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“You put yo’ drink next to mine, Mr. Tyler,” he said.

Tyler did as he was told.

Without asking for permission, Havoc began to pat him down.

“Just a routine precaution, Mistah Tyler,” Havoc said as he did it. “I wouldn’t want to be having a private discussion here with you, without checking first that you aren’t all wired up and sharing our discussion with yo’ friends back in the White House, or over in Fairfax. Much as I admire those good ol’ boys, I wouldn’t trust a single one of ’em as far as I could throw a fresh turd into a high wind.”

Havoc’s unusually large hands made short work of the pat-down.

“Looks like yo’ all clear, Mistah Tyler,” he said. “Now you tell me some more ’bout this business you want to transact.”

Tyler glanced around the interior of the bar. There was no-one within earshot, and the background music and murmur of conversation could be relied upon to drown out anything that he and Havoc discussed. This was one of the reasons he’d chosen the place, but by no means the only reason. Nevertheless, Tyler lowered his voice as he spoke.

“The business concerns chefs,” he said. “We want you to dispose all of the high-profile chefs in the country. The ones you might call ‘celebrity chefs’.”

“Is that some kind of a code you talkin’ boy? When you is sayin’ ‘celebrity chefs’ to me, do you really mean somethin’ else? ’Cause if you do, there ain’t nobody told me the code just yet.”

“It isn’t code, Mr. Havoc. We really do want you to… er… remove our celebrity chef problem.”

“What problem you talking ’bout Mr. Tyler? Because from where I’m standing, I don’t see no problem with chefs whether they’re celebrities or just the regular kind of chefs. So why fo’ you askin’ me to get rid of yo’ chef problem? It don’t make any sense to me.”

“Can’t you just do the job, Mr. Havoc?”

“If it was a normal job, then I’d do it Mistah Tyler, and I wouldn’t ask any questions. Let’s say fo’ instance, if you asked me to kill a terrorist, I’d do it. Iffen you asked me to rescue one of our boys when he was in trouble, I’d do it. If you told me to shove a fresh turd down the throat of someone you heard bad mouthin’ the American flag, I’d do it. But I’m not killin’ any chefs fo’ you, unless you tell me why for you wantin’ those chefs dead.”

Tyler cleared his throat. He glanced around the bar again.

“It’s because they aren’t ordinary chefs anymore, Mr. Havoc,” he said. “Something’s happened to them.”

“What’s happened boy? Get to the point. I’m getting mighty sick of standing here listenin’ to yo’ mouth flapping and not tellin’ me anything.”

Tyler moved closer to Havoc; so close that they were almost touching.

“They’ve all turned into zombies,” he whispered.

“You better speak up mistah Tyler, because I’m not hearing you right. For a moment there, I thought you said zombies.”

“I did. That’s exactly what I said. Zombies.”

Havoc turned away.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving Mistah Tyler. I’m not wasting any mo’ of my time.”

Tyler grabbed Havoc’s muscular upper arm. Havoc looked at him and Tyler felt as if fingers of ice were gripping his heart. He let go.

“Wait, please. Just give me two minutes to explain.”

“Two minutes is all you got then I’m out of here.”

“All right. It’s crazy, but it’s true. You know that plane crash that wrecked the president’s wall and killed all those dignitaries at the topping-out ceremony? It was staged. The plane was deliberately crashed there, after everyone had been killed, to cover up the evidence of what had really gone on.”

“And what did go on, Mr. Tyler?”

“There was an attack by zombies from the other side of the border. They were mainly Mexican celebrity chef zombies. Don’t believe me? Here’s some film taken from a drone we sent overhead to record what was happening just before we crashed the plane.”

He held up his cell phone. Havoc narrowed his eyes into slits and looked at the screen.

“That don’t prove nutin’. You could fake that even easier than you could fake a plane crash.”

“What if I could prove it?”

“Just how you gonna prove a thing like that?”

“I could take you to meet one of those things, a zombie chef, if you’ll let me.”

Tyler swallowed hard. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to get Havoc onside. And beyond showing Havoc what a zombie chef looked like, he didn’t have any sort of a plan. He could only hope that it panned out all right for them both.

“Well now, you’ve got me right intrigued Mistah Tyler. Here was I, thinkin’ you was joshin’ me around in some way, and now you’re saying you can show me a real live — excuse me, — dead, zombie. This I gotta see. I’m gonna put my plans to leave on hold, till you’ve shown me this zombie of yours. Where you gonna take me?”

“Nowhere. We don’t have to go anywhere. There’s one working in the kitchen here, right now. He’s a guest chef. They’ve brought him in from Baltimore. He’s got his own radio show. I’ve got it on good authority from the C.I.A. that he’s part of the zombie plot.”

“You never mentioned no plot to me, befo’.”

“Well, there is a plot. They’re planning to take over. Not just the restaurants, either. They want control of everything, including you and me. Anyway, one of them is busy cooking the food today. He’s a celebrity chef called Skipper Lee. Are you armed?”

“Why fo’ would I need to be armed mistah Tyler?”

“You don’t know what these things are like. I’ve seen them in action.”

“Well, I ain’t brought no big gun with me, if that’s what you mean. I’ve just got a little itty-bitty sidearm under my jacket. It’s hardly what I’d call being armed, but it’ll have to do.”

Tyler wasn’t sure he felt reassured by that. He’d seen what zombies were capable of. He’d seen them walk through gunfire without flinching.

“That gun of yours might buy us time. That’s all it’ll do. I want you to know that, before we meet him. Now we have to find an excuse to go into the kitchen.”

“We don’t need no excuse. We can just walk right in there.”

Tyler remembered the scenes of horror at the topping out ceremony. An unwelcome image came to his mind, of vicious yellowing teeth sinking into the pale neck of Bertie Windsor, the 43rd person in line to the British throne. He shuddered at the recollection, and realised that he wasn’t prepared to confront Skipper Lee. When he’d dreamed up the idea, he hadn’t given sufficient thought to the dangers. Now that the idea was close to becoming a reality, he was all too aware of the risk he’d be taking, and he didn’t want to take it. He wanted to go home.

“Won’t that look a bit odd?” He asked, playing for time.

“Every damn thing that’s happened since I walked in here has been odd. One more odd thing ain’t gonna make a blind bit of difference. We’re just gonna go on a walk right into that kitchen. Then you’re gonna confront that chef fellow, Skipper Lee, and tell him what y’all think of him, and we’ll see how he likes them apples.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think he’ll like them apples one bit, and I’m scared. I’m too scared to go in there and confront a zombie. I’ve seen them in action.”

Havoc smiled.

“Don’t you worry mistah Tyler, I got the cure for that.”

“Cure?”

“That’s right, I said cure. I can make it so you don’t worry about that zombie feller one little bit, no, sir. I can make it so that you’ll just go walking right into that there kitchen and you won’t give so much as a flying turd about that Skippoh Lee feller you is gettin’ yourself all worked up about.”