Yes, Chef

Chapter 2: The Set-up

I left that day without a follow-up appointment, unsure of whether I'd hear from the brooding chef and unsure of whether I even cared if I didn't. Could he benefit from my services? Absolutely. But there's something about him that makes me feel uneasy. Not in the "run for cover" type of way but in a way that makes me think I may regret taking him on.

It's Sunday, five days later with no word, and I've moved on. Late last week, I met with an admissions counselor to talk about returning students and how much of my previous degrees will count towards this one. I left feeling excited about the possibilities but also a little deflated. This is going to wipe my savings out if I don't pace myself and find other ways to bring money in. Whitmer's deal floats in my mind.

I make an executive decision to follow-up with Whitmer so he doesn't think I dropped the ball on this. He picks up instantly which is rare. "You must know I was just talking about you."

"Spreading lies again?" I joke.

"Nope. Putting dollars in your pocket. Do you know the tattoo joint on Crimson and Liddell?" He asks.

"Yes." I had maybe scoped out tattoo parlors to see if I could pinpoint the chef's preferred location. This one was on my list and it's conveniently a few blocks from the restaurant.

"Can you be there at 3:30?" Whitmer asks.

"Today?" I ask. I check the time and look down at my attire. Not completely a slob but more casual than I prefer with clients. And no time to run home and make it back to this end of town.

"Uh sure." I add. "Does he know I'm coming this time?"

"He reached out and asked to set it up. That's already progress." Whitmer acknowledges.

"He could have called directly." I point out.

"I'll let you take that up with him." Whitmer laughs.

"Give me his number and I will." I prompt.

"He's weird about it."

"About what?" I ask.

"His phone. Again, I'll let him explain." Whitmer states.

"Alright. Anything else I need to know but you won't tell me?" I ask.

"Be gentle. The kid is set off easily." Whitmer advises.

"You don't say." I comment ironically.

"Come see me after a week. I'll cut you a check." He encourages.

I hang up and head out. Traffic can be a pain at this time of day, not to mention parking. I'm sure the pissy chef is a stickler for timely arrivals.

***

I arrive with time to spare. I forgot it was Sunday and therefore no traffic or problems parking. I'm not familiar with this particular shop but I dated a tattoo artist in the past so I know the general vibe. A feminine voice calls from the back when I enter. "Be right with you."

I hear the familiar buzz of the gun as I glance at the art posted on the walls. I recognize one particular set of forearms immediately, especially since the model is wielding a chef's knife. His face doesn't have to be in the picture for his persona to emanate from the photo.

"How can I help you?" A woman with long blonde hair and a septum piercing asks. The skin that is exposed teases the art that adorns her body.

"I'm meeting someone here." I answer, unsure of how else to describe it.

The woman looks down at her appointment book presumably. "Um, unless you're Woozy, I don't have you on the books."

The door opens behind me, likely Woozy for their appointment. The woman stares past me, her face expressing her surprise and excitement. "Bennie!"