“How the everloving fuck did you do that?” asked Jim Brightest as he and Devonte walked out of Schatzi and towards the waterfront.
Devonte had bounded down from the office, past Mr. Chorny and the obvious gun protruding from his coat pocket, looked Jim in the eye, said “We’re both hired, we start tomorrow,” feigned a mic drop, and walked toward the door, leaving Jim in his wake as stunned as Gavrilo Princip at lunch on June 28, 1914.
Fortunatley, Jim’s reaction was not as catastrophic as Princip’s. He turned, caught up to Devonte, and opened the door, beckoning out like a footman escorting a king.
“I’ll tell you how I did it, but like everything else that’s happening right now, it’s between you and me and anyone we happen to want to sleep with. In fact, it’s more secret than that. This one’s just for you and me. I think this place is some kind of Russian Mob front.”
“Dude, I figured that out from the big dude outside while you were getting interviewed. He was so clearly a businessmeyn,” (Jim said it in a Russian accent, to remind Devonte that the one word of Russian he knew was the charming slang for mafioso) “that it wasn’t even funny. He was PISSED too.”
“But why was he fucking with a German restaurant?”
“You know how when you go to the German Christmas Market in Chicago, they’ve got all the flags of all the states hanging up?”
“I guess? I was more interested in the spaetzle, or its nonexistence. And currywurst.” Devonte’s eyes glazed over as visions of delicious wurst sprung up in front of them. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would have currywurst after he served fancy tech people fancy beers.
“Did you look at the flag over the bar today? It was just Saxony, no others.”
“So maybe he’s from there. I was busy with the interview, in which I got both of us hired. There was a German flag in there, too. Looked pretty normal, except there was a freemason symbol in the middle.”
“HAH. I’m right.”
“What? The Chef was upset about William of Normandy’s defeat of Harold the Saxon a thousand years ago, and he decided to be a Russian?”
“No. He’s from Saxony. When I googled him, I couldn’t get any further into his past than that he got started in the restaurant business here in 1990. His name doesn’t exist before that. But there’s a picture of him, at age 25 or so, playing in a gay softball league with Glenn Burke, in 1985. I was reading an article about Burke, and the German dude in the article has got to be the Chef. Different name, but totally the same dude. He looks like the same guy in the picture now, but older. Even has the same beard.”
“So what are you saying? He’s gay? That was obvious. I’m interested in the Russian Mob thing.”
Now they were looking out from the peninsula, taking in the view of the East Bay, still beautiful to newcomers.
“Tell me, D. You ever heard of the German Dem...”
Jim’s phone rang. “You gonna take that and keep me in suspense?” asked Devonte.
“Ya, I don’t have the number in the phone, but maybe it’s the landlord’s home number or something.”
Jim picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Jim Brightest?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Brightest, this is Officer Ramirez, badge 6623 Oakland Police”
“How can I help you, Officer?”
“It’s about your application. We’d like to process you to step two.”
“Cool! What’s that mean?”
“Can you show up at our headquarters at Nine AM tomorrow to take a physical fitness test?”
“I mean, I guess.”
“See you then. Don’t be late.”
Jim put the phone in his pocket, smiling for real for the first time in two weeks. He looked at Devonte. “I guess I’ll just have to fill you in on the Chef later. The Oakland popo wants me.”
Devonte’s phone rang.
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