The Devil's Kitchen: First Chapter

Chapter One

"Keep your eye on your act, girl!"

Francesca Strong missed the next step of the routine she'd been perfecting.  The stage at Cafe Outré was hot under the glaring overhead lights.  She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead and squinted into the space below.

A flame-haired octogenarian glowered back up at her.  "Moon around on your own time.  You better get your head on straight if you're going to work out those new steps by tomorrow."

Catfish stood beside the woman, arms crossed, one finger tapping the crushed purple velvet of his jacket.  His copper hair was slick with sweat, his mouth turned down under his dramatically curled handlebar mustache.  Behind him, shadows milled about the center tables, their exact identities hidden even in the relative light of mid-morning.

Frankie swallowed a sigh.  Valentina Sass was right, of course.  Her mind was somewhere else.  Not like that was anything new, but today it hadn't wandered as far as usual.

Specifically, it was focused on the lank, dark-haired figure seated at the bar across the room.

Johnny Apocalypse had his back to her, his attention squarely on the glass in front of him.  What could he possibly be drinking this early?  He shifted at the sound of Valentina's voice booming through the club, but didn't turn.

Frankie stifled another sigh.  Just as well.

Movement drew her eye to the wings.  The drag queens stood in a cluster, shifted en masse while they awaited their turn onstage.  Cookie Mambo flashed her a grin.  Frankie mustered one herself.  He'd recovered nicely.  Most of the bruises from his attack had faded, and a couple weeks turned out to have been all he'd needed to return to his usual flamboyant self.

She wished she could say the same.

Down in the pit, Valentina planted her hands on her boney hips.  "Ready now?"

"Yeah."  Frankie spun her presentation cane and tapped the fedora lower over her eyes.  "Yeah, I'm ready."

She deliberately avoided looking at Johnny again, and started over the new steps.  She'd barely convinced Catfish she could power up her act without Bianca's help.  Now she needed to prove it.  She kept her eyes forward and counted out her moves.  One-two, ball-change.  One-two, ball-change.  Bump.  Bump.  Grind.

Where was Bianca?  For once, she couldn't feel the other woman's eyes on her.  It should have come as a relief.  The past few weeks had seen new heights of awkwardness between them.  Instead, she felt strangely empty.

The main door opened a crack.  A sliver of light flooded into the foyer, and a small woman strode inside.  A stiff breeze blew her loose golden hair around her face.  Frankie slipped into a more familiar part of her routine.

Ronni Gold hesitated in the doorway, looked around.  Her eye paused on Johnny, then she turned on her heel and made for the opposite side of the room.  Johnny still didn't look up.  Frankie pursed her lips against the smile that itched at the corners.  What did she care if The Blade and his assistant were on the rocks?  There was no reason she should long for him to look at her, joke with her.

No reason the thought of him avoiding Ronni Gold should please her so much.

Frankie shimmied, twirled her cane over her head.  Johnny Apocalypse had already proven himself far too perceptive where she was concerned.  He'd already gotten closer than anyone else.

But now he was her friend.  Granted, it wasn't the same.  But it was enough.  It had to be.

The band drilled out the last few notes, and Frankie dropped her arm to her side.  A dull ache tugged at the back of her throat.  She allowed herself another quick glance at the bar.  Maybe Johnny had the right idea.

Maybe she should get a drink.

***

How many people noticed he was having whiskey at eleven in the morning?

Johnny Marsden took a hard swallow of the amber liquid swirling in his glass and decided he didn't care.  The burn felt good.  Like a weight, anchoring him to himself.  And he needed anchoring.  Now more than ever.

Someone was watching him.  He recognized the telltale prickle on the back of his neck, but didn't turn.  He already knew who it was.

He buried his gaze in his glass.  He couldn't avoid Veronica Casey forever, but he could for the moment.  She paused behind him, then her footsteps echoed off in the opposite direction.  Johnny snorted.  Apparently, everyone was mad at him lately.

Not that they didn't have reason to be.

The whiskey started to pound behind his eyes.  You're a good friend, Steve.  The words still made his mouth sour.  He was a good friend, all right.  Such a good friend he'd let Frankie Strong believe he cared about her.  Such a good friend he'd gone and fucked someone else the moment she'd started to care back.

Oh yeah, he was a very good friend.

He leaned back and swung around on the barstool.  Even closed, Cafe Outré hummed with activity.  A bevy of blonde showgirls -and one muscular showboy- were spread around the center tables, stretching, practicing a few steps.  One of the bouncers adjusted the overhead lights while the other helped maneuver props around the stage.  The band sat in their pit, the harsh sound of tuning instruments a soundtrack for the bustle.

And Frankie was on the catwalk, dressed casually for once in a loose shirt and black leggings.  A black fedora sat crooked low over her eyes.  Her black and white spectator shoes looked simultaneously out-of-place and completely appropriate.

Johnny shook himself.  He'd had his chance with Frankie Strong, and he'd blown it.  She'd made that clear.  You're a good friend, Steve.  He'd been friend-zoned.  It was a new experience.

He hated it.

All the more reason to do his job and put Cafe Outré in his rearview mirror.  He shook himself again and rescanned the room.  Catfish was standing in the pit, beside a pixie of a woman who looked about a hundred years old.  The office would be empty.  Maybe he had time to...

Frankie swung her cane up over her head and tapped out a quick dance sequence.  Johnny froze in his seat.  Her long limbs moved in tandem, impossibly graceful.  Fluid.  He swallowed, tried to look away.  Couldn't.

Jesus, he was turning into a sap.

Below stage, the prehistoric pixie clapped her hands.  Her vermilion hair shimmered around her head.  "Good! That's good.  But one thing you might try..."  She imitated the sequence where she stood.

Johnny turned back to the bar.  He caught the woman's eye behind it and tapped his glass.  She came over with the bottle he'd been steadily draining.  Her dark dread-locked hair was pulled away from her face, giving him a clear view of the look she shot him.

He shrugged.

She shook her head and topped off his drink.  Johnny inched it closer.  "Thanks, Maria."  He tossed back a throatful.

"How can you drink that paint thinner this early?"

Johnny coughed.  The alcohol scorched his nose, burned his eyes.  He blinked through a watery haze in time to see Frankie swing into the stool next to him.  She smiled briefly at Maria, now wiping down a stack of glasses, then turned to him again.  "So?  How'd it look?"

Her bright gray eyes were fixed squarely on his face.  Johnny managed a nod.  "Looked good."

What else was he supposed to say?  He couldn't think of anything.  He looked around for a distraction, settled on the dance troupe mustering onstage.  Half-drunk water bottles littered the checkerboard tiles in front of them.  Behind the bar, Maria's dishrag paused on the glass in her hand.

Frankie notched her shoulder under his arm and gave him a light shove.  Her touch sent a shock through his system.  "Come on, I mean it."

How did she do that?  Act like nothing had ever happened between them?  He wished he knew.  However she did it, he wouldn't mind imitating her.  It would be a hell of a lot better than the gnawing guilt he'd been battling lately.

She was still waiting.  He shrugged.  "Really.  Don't change a thing."  He managed not to cringe, prayed she would take the hint and leave.

No such luck.  "How are you and Ronni doing?"

Johnny jerked his eyes to her face.  Frankie reddened.  "I mean, with your act?"

Like hell that was what she'd meant.  He kept his eyes on her.  "Act's fine."  He blew out a breath.  "A little dry I guess, but fine."  She shifted, but didn't move.  He took a leap.  "How are you and Bianca?"

Instantly, he wanted to kick himself.  The light in her eyes dimmed, and a strange look crossed her face.  "There is no 'me and Bianca.'"

He tried to muster some genuine regret, but couldn't quite manage it.  Before he could think of something appropriate to say, a crash sounded from the stage.  Both he and Frankie turned.

One of the showgirls -a platinum blonde with a short, edgy crop- was on her hands and knees.  Even from across the room, Johnny could see the look in her eyes.  Or rather, the lack of one.  They were blank, her face slack.  A thin ribbon of drool trailed from her lips to the black-and-white-checkered tile.

He was searching out Casey before he realized what he was doing.  She caught his eye from her seat at one of the back tables.  Her expression said the same thing he was thinking.

Shit.

The rest of the troupe huddled around the dancer.  One of them reached down and touched her shoulder.  "Vicki?  Are you all right?"

The dancer's fingers were white against the floor.  The muscles in her arms strained and twitched.  Her back heaved.  Vomit spewed from her open mouth.  The other showgirls leaped back.

"Is she okay?"

"Oh my god!  What's wrong with her?"

Johnny stood.  This didn't look good at all.

The dancer slumped forward.  Her face landed on the stage with a sickening splat.

Then she went still.

###

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