Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Gerry directs me to bring the block of parmesan and grater while he carries out the pasta dishes. Steam rises from the plate, and the smells of fresh noodles, spicy sausage and butter make my stomach rumble in appreciation.
“Finally,” Mary says. “Arturo is so hungry, aren’t you?”
“Smells good. Bring it over.”
Gerry picks up the pace and slides the plates in front of the two of them. Mary picks up her fork, her eyes bright, and waits for me to grate the fresh cheese onto the dish. Arturo doesn’t stop me until there’s a veritable snowfall covering the food.
I fall back, unsure of whether I should stand by the side for more grating or leave. Mary doesn’t give any instruction. She can’t take her eyes off of Arturo.
He takes a big bite and then another. “This is good,” he says.
Gerry’s chest puffs out. “Made the noodles fresh this morning just for you. The peas are from this farm upstate. I got the sausage—”
Ger’s explanation is cut off by a massive coughing fit from Arturo. Mary whips into motion, holding a glass of water up to Arturo’s mouth and pounding him on the back at the same time.
Arturo falls backward, a hand over his chest. His eyes roll back.
“Oh my God!” Mary screams. “Arturo! Arturo! He’s having a heart attack”
The guards are shoving people out of the way. Leka appears from the front. There’s so much commotion with people yelling and shoving. Mary’s high-pitched screams are killing my ears, but all I can think of is how right before Mary started screaming, Arturo looked like a mad dog, with his teeth bared and white speckles at the corner of his mouth.
“He’s been poisoned,” I say to myself. I run to the back room and grab a bottle of charcoal from above the sink.
I muscle my way through the guards and slam the bottle onto the table. “He’s been poisoned,” I say. “Get this in him.”
Mary rears back, nearly knocking me over, but Leka is there and whips me out of the way.
“What’d you say?”
“I think he’s been poisoned. We had this thing in health class about suicides, and this one girl swallowed a bottle of pills—”
Leka doesn’t let me finish. He springs forward, grabbing the bottle and then forcibly opening Arturo’s mouth. A couple of guards reach for him, but Beefer battles them back.
There’s a scuffle and a couple of fists thrown, but everyone backs off when Arturo starts vomiting.
“Call 9-1-1,” Leka orders.
A guard pulls out a phone and makes the call.
Mary points a quivering finger at Gerry. “You made this.”
“Of course. I make all the meals and you—”
Before he can say anything more, Mary’s hand whips out and a knife blade cuts him across the neck. Blood spurts everywhere.
Cursing fills the air. I stumble, the backs of my knees striking a chair. Guards jump forward. Someone takes the knife from Mary’s hand. Gerry crumples to the floor with a thud. A pool of blood starts to form under his head, spreading outward like a malignant disease. I raise my knees to my chin.
Leka disappears and then returns with a big black tarp. He and Beefer heave Ger’s body onto the tarp, and I watch in detached horror as the body of the loud-mouthed chef is wrapped up and carried out. As Leka passes me, our eyes meet. His are full of worry and apology. I try to give him a smile of encouragement, but I’m too shaken. I’m barely holding myself together.
He doesn’t have time to say anything. The two have to get rid of the body before the emergency services arrive. I stare at the pool of blood left behind.
We need to get rid of that. The bucket of water I used to clean the tables before Arturo arrived flashes in front of my eyes. I hurry to the back, find the bucket and then return. The blood is still there, congealing on the wood floor. This is Ger’s blood. I dip my rag into the fluid. It wipes up so easy—as if it was a spilled drink. Blood should be hard to remove, I think as I scrub. It should require special cleaners that require an ID and are kept behind the counter like the cough syrup. It shouldn’t disappear with one pass of a dishrag.
The bucket of water turns from gray to rust and then to brown.
“Finish up, girl,” urges a guard.
In the distance, I hear the faint sounds of a siren. The police are coming. I wring my rag out and reapply myself, finishing the cleaning job right before the front doors open to reveal EMTs charging through with a stretcher behind them.
I hide the bucket behind my legs as I shuffle out of the way.
“Where’s the girl?” I hear a faint voice say.
A hand pulls me forward until I’m at the side of the stretcher, Arturo’s slim body appearing even tinier now that he’s lying down, an oxygen mask over his mouth.