AT THIS UNGODLY HOUR, Robert, CEO Marco Tarragona's chauffeur, sat on the metal bench at Mayor's Park, observing the mellowed hustle and bustle of the Night Market across the street. It was only a few minutes past midnight. In about 25 minutes, he would meet his contact.
The darkness concealed his presence. He preferred it this way; a detached observer, free from emotional ties. He came to Blake City to fulfill that kind of contract.
The Mayor's Park was built about 30 years ago. It's where the old city hall once stood. Across the street, the Night Market remained the enduring symbol of the old era from when the city was first established. The surrounding vicinity was transformed into a sprawling commercial district, reminiscent of the time when the local government clashed with the city's criminal underworld. Even today, despite its category as the most developed area, the district retained lingering traces of its dark history.
Every night, from 6 pm to 1 am, the four-lane Pioneer Avenue would be closed for motorists to pave the way to the Night Market. When the heavy rain finally stopped, the Night Market opened for business. At 12:30 am, the crowd was thinning. Some vendors started packing their things. The workers began cleaning the area. Once the clearing operation was finished, the lanes would be open for motorists.
When the Night Market closed, informal street vendors set up shops on the sides of the avenue to cater to other types of regulars. They're the midnight diners: nightshift workers, night strollers, and those who favor the nighttime hustle. When they needed snacks to calm their hunger pangs or warm meals to ease their nerves, there was a food stall they could turn to.
The underworld's Madame with whom Robert has a contract has a peculiar taste for food. Robert got up and strode across the street. It's time to meet the Madame's emissary. While walking, he was thinking about the incident with Marco this afternoon.
***
Earlier this afternoon…
Upon reaching their destination, the Cafe Tendre, Robert pulled over the car. He was about to hop out of the car and open the backseat where Marco sat. However, he wasn't expecting Marco to confront him unceremoniously.
Marco's voice was noticeably edged with anger when he said, "Your client must have offered a generous sum for spying on me. You can carry on with your espionage and still be my chauffeur. I don't mind. I'd rather keep my enemies closer. I just want you to make a few exceptions about the report you will relay."
Robert was taken aback. He's been Marco's chauffeur for about three years. He's speechless, trying to figure out how he should handle this situation. He gripped the steering wheel firmly. Feigning innocence, he turned to face his boss and said, "S-sir, I don't understand what you're saying."
Marco locked his eyes on Robert and said coldly, "I don't blame you but I don't condone it either. People do things to make ends meet."
Then Marco handed some photos to Robert who took them and had a look at them. The latter cursed under his breath.
"S-sir, I'd like to explain—"
But Marco interrupted him. "I know you have another life. I just don't know the details; nor do I care. My employees come and go. Although—" he paused and shook his head. He wanted to say something but chose not to. "You probably have discovered my weakness and the routes I took that are not in my schedule, like today."
Robert stared at his boss through the rearview mirror, thinking how to explain his situation. He lived a double life but what's in those photos was a misunderstanding.
"You're a smart person, Robert. Or if that is even your real name. You can pry into my life," Marco sighed and his voice was seething with anger, "And report to whoever that goddamn client of yours—"
Robert remained quiet. The less he talks, the safer it would be for him.
Marco's softened voice resonated with sorrow. "The person I was with earlier is someone I love dearly. That old man is one of the very few people I call family."
There was a momentary silence.
Then Marco assured him, "I'm not firing you. I'm asking a favor, as a person pleading to another, to spare the old man's life from trouble."
Without hesitation, Robert replied reassuringly, "Understood, Sir."
***
After a few minutes of walking, Robert reached his destination. Located a few blocks from the avenue and tucked within old, quiet neighborhoods, the restaurant doesn't have a fancy name; just 'Diner's Place' printed in a weathered signboard. The establishment was a two-story house where the ground floor was converted into a restaurant. Like the other late-night restaurants, their business opens from midnight until dawn.
From what he knew, the Madame doted on the restaurant's owner and chef to a fault. Even after the chef's coup de grâce, the Madame set him up for good. When the chef's restaurant businesses went bankrupt, he settled down quietly, became a recluse, and catered only to a few select clients. At these ungodly hours, the disgraced chef prepared sumptuous meals, offering gastronomic delight to his shady patrons.
A lone food server, a plump slightly limping but cheerful middle-aged woman, greeted him near the entrance and ushered him inside. She directed him to a table at the far corner of the dining room.
The dining room used to be a living room as evident in the garish decors, personal items, and various bric-a-brac dotting the space. The place was clean but the decor was an eyesore. There were four tables and only a single one was occupied.
There were no other customers except him and a woman sitting on a red monobloc chair, wolfing down pasta. He sighed disdainfully upon realizing who she was. When he reached the table, he grabbed the white monobloc chair and sat down, wishing their paths had never crossed again.
Upon seeing him, she smiled sweetly at him. The pasta sauce dripped from her lips and she licked it. But he gave her a cold-eyed stare. He's not here for friendly chit-chat, especially with her.
Upon realizing he wasn't keen on engaging with her, she stared at him pouting while poking the plate with a fork. Then she spoke in a barely audible voice, exaggerating the movement of her mouth to emphasize her plump red lips: "It's disgusting."
Robert has no idea who or what she's referring to. Then she exclaimed softly: "The food!"
Robert replied impassively, "Then stop eating it."
But instead of stopping, she gobbled up the remaining forkful of pasta and chewed it deliberately and noisily while staring at him with a crazed look. She winked and licked her lips. She wasn't masticating the food to relish it. She simply wanted to finish this; like a sore task on a to-do list. When she was done, she chugged the iced tea.
Robert was disgusted at her and her antics. He stared at his plate. He was served with the same menu of pasta in spicy marinara sauce.
She cheered him on, "Don't ask. Just eat. Madame is mad as a hatter," she said with a coquettish grin. "Go on eat. Madame wants you to taste her favorite chef's dish."
He sighed and started eating; because what the Madame wants, the Madame gets. The woman across from him was Clara. She's Madame's protege who likes to play with fire. In his opinion, they're both mad as a hatter.
He's wondering why a pyromaniac emissary was sent to meet him. But for now, he better get busy with his plate. The meat was cooked to perfection in butter, wine, and some herbs. The sauce was exquisite. He'd never tasted anything as good as this dish. It's the best pasta he ever tasted. He was savoring the dish when Clara interrupted him.
She blurted out of the blue, "Eww! The frog meat is a first even for me."
Robert almost choked. He coughed and heaved.
She stood up and acted giddy as a kid upon receiving a new toy. She offered to help. "Should I give you the Heimlich thingy?"
He waved his hand indicating a no. He coughed once again and grabbed the glass of iced tea to drink it.
She pleaded, "Oh, I'm dying to do it. Are you sure?"
Robert nodded.
So she sat down, resigned to her chair frowning with disappointment. She crossed her fingers, lips pursed, and pleaded like an annoying teenager, "Please, can I do my first Heimlich maneuver on you?"
He felt better, now that the food was dislodged from his esophagus. He didn't realize that the deboned meat was a goddamn frog leg. It was the first time he had eaten it. The dish was delicious. It so happened that he didn't like the idea of eating that kind of meat. He drank more iced tea to wash the taste.
"I-I'm fine."
"Hmpf. You're no fun. But think about it—" she grinned widely and teased him. "Oh, what a shame! An A-list mercenary's death—" she burst into hysterical laughter. "Death by a frog pasta in spicy marinara sauce!"
Her bouts of chortles irritated his ears. With his appetite waning, he pushed the plate. He wiped his mouth with the serviette. He looked around and met the gaze of the displeased server.
"Oh, that was exhilarating!"
Robert explained coldly, "I'm not into exotic food."
"No wonder your life is bland. You've changed—"
"I'm not here to discuss my life nor partake in exotic food. What does she want?"
As if her energy was depleted, she murmured, "Well, that's it."
Is the Madame toying with him? Robert snapped at her, "What the f*ck is that?"
She perked up and smirked seductively, "I like when you're rage is on. So full of energy, reminds me of the old days—"
Robert cut her off midsentence and brushed off her coquetry, "What does she want?"
She responded by raspberrying at him, "Jeez! You know what she's like: carrots and sticks. She wants you to experience the pasta prepared by her favorite chef. Go figure—"
He sighed, "I'm no stranger to her antics. But what—"
"Lately, she's crazy over frog meat," she shook her head in disbelief. "At Madame's court, we make our diet diverse. Frog today and who knows, maybe, tomorrow insects. Blegh!"
"She shouldn't have bothered with this meetup. I could have eaten whatever carrot she's throwing at me."
"I volunteered. Since I have a business to do here."
"For f*ck's sake! We're done here."
"You didn't finish your food. I wonder what should I tell the Madame—"
"Do whatever the hell you want."
"Aren't you happy to see me? I'm so back in town," she said with amusement. She teased him, "I'm so all yours."
Robert ignored her. He stood up and headed to the door.
She stood up and quickly followed him. "Boring. Espionage is boring, aren't you bored?" With a sing-songy voice, she teased him, "Aaron is boring."
Robert was annoyed when she brought up his name. He gritted his teeth and walked briskly, keeping a good distance from her. Once outside, the air was cold. Beneath the denim jacket he wore, he pulled up the hoodie of his navy sweatshirt.
Meanwhile, Clara tagged along, cursing at the damn stiletto boots for making it inconvenient for her to walk along the goddamn potholed-laden pavement. But he didn't mind her at all.
After a few minutes of walking, he reached the Pioneer Avenue. The road was now open for motorists. He was about to cross the pedestrian lane when Clara locked her arms around his right arm.
She purred seductively, "Can I crash in your place?"
"No."
Clara held his arm tightly, caging it between her ample bosoms. He felt the warmth of her tiny waist. She's wearing a white crop top over a bright pink diamond-quilted bomber jacket, high-waisted red-hot latex leggings, and white knee-high stiletto boots.
She begged, "Pretty please—"
But Robert has learned his lesson. Once was enough. So he untangled his arm from her lascivious grip. He clenched his jaws and without looking back, he walked away.
Clara stomped her foot on the ground while cursing like there was no tomorrow. Bystanders glanced in her direction. When it was clear that she couldn't persuade him, she'd come to her senses. She straightened her jacket. Using her fingers, she combed her long straight black hair. A moment later, she sauntered across the street. Then a loud screech echoed through the chilly night.
Robert turned around. He saw Clara in front of the car; a few inches away from getting hit. Some concerned bystanders rushed to the scene. Luckily, she was unharmed. The driver got out of the car and talked to her. He assured the bystanders that he'd take care of the situation. He opened the door in the front seat and assisted her inside. He hopped into the driver's seat and sped away. As the car passed by Robert, he saw Clara winking at him.
Robert muttered to himself, "Same old f*cking game."
He's wondering what would happen now that Madame's pyromaniac protege was in town, the city's best firefighters must be prepared for an inferno.