text: # <The Last Bavarian Supper Club> WC: 3510 ## PROLOGUE The Parisian night traffic looked pretty from Bette Glass's apartment but she hated the noise. Even drawing the curtains over the tall windows did little to muffle the honking horns of cars and scooters. Tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear, Bette peered through a sliver between the window and the fabric and caught a glimpse of herself, superimposed like a spectre over the City of Lights. She sighed and put on a long coat before walking to the door. Perhaps it was one particularly jarring sound that distracted her long enough to miss a shadow flitting on the other side of the peep hole. When she opened the door Bette was met with a silencer on her temple. Neither Bette nor the bullet were louder than a whisper. Small but deadly, the hole it made barely bled as she fell to her knees, then crumpled backwards in the doorway. With the grace of a cat, the killer stepped over her body and dragged her back in. They wiped the gun with a cloth and placed it in Bette's lifeless hand and searched her coat. A single slip of paper with the number *419* written on it was enough to make the call. &nbsp; Four kilometers away, Francis DiMarco lit another cigarette in an alley on Rue l'Oie. His eyes burned as he pulled a drag. *Damn the French and their fucking unfiltered smokes*, he thought. He'd been buying *Galloises* for a year now and he still couldn't get used to them. Not like the cheap gas station menthols he craved. These went straight to his head. He was glad they burned fast and dim. He flicked the butt into the dark alley and checked the streets. A quiet night. Only a few buildings with lights on dotted the other side. Walking with practiced stealth, approached an unmarked wood door and knocked four times. "*Oui?" asked a brusque voice on the other side. Francis cleared his throat and wished he could quit smoking. "Islands in the stream, that is what we are," he sang. When the familiar series of locks clacked free and the door creaked open, he stepped inside. The tuxedo'd doorman smiled. "Monsieur DiMarco, so good to see you again," he said. "Are we expecting guests tonight?" "No Martin, no guests tonight. Are the others..." "Already upstairs. We are only waiting for Mademoiselle Glass now." Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's surprising." "May I take your coat?" Martin offered his arm and Francis draped his trench coat over it. The pair walked to a stairwell and ascended to the second floor to *Chez Traversier*. The restaurant borrowed heavily from the American phenomenon of pop-ups, catering to wealthy diners who'd sought new, fresh experiences that were different from the traditional trappings of fine dining establishments or the wrought iron bistros that bordered *Les Halles*. For tourists, they'd say. Each night, *Chez Traversier* opened in a new location in Paris: sometimes in an existing storefront, sometimes in a stranger's kitchen, and never advertised. Instead, the location was conveyed in code within the pages of *Le Monde*. While the cuisine might not have won any Michelin stars, it promised a type of conspicuous exclusivity that many people--mostly the rich--admired and sponsored. Secrecy had been part of its allure. It certainly was for the Supper Club. Tonight, *Chez Traversier* had bloomed into existence in an old safe house once owned by the German Intelligence agency. Francis recognized the unmistakably minimalist aesthetic. In his experience, every spy in the field eventually got a little homesick. Martin ushered him past closed doors where other diners ate in seclusion. French, British, and Yiddish voices filtered through the cracks. Nothing compelling that he could discern at least. "Quite the international crowd," he said. Martin said nothing and instead, opened a white door close to the end of the hallway. Inside, a dozen club members chatted at a long table. Wine flowed from an equal number of bottles. "Bon appetit, Monsieur DiMarco," he said as he left. Francis found an open seat nearest to the window and as he took it, the woman next to him filled a glass with burgundy wine. "I hate this seat." "Am I such terrible company, Francis? I promise not to chew your ear off. Not unless you want me to," she purred with a wry smile. Her hand found his lap. Angelique was never one to mince words nor waste time. "The window," he said with a glance over his shoulder. Amber light percolated up from the street and cast the window panes in shadows. He'd spent most of his adult life observing others, reporting what he'd seen, people who lived, loved, and died while he silently recorded them for his superiors. For him, windows were a vulnerability. "Well *mon cher*, you should try to arrive on time next time. At least you're not last." She pointed to the empty chair against the wall, offering a skewed vantage at the window. The Supper Club was not a meritocracy, and Last Person Lookout duty was generally considered to be the worst way to spend the night. A night with Angelique was a close second. Francis checked the time. It was only a few minutes after meeting should started but the president's absence made him uneasy. He'd been on edge ever since he heard the rumor about the club in Hamburg and he planned on asking questions tonight. The nature of their organization kept members in the dark for everyone's sake. But these were uncertain times. Clarity would go a long way to assuage his fears: what did she know, were *they* in danger? "It's not like Bette to be late." The door opened and Martin appeared with a retinue of white gloved servers. Each man, carrying a plate covered with silver cloche, walked behind a diner and when Martin nodded, placed the first course on the table in unison. As they lifted the covers, buttery steam wafted from underneath. "Tonight we start with fondant potatoes in a beurre blanc sauce, topped with caviar. *Bon apetit*." As the last server exited, Martin closed the door. Conversations died down as the club members tucked into the dish. Angelique closed her eyes as a morsel passed her lips and she let out the softest of moans. She looked at Francis with sultry, half open eyes. "Delicious. Sweet, salty, creamy. I just know you'll enjoy it," she said, gripping his leg like a bear with a salmon. She leaned back and her earring, a small fortune in diamonds and precious metals, glinted with a flash of red light. A laser beam. Francis moved without thinking. He shoved her, hard and fast until she fell backwards to the floor and shouted, "Gun!" Bullets sprayed though the window and found a home in his back. Angelique screamed and crawled towards the exit. As Francis gasped for breath, he watched as more members fell to unseen attackers. "It's locked!" Angelique yelled, rattling the door knob. Smoke seeped in from the crack under the door and sat on the floor, frozen. A man dropped his shoulder and barreled into the door until the room shook. Blood made Francis's voice gravelly. "Stop, they're right-" The man broke through and blue-white flames engulfed his body. A stream of fire spat through the hole he'd made and the room flickered in smoke. Francis struggled to stay conscious but managed to look at Angelique, arms crossed over her chest, still trembling against the wall. *This. This was the worst way to spend the night.* &nbsp; *** ## ONE No matter what time he arrived, Hektor always managed to find the absolute worst cart in corral at Restaurant Reload. The one he'd selected today squeaked like a colony of rats and wobbled on six partially rolling wheels. It was half covered in chipped paint, rust, and shipping labels too sticky to remove by the warehouse workers who were too busy to care anyway. As he flashed his tax card to the doorman, Bernice hopped on the other end of the cart and held the rail like a playground jungle gym. He couldn't fault her. If he'd been forced to buy wholesale ingredient for the family restaurant as a child, he'd look for a way to play too. His sister Greta had been bringing Bernice ever since her husband left them. Her mother pulled her off and the nine-year old stumbled backwards onto the concrete floor. Greta kept her from falling but shook her straight. "Watch your feet, Bernice! Do you want to break them? You know you're not supposed to jump on the carts." "Yes, Mom," said the child, stretching the words like saltwater taffy. Hektor pushed the cart to a pallet loaded with fifty-pound bags of onions. "How much do you have to get today?" she asked as he wrangled two bags onto the cart. "The usual, Bee." He licked the end of his pen and crossed out a row in a small notepad. The menu at Greens hadn't changed in years. Meat, veggies, and starch. The classic triad arranged generously on a platter simply worked, whether it was beef, chicken, pork or fish. No one would have accused him of following trends. The recipes had worked well enough for his father, back in the days when the old man ran Greens with a meaty fist and bellowing voice. Back then, Hektor, Sr., an imposing man in a permanently stained apron, commanded the kitchen. Suppliers would drive their best ingredients *to him* and he'd check each crate like a military general inspecting his troops. The idea of driving a minivan to a wholesale warehouse would have killed him if he weren't already dead. Greta helped Bernice put on an over-sized orange jacket and walked her into the refrigerated side of the building. Hektor followed and the whir of overhead fans dampened the sounds of the wheels. Cases of iceberg lettuce teetered on a nearby pallet after other customers had pulled them out like bricks in Jenga. Hektor wished he had time to examine the product, to select one with the best looking lettuce, but it would mean more time for Bernice too. The little girl's patience for cold was demonstrably short. The cart wobbled less after it had been fully loaded. Sixty dozen eggs weighed a lot. When the final item had been scanned Hektor looked at the register: $549.40. He scribbled down the number in another part of the notebook where he tracked expenses and then opened a bank bag of cash. Everything was costing more. "We really need to push the specials," he said to Greta as he loaded the last giant tub of mayonnaise. "We can't afford to have a bad week." "When have we ever?" Hektor suspected that she already knew the answer. Being the older sibling meant she saw more of the restaurant's logistics than he did growing up. She was always smarter. As they drove away, back towards Providence and the restaurant, Hektor wondered how long it'd take for her pride to wear out and just sell the damn place. They pulled into the parking lot and the minivan lurched over a pothole. The heavy load, already taxing the vehicle's shocks and springs, made sure that Hektor felt it. He drove around to the back entrance and when he stopped, he gave the keys to Bernice. "Go ahead and unlock the door for me, Bee." She puffed up in her seat and returned a sharp salute. "Yes sir, Uncle H!" As the van door slid open she hopped out and mumbled to herself: "One nine o two. One nine o two." "You got it, sweetie," Greta called. "Just remember to press star after putting in the code." "Got it, Mom!" Hektor watched her spin the keys and he sighed. "She's a good kid, Greta. The best. She shouldn't be spending her Saturday mornings loading lettuce into a walk-in cooler." Greta kept her gaze on the restaurant door. "I know, but be honest. You'd miss her. Even when she's complaining she's still helping out. Pretty soon she'll be old enough to look after herself at home." "How's school going?" "The same," she replied. "Still having trouble making friends." "Having a free weekend could help. Maybe she could do a play date or something." Greta laughed and opened the door. "She's not a child. I mean she is, but she hasn't been on a play date in years. I can't even remember the last birthday party she was invited to." The thought saddened him. Hektor knew they had it rough, just like every other small business owner in town. Food costs and national chains were killing them. The only way to stay afloat was to save where they could, including doing more labor by themselves. He popped the trunk and hefted a case of raw beef. A trill of beeps came from the restaurant backdoor and Bernice came out, propping it open with a brick. "Go help your mother," Hektor said, gesturing back to the minivan with his chin. Inside, Hektor's shoes squeaked on the old tile floor. Overhead florescent bulbs bathed the kitchen in sterile white light and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The back of the house at Greens wasn't tiny, but it wasn't grand either. It comfortably fit Hektor, three line cooks, Lucy on apps, and a rotating crew of servers. Most of them had been with Greens for years. In Lucy's case, she'd been hired by his father as a teenager and never left. Balancing on one leg, he kicked the cooler handle and a chill air filtered through the plastic curtain. Something inside had spoiled. "Jesus," he muttered as he dropped the case. His nose crinkled as he sniffed the shelves to find what had gone south. He didn't have to look long. A half-eaten egg salad sandwich sat on top of a soup kettle drop-in, wet and uncovered. Greta entered the walk-in and winced. "Oh, oof." "Who was cleaning last night?" he asked, holding the plate at arm's length. "Barry. Pretty sure it was Barry. Good God, that stinks." Hektor took it to the sink and ran the water as he scraped the mushy sandwich down the drain. Yellow and green egg salad smeared along his fingers and he did his best to hold his breath. It didn't help. The rank odor sat in his nostrils waiting for an opening. He would have tossed the whole thing, plate and all, into the dumpster outside if he could afford it. But every plate counted. The food counted. Everywhere he looked the restaurant seemed to ooze with waste. He looked at the shift chart on the wall and read Barry's name next to tomorrow. Tearing him a new one would have to wait. Lucy arrived soon after he finished rotating the pantry shelves to surface the older ingredients. She tucked her curly gray hair into a net and tied on an apron before stopping at the cooler door. "What died in there?" Hektor looked up from a bin of onions he was going to slice. "Barry." "Barry's dead? Sweet. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Lucy and Barry used to fight like cats until Greta separated their shifts. The rumor was they'd slept together his first week on the job and worse, that he was terrible lover. Lucy held an empty plastic bin and waved it as if the walk-in was on fire. When she returned, it was full of vegetables and a slab of bacon. "Who else is here?" she asked. "Greta. Bee. Why?" She pointed outside. "There's another car in the lot. I didn't know if you were hiring." Hektor put down the knife and onion and wiped his hands as he walked towards the front of the house. The dining room was split into thirds: the bar area in the front, a larger room with booths and tables, and a back room with a large heavy table and bench seating. He remembered serving booze to business men there as a child, when he was not much older then Bernice. Later, his father would tell him that those men in sharp Armani suits were part of the local mob. The "Oak Room" was rarely used these days. He stepped into the vestibule and sure enough, a black Lincoln Towncar idled in the closest parking spot. Tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside but as soon as he unlocked the front door the car's engine turned off. A man wearing glasses and a jacket over a URI sweatshirt stood up from the driver's side. He looked over and gave a little wave. "Can I help you?" Hektor asked. Whoever he was, the man wasn't local. A professor maybe? If he was from the region, he'd learned to drop the Rhode Island accent. "I hope so. I am interested in reserving this space for an event. Several, actually. Contingent upon your services and availability, of course. Are you the owner?" *Reservations*. Hektor felt like he hadn't heard that word in forever and a smile crept over his face. "That's great! Yeah, I'm Hektor Green," he said, offering his hand. Despite the stranger's small slender hands, he had a firm grip. "My name is Brian. Brian Lauer." "Good to meet you! Do you want to come in and check out the, uh, facilities?" Brian dipped his head in a slight bow and said, "That would be delightful." Once inside, Hektor noticed every flaw, chipped table and mote of dust in the room. He prayed that Brian didn't notice. "So what kind of gathering are you looking for? Something big? Fifty, or a hundred people?" "Twelve. Give or take a few. I host a weekly gathering called the Bavarian Supper Club." Hektor smiled but his heart sunk. A dozen people weren't going to save his business. "That's terrific. You won't find better German food anywhere else. And I think you're going to like our back room. It's surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and private." He led Brian past the bar and flipped a switch in the Oak Room, then mentally cursed himself for not dusting it. Brian walked around the table, seeming to scan every corner of the space. As he opened his mouth to say something the radio in the kitchen turned on full blast. Lucy was in a groove. "Will you excuse me, for just a moment," Hektor said. He stormed into the kitchen and ripped the radio out of the wall. "Hey! What the hell, man?" "We've got a guy checking us out for a booking," he barked back, pointing at the swing doors. "Can you keep it down for like, ten minutes?" "Jesus, alright. You scared me half to death." When Hektor returned he found Brian examining a framed newspaper article. His father had been recognized for his service to the community. It had been a while since Hektor looked at the picture of his father with his million dollar smile. "Is that you?" Brian asked, pointing to the little boy in the picture. "Me and my sister. We both own Greens." "That is a blessing, to pass on a place like this to future generations. Your father must be proud." "I'd like to think so," Hektor replied. He did feel like explaining more. "Now, what dates were you looking to book? I can take a look at our calendar now for you." "Next Saturday, if it's not too soon. My group typically dines from seven until ten. I do apologize for such short notice. If it helps, I'd be willing to pay more than your customary deposit." Brian pulled a folio wallet from his jacket and thumbed out three thousand-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" *Mob. He must be with the mob*, Hektor thought. "Y-you're most kind, Mr. Lauer. Sure. We'll be ready for you." "Excellent! And please call me Brian. Only the government calls me Mr. Lauer." They shared a laugh while Hektor tried to suppress his urge to run. Brian took a menu and promised to call later to clear any special requests. When the Towncar finally pulled out of the parking lot, Hektor's shoulders sagged. "Did you book it?" Lucy asked as he returned to the kitchen. He nodded and opened a filing cabinet. "Next Saturday," he said as he opened a three-ring binder. He hadn't looked at his father's Old Old recipes in forever. "Do you know any German starters?" "Nein," she said laughing, holding a finger to her upper lip. He didn't appreciate the humor and flashing the three bills on the counter shut her up. "Are those real?" "I ran the marker on it. They're real. Even have the strip inside, see?" He held one to the light and let her find the security tag running vertically in the bill. "Tell me, do you know what kind of man carries crisp thousand dollar bills like they were twenties?" "No, what kind?" Hektor made finger guns and pointed them at her. "A seriously connected man.