After two weeks on a job in Greece, John arrived back in New York. He deposited his drycleaning at the Continental, and had a driver drop him off at his apartment. He took a long hot shower, poured himself a bourbon, and sat on the window seat that overlooked the west end of Central Park. Rain drizzled softly against the window. With spring a mere few weeks away, the lush greenery of the park after winter was beginning to reappear.
He sipped the bourbon and checked his watch. It was a little after seven. A cursory glance in the fridge told him what he already knew: it was cereal with sour milk for dinner, or takeout. Glancing outside the window again, he noticed the rain had begun to ease. Finishing the bourbon, he ducked into the bedroom, grabbing a charcoal-hued sweater from the drawer. Donning it, he slipped his keys into his pocket, and locked the door behind him.
Down on the street, he hailed a cab.
“Le Sel,” he said, slamming shut the door.
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He saw the metal ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door from the window of the cab.
“Shit,” he muttered. He handed over his cash, and got out of the cab. The rain had stopped, but the wind still had a biting chill to it. He walked to the window next to the locked front door and peered in.
Helen was at the bar, in deep conversation with two men. They passed papers back and forth. She talked animatedly, scribbling on one of the sheets.
Before he could stop himself, he rapped his knuckles on the glass.
The three of them looked up. Helen smiled and acknowledged him. She gathered the pile of papers in front of her and passed them to the man immediately to her left. She exchanged a few words, then dismissed them. Both men rose and went back to the kitchen area. Helen smiled again at John, and pointed to the front door, alighting from the barstool.
John waited at the front door as she turned and slid the locks open.
“John,” she greeted him. The warmth inside the restaurant escaped the foyer and wrapped around them.
“I’m sorry, you’re busy. I didn’t realise you would be closed,” John apologised.
“We’re closed Sundays and Mondays, but please, come in. I was just discussing some new menu items with the chef and the sommelier.” She stepped back and gestured him inside, closing the door behind him. “Were you looking for some dinner?” She was dressed in an ankle-length black skirt and beige cable-knit sweater, and black boots. Her hair was gathered messily on top of her head. Her face was clean and make-up free.
John huffed a laugh. “Am I that obvious? There's no food in my house."
“Actually, you’re in luck. Ronald is test cooking a few new dishes tonight, and I would love an objective palate to try them.”
“I’m not sure how objective I can be. I know better than to insult your food.”
She laughed, a sound like a bubbling creek. “You’re well-travelled, you must be if you work with Winston. Your palate will be more sophisticated than most. This way.”
She led him into a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. Ten or so tables were dotted around. A bar ran down the length of the small room. Behind it was the sommelier, perusing a group of bottles set up in front of him. Helen pointed to the end of the bar, where two large, solidly built bar stools with padded backs and seats waited. “Set up there. I’ll be back in a minute. Aldo, water for Mr Wick, please.” She turned to him. “Aldo will pair wines with the dishes, so I’m afraid a bourbon is out.” She winked, and disappeared around the bar and through a door to the kitchen.
YOU ARE READING
John Wick Origins: Helen
Short Story"It's okay," he said, eyes remaining on the road. "If you want to ask, I'll be honest. I owe you that." "Only one thing. Is that...one of the reasons I've only seen you a few times? You want to make sure those are healed before...?" "Yes," he said w...
