High Season by Jim Hearn

bain-marie, get a pot of water on the stove for some fresh pasta, and maybe buy some flowers. I reached for the checked chef’s cap and put it on my head, wiped my face down with some Wettex and then bit the balloon casing from the cap and poured the white powder into a dessert spoon. I sucked up fifty mils of water with a syringe, squirted it back into the spoon, stirred the powder and the water together with the butt of the syringe and drew it back up into the needle through a cigarette filter. I popped a vein, which were frankly fucking pumping after my mid-morning run, then put the stolen deal away.
    As the smack flooded through my veins, I felt both intense relief and had a vision of how the shop was going to look in about twenty minutes, after I’d cooked off some new dishes, got some sweet music playing and bought those happy flowers.
    When I woke up it was dark. My face was deeply grooved from lying on the cigarette packet and spoon. Outside, cars were tearing along King Street on their way home, and inside I was more alone than I had ever been.

14
    Vinnie has sacked Scotty on three separate occasions over the last few years and today could well be number four if Scotty doesn’t manage to contact him and let him know that Paris is in for lunch. And by sack I mean, ‘Fuck off and don’t come back.’ And after each such occasion, Scotty has gone and got another job and moved on with his life. Then Vinnie employs a new maître d’ and after about five minutes realises that no one else is quite like Scotty. The same problem always recurs for Vinnie—and always after a short period of time: the new maître d’ begins thinking they actually run things out on the floor. This might be the job description of a maître d’ in other restaurants, but at Rae’s it is just seen as so much arrogance. And in Vinnie’s eyes, arrogance is very unbecoming in a waiter. And maybe Scotty’s not the best maître d’ in the world, maybe he even pisses some customers off, but he does possess the rare skill of being able to put up with Vinnie’s illogical ways of dealing with the world. And that unique quality means that he has become something of a hero at Rae’s.
    The money the maître d’ gets paid in wages and tips is good; sometimes at Rae’s it’s even great, since the hotel occasionally attracts those super-rich folks for whom tipping can become a game of one-upmanship. Waiters go home and pray for those people to sit down at a table in their section. Literally, on their knees, prayers before bed. I’ve seen it. And maybe in Scotty’s case he was doing something else while he was on his knees, but as I’ve always said to the guy, ‘It’s because you can do two things at once that Vinnie loves you, mate.’
    During the high season Scotty’s tips can total well over a thousand dollars a week. After you factor in his pitiful wages, he can almost afford to rent somewhere in town where, after a bruising day at the office, he can run a hot shower, shine his shoes and get ready to do it all over again. That’s Scotty’s dream for next year anyway, a place in town. Until then he’s happy enough driving the fifty kilometres to work each day.
    â€˜Push those desserts out, Jesse,’ I say as I slop water over the stainless-steel wall behind the stove.
    â€˜Yes, Chef,’ Jesse replies, clapping twice and calling, ‘Service!’
    â€˜Those fucking waves are calling me, you hear?’
    â€˜You heading out, Chef?’ Soda asks.
    â€˜You’re damn right I’m heading out, Sodapop. There’s a trimming two-foot swell out there with a space in the line-up just for me,’ I tell him.
    â€˜I’ve got to go do a couple things before service tonight, Chef.’ Jesse tries it on, like now I’m worried .
    â€˜Do not fuck with me tonight, Jesse. Do you understand me?’
    â€˜Yes,