B

andouille sausage. In this way, Nick was paid as a dishwasher but employed as a prep cook. Nick reasoned to himself that the owner, being a Jew, was only acting according to his nature, which made it easier for him to accept. Furthermore, the circumstances at home did not allow him the luxury of quitting.
    The owner was an overweight, meticulously tidy man named Barry Bright—a failed car salesman from Idaho, and about as far from an actual Cajun as it was possible to get. When he walked through the kitchen it was with as much reluctance and mincing care as a man crossing a grassy median carpeted with dog turds. He stepped gingerly around the extended arms of simmering pots and refused to walk over the rubber mats behind the line, which were often caked with squashed gobs of meat and vegetable. The heat made him sweat, and because he was a large man he did so with vigorous industry, ruining his temper and his shirts. He hated being in the kitchen; when he had to address the kitchen staff he preferred to do it in the dining area, where he couldn’t afford not to run an air conditioner. So when the kitchen door swung open and he stepped back there, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch. He pointed a finger at Nick and jerked his head back the way he had come. “Nick! What I tell you about phone calls at work!”
    Nick set down the knife he was using to chop garlic and made a helpless gesture. “I didn’t call no one, Mr. Bright.”
    “Somebody called you. Come out here and get it. She says it’s important.” He cast a disparaging glance around the kitchen. “You boys better get this pigsty cleaned up before the night shift comes in.” He looked at Big Jake, a huge man of indeterminate age and immeasurable girth. “You got it under control in here, Jake?”
    “Always do, Mr. Bright.”
    Bright nodded curtly and retreated into the dining area. Nick followed him out, taking off his hat and wiping a rag over his closely shaven head.
    When he picked up the phone, he found Trixie waiting on the other end of it.
    “You gotta do something, Nick,” she said, without preamble.
    “Hey,” he said. “I thought you were mad at me.”
    “Stupid. Why would I be mad at you?”
    “I don’t know. ’Cause I ran out of there, I guess.” It had been nearly a week since the meeting at Derrick’s apartment, and he hadn’t heard from her at all in that time. He’d been sure she had cut him loose.
    She was silent a moment, which let him know he wasn’t absolved. “Well, you didn’t exactly help yourself out,” she said. “What happened there, anyway?”
    “I don’t know,” he muttered, leaning against the counter. His chef’s coat released little scent-clouds of garlic and onion whenever he moved. He saw Mr. Bright watching him from across the restaurant. “Fuck them. Derrick’s an asshole; he doesn’t want me in the group anyway.”
    “Yes he does, but he’s not gonna just give you a free pass. To him you’re just some punk kid. My word gets you in the door, but after that it’s on you.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t know if I want to mess with it. They hate me anyway. They think I’m a pussy.”
    “Well are you?”
    The question caught him off guard, and it hurt. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I don’t know, Nickie. You seem to be ready to give it all up.”
    “Give what up? I’m not in their fucking group.”
    “No, but I am.”
    After a moment he said, “So it’s like that.” Something was opening up in his chest, some painful bloom, and when he drew in a breath it caught fire like a smoldering coal. He put his hand over his eyes and felt his throat constrict.
    “This is who I am, Nickie. It’s part of the package.”
    Bright called something from across the room and pointed at his watch. Nick turned his back to him. “I don’t know if I can do it, Trix,” he said. “I don’t know if I care enough. Does that make me a traitor? Does that make me a bad guy?”
    She seemed