That critical “assessment” was simply not acceptable.
Rumors had abounded, though, after James’ deepest strike: last summer he’d lucked upon a Thurston County fisherman who’d managed to trap a small supply of the revered Crackjaw eel. When James had served it in his restaurant, the reviews had been out the roof, and Asian investors had been knocking on his door with fists full of dollars.
But, lo, James’ source for the prized mussel-and-clam-eating eel proved to be a fluke. No more Crackjaws were ever caught, and the high James rode on was short-lived.
James was wealthy, but not nearly so as Morrone, who had his Microsoft brother backing him up. Subtle whispers throughout the local culinary community reported back that Morrone was so incensed over James’ small victory that he vowed to find the Crackjaw eel himself, whatever the cost. He’d pay researchers and consultants, recruit zoologists from the college, pay every lake fisherman in the state to go hunting.
And suddenly, James’ sources told him, the ever-corpulent Ashton Morrone was suddenly off on a “fishing” trip, Morrone a man who hadn’t taken a vacation in over a decade.
The bottom of James’ fist ground down against the desk blotter. His face tensed—in hatred. The way he felt now, his ire at high tide, he could’ve stubbed out one of his reeking Gitane cigarettes out in his eye and not feel a thing.
GodDAMN! Where IS she?
After moments, more which seemed like hours, the tiniest rap came at the door.
“Come IN!” M. Gerald James about shouted.
Head bowed and shuffling meekly, in walked the most petite, delectable thing. Short and slim, short-cropped umber hair, and breasts protruding as though ripe Golden Apples had been slipped beneath her blouse. This would be Rochelle, and fine navy stitching over her blouse pocket read: THE EMERALD ROOM
Ministers of war had their spies, but so did ministers of cuisine.
“My dearest Rochelle,” the words etched from James’ mouth like tinders cracking. “I’m told you have some, shall we say, intelligence for me?”
“Yes sir,” the nineteen-year-old girl peeped in response. “Ashton Morrone has gone on a fishing trip with his brother and their two girlfriends.”
James’ fist landed on the desk top as solidly as a twenty-pound railroad hammer. “I already KNOW that! I’m employing you to tell me what I DON’T know!”
The small woman quaked at the sudden uproar. She looked on the verge of tears. James’ had hired her at $250 per week to secure a job as a busgirl at Aston’s restaurant, and to subsequently eavesdrop and snoop around, to keep a close tab on James’ greatest rival.
“I know he’s gone on a FUCKING fishing trip, you stupid girl! I need to know WHERE!”
Rochelle blinked mist from her eyes. “Mr. James…he, I mean, er—”
“WHAT?” James exploded.
“I had to do…some bad things…to get into Morrone’s office…”
James jerked upright behind his desk. “You got into his office? At the restaurant?”
“Yes sir. And I had to—” She sniffled, more tears flowing. “I had to do some bad things.”
James couldn’t have cared less about the bad things. “WHAT WAS IN HIS OFFICE?” he rocketed.
“There was a notepad. He’d written ‘Crackjaw eel’ on it, and ‘Delectable Edibles, page 23.’ I’m assuming it was a reference to some book.”
“Let ME do the assuming! What ELSE?”
The girl seemed to shrink at each further rant. “At the bottom of the pad, he’d written the word ‘Sutherland.’”
“Sutherland? What the FUCK is that?”
“I didn’t know,” the girl sobbed. “But then I noticed on the wall was a map of Washington state.”
“You paltry ridiculous BITCH!” James screamed. “So what!”
By now the sensitive girl had nearly backed up into the corner of James’ office and curled up into a fetal position. Her words choked out through more sobs. “On the map I saw a red circle, you know, like it was written in Magic Marker.”
“YES?”
“The circle was drawn around a lake, about thirty miles south of Port Angeles.” The girl wiped her wet eyes. “Sutherland Lake.”
James sat behind the desk as though he were cast in molten iron. Sutherland Lake, the words played in his mind. He stared at little Rochelle. “My girl. My dear, dear girl. You may well have solved the greatest crux of my life.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a handful of $100 bills, then slipped them across the desk to her.
“Here’s a little extra something…to help you out.”
“Thuh-thank you,” and she picked up the bills.
“Sometimes I can be…quite caustic and belligerent,” he confessed. “But that doesn’t mean anything, that’s just me. Do you understand, my dear?”
“I-I think so.”
“You’ve done much for me, and I’m very grateful. And if your intelligence data proves to be true, I will fulfill my promise to you. You do…trust me, don’t you?”
“I… Yes,” she said.
James’ mouth went dry at the excitement. “You know how much I detest Ashton Morrone. He’s a gormandizing faggot. He’s an egotistical globose slob who revels in my total embarrassment and probably voids more shit from his bowels than a typical school of sea cows. If what you’ve done for me leads to his dethroning amongst the city restaurant critics, then I will do for you as I’ve said. I will make you assistant general manager here at a salary of $35,000 per year.”
Rochelle blanched.
Sutherland Lake, Sutherland Lake, James thought. Now—now he knew. The sudden excitement filled his penis with blood, stiffened it out like a ripe tuber.
“And I’ve been fair to you thus far, have I not?” he continued. “I’ve employed you when no others would, yes?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“I’ve said nothing of your past history of cocaine abuse, which surely would preclude you from respectable employment, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve said nothing of your past criminal activities, your multiple shop-lifting arrests, your check kiting, and then there’s always that old boyfriend of yours who went to prison for car-jacking, right? And that innocent family he murdered? I’ve kept that to myself, have I not?”
“Yes, you have, and I’m very grate—”
James’ held up a hushing hand. “You’ve, uh, you’ve seen to my satisfaction in the past…and now I have to ask you to do so again. You do receive my meaning, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rochelle groaned. She kicked off her shoes, slipped off her panties, and hiked up her skirt. She walked around James’ desk and immediately slapped him hard across the face.
“Get on the floor, bitch!” she shouted. “Now!”
James pushed his chair out from under the desk. He wore no pants, and his penis was charged up, a furious erection. Oh, God, he whimpered to himself.
“Get on the fucking floor, you fucking piece of shit!”
James flopped out of the chair and lay on the floor.
Rochelle stepped over him, her long white legs spiring upward. Where the legs joined, he could se the precious slit and the muff of hair.
Right over his face.
“You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes!” the respectable M. Gerald James pleaded.
“And bad boys get—what?”
“They get, they get…pissed on by mad mommies!”
“That’s right,” Rochelle said.
She placed her hands on her hips, and her legs and stomach tensed. Then she began to urinate directly into James’ face.