Madeline O'Hare drove to Irving Street with dread. The Cook lived above a Seafood place on Irving and spent most of his time in the kitchen. Now in his forties and heavy set, he no longer did street-crime, he did politics. Supplicants sat on a stool near the prep table and pleaded their case. It was said they all left alive, although some disappeared later. But death was not what she was afraid of. Nobody in her the restaurant industry could do business without touching Irving Street in some way, so Mrs O'Hare knew his reputation. The Cook was famously a gangster for perks. He ate free across the city, and when men fell foul of him, he had their wives. But Madeline O'Hare wasn't afraid of rape, at least not that she would be raped, she was afraid for her son Alan, who was newly in Folsom prison.
Maddie found Short Order at the door. He patted her down and her sent back to the kitchen. The Cook was there, of average height, but broad, with thick hairy fingers and a blunt, stubbly face. He pointed to a stool, the stool, she supposed, and finished peeling his onions. He leaned on the steel counter next to her, the knife still in his hand. He spoke so low it was almost a whisper, barely audible over the kitchen fans and that she had to lean in, her head even with his chest.
This must be so he can't be recorded
, she thought, and with her face so close to his apron she could smell him, onions and masculinity. The Cook looked down on the top of her head, her hair shiny and dark brown, almost black, famously thick and beautiful, men who watched her cooking show imagined they were looking down on her hair while she sucked. But the Cook had never heard of her taking a male lover, she had her husband and son, and was a proper woman, a celebrity without dirt, until Alan was arrested. She kept her gaze on the counter, his fist sat there with the knife in it.
"Madeline O'Hare, owner and chef at Maddie Cakes, restaurant and cooking show." He said, as though putting a name tag on her with his voice. The he said nothing.
She could hear his breathing, and the longer he paused the more uncomfortable she got. "Yes?" She whispered, still looking down at his hand, and the knife, and the stainless counter-top.
"Irving Street owns legally restricted goods in this town. I hear your son was sent up for selling from the bar in your restaurant?"
Madeline nodded.
"You have friends in the police - do you know why he got arrested?"
Madeline shook her head.
"Because we knew he was selling, and we told the NARCs to send in a buyer."
"Why? Why did you do that?"
"Because we told him to stop, we told him with thunder, nobody ignores us like that unless they have a strong motive. So when he kept on I knew he was doing it for you, Mrs O'Hare, he was selling for Mommy. Now I like you Mrs O'Hare, everyone in this town likes you. Woman want to be you. Men watch your show, I know I do. I sit on my sofa with my pants down, watching you handle fruit, or maybe peel a banana real slow, then wiggle your bottom." She blushed, now thankful she couldn't see his face, but she was getting frightened. She felt the tips of his fingers run over her buttocks, outside her skirt. She closed her eyes and whimpered, struggling not to move. He dug his digits under her ass-cheeks on the stool seat and wedged them in under her, rubbed her gently, hitting her mons perfectly. Madeline squirmed, but didn't dare protest. His thick meaty hand slid from under her bottom, fingers pressing her panties on the way out and slid up her side to her plump bosom. His fingers found her puffed nipples through her blouse and he tweaked them.
She grabbed his wrists, but couldn't dislodge his hand. "Are you... going to... me?" She couldn't say the word out loud.
