The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard Elijah Douresseau (read aloud books .txt) 📖

because Coco thought you were capable of seeing horrible things and staying about your business. Don’t give her reason to think otherwise.”

“Well, damn.”

Fears confirmed. Alvin was always in danger. Always at risk of being skinned alive. But the news of something irrefutably more sinister was paralyzing.

“It’s too easy for them to get off for murder. If we blow the lid off this thing at the right time, they’ll have a real problem keeping to themselves, and that’s the last thing they want.”

“Then I guess, against everything in me, we’ll be in touch.”

Chapter 5

The big dinner was an obscure event of the future. It was a bizarre Christmas. Anything you could not get as a gift during the year, you would save for then. That was when you would really try. Whether or not you made an effort, the day was showing up. In the case of Alvin and his boss, he had better have gotten all the gifts he said he would get. But the gift of food was tricky to provide.

Under normal dinner party circumstances, he would orchestrate a four or five-part band of hor d’oeuvres. Each one different. Each one providing a portion of a full plate. You would eat and expect more, and when you got the next appetizer, you would think you were merely electing to include an additional fixing on your cohesive plate.

Coco made it very clear her guests were not the type to tolerate a buffet happily, so passed appetizers seemed like the natural alternative.

No.

This was a trying work assignment because she wanted special dishes for everyone in attendance. At least the big wigs Coco was nearly going insane over.

“Just make one or two things for everyone else. Fancy pizza bagels and a fruit platter or something.”

Coco did not care that a chef could not break several cooking commandments in one night. A caretaker of food made everything and did not go to the grocer’s freezer for the their clients. Unless explicitly requested. And insisted upon.

Only ten percent store bought. If a chef had to. He purchased ingredients from the store. Not completed meals to heat in the microwave or oven, or place in boiling water for ten minutes, until ready.

Ninety percent or better had to be prepped and cooked with the chef’s hands. Alvin and his culinary peers did not pay for schooling, which was getting closer to a university’s tuition every year, just to read cooking directions on the back of a food package. You could even get your chef’s hat revoked for shopping at certain stores for ingredients. The closer to a farmer’s market, the better.

Every chef had the occasional guilty pleasure. Alvin was not the only professional cook in his circle who would agree to a 1am Taco Bell run, on the right night. But that was strictly once in a while, with the help of a certain beverage. Or two.

In any case, the main event was the gathering of Coco’s bosses. Seven unique dishes. Seven different palates. Eight, including Coco’s dish. Alvin wanted to hate the arrangement, but increasingly, despite the odds, he was sure it was going to be one of the most gratifying cooking tasks he would have been on since school. Top Chef on “Expert Level” hard.

Coco also wanted to give her personal cook some spotlight time. He was going to serve the dishes and present each one to its respective boss. Sure. He should have been coasting by then.

The thing Alvin was uneasy about was the tasting the day before. Tomorrow. That part was going to be just Coco. Ironically, the dinner party project was the easiest set of instructions Coco ever gave the chef: here are these few must-have ingredients per dish. Be brilliant.

It was strange the people Coco answered to had refined palates enough to favor the very specific food parts they did, but Alvin would bring the spices. Money was no object. No matter how difficult it was to ship, or even import in some cases, the boss lady gave the go-ahead.

He was not sure what he was going to do if Coco did not like the finished products. There were only a couple plates of food his expertise would allow to incorporate the exotic ingredients. He was not going to bluff though. His food was going to be impressive. If the Caribbean eats Alvin was producing was not going to be satisfactory, Coco would still have a hard time saying no.

The weight of the event also took precedence with the employee’s level of access. He was to live at the mansion, making sure he got every inch of his dishes right. And he was making sure, pulling an all-nighter for the practice round.

Halfway through plate number four, a man entered the kitchen and swiftly moved to the table to cause Alvin to drop what he was doing. Did he get made? How?

“What are you doing?”

“Huh?”

“Keep cooking.”

Alvin realized he had not been shot. And that he looked very compromised in the anticipation of being found out. But nothing happened.

“Does Coco want something?”

“Move to the fridge.”

The cook had to look up then. He had maybe seen the bodyguard once. Coco’s henchmen force was astounding. A club with rules and policies to follow at absolutely every moment. No one rode alone, except Hendrix. He could only imagine the scrutiny the guards went through if Alvin had to go through three separate checks himself, before entering the mansion. Every single day.

This guy was alone and it was not a coincidence the chef was either.

Alvin did what he was told. He even took his mixing bowl to appear even more ignorant as to what was going on. It was not that hard because he was actually uncertain what was going to happen in the next few moments.

Only the cook would have been wise to it, but the stainless-steel fridge reflected all who ventured to its insides. However distorted the polished surface presented the reflections, someone could see something unfolding behind him. Alvin’s sudden and