If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

The DOGS of Lincoln Park

THE CITY STEWS as the temperature soars past a hundred degrees. Their spirits muffled in the swampy insulation, some citizens veer for the lake. Many who live in apartments without air conditioning decant to the emergency cooling shelters set up by City Hall. On television, the mayor runs a hanky across the back of his sweaty, red neck for effect as he urges people to use those facilities.

Yet Kendra Cross is navigating the journey from her realty office to the small, new Asian fusion restaurant close to Clark and Fullerton with an air of insouciance. Mystic East, a manageable block away from her workplace, was where she had taken to lunching every Friday with her friends Stephanie Harbison and Stacie Barnes. Kendra seldom wearied of proclaiming that it was she who had unearthed this culinary pearl. Now she felt herself satisfyingly closing in on the weekend; all morning the lunch date had hummed urgently in her thoughts. Yes, Trent had been a washout last night, but there was the prospect of that cute rich guy from Capital Investments calling. Kendra thought that there was a mutual attraction at the meeting last week on that condo development at Printer’s Row.

Also: Kendra has floated through her morning duties on a magic carpet of Xanax, the same one that takes her down the sidewalk. Taut across the face, a tight, high, blond ponytail pulling her skin tensile on her forehead swings behind her, a tail as vital as the ones on the more enthusiastic dogs which negotiate Clark. Gliding among the buffed, two-pinned, mobile mannequins, she pouts in sympathy as she regards their quad-legged companions on the leashes, the heavy tongues on some grazing the sidewalk. She thinks of her black-and-white papillon, Toto, bonding with the other small dogs her sitter looks after, just as she is set to do with her own friends.

Kendra supposed that they were typical of many young, hardworking (Stacie excepted!), wealthy urban professionals. Apart from the demands of commerce, they had been unable to come up with suitable reasons for their ennui, and had overindulged in illegal drugs and alcohol as a convenient repository for their tired, listless, alienated behavior. Then they discovered the beauty of rehab. They’d taken to showing up at lunch dates, perky, superior and focused, hand placed strategically over the wine glass, a satisfied smile at the waiter. — Rehab, they’d whisper blissfully to their dining partners, as they discreetly washed down a Xanax with the proferred mineral water.

She had left her office at the real-estate agents prompt on 12.30 and at 12.38 Kendra opens the restaurant door to let the X-ray blast of air con invigorate her. The Japanese-looking waitress, wearing a dark kimono, escorts Kendra to her seat and she looks across at the chef, his round face pockmarked at the sides, eyes harsh in this light, under his dark brows, as he takes in everything in his benignly magisterial way from his vantage point behind the sushi bar.

Within a couple of minutes, Kendra is joined by Stephanie, whom, she notes, is wearing a green business suit of a similar cut to her own, with huge Dior sunglasses pushed onto her shiny blond hair, which is cut in a dramatic wedged bob. — No Stacie? Stephanie hums, her gaze, Kendra feels, one of assessment.

— She called to say she was running late.

— Let’s order anyway, Stephanie blows impatiently, — some of us have things to do.

— Affirmative, Kendra snorts, adding, — Stacie’s a fucking basket case, as she tactically drops and retrieves her napkin in order to check out Stephanie’s shoes, relieved that satisfying objections come quickly to mind. Fortified, she sits forward and lowers her voice. — Her stupid big mouth blew it for me with Trent last night.

Stephanie leans in, her eyes widening. Excitement and anxiety contend within her. She prays that Stacie won’t appear and interrupt this story. — How so? she urges in faux concern.

— We were in the LP Tavern. With Trent, Stuart Noble and Alison Logan. Alison saw this girl and shouted, ‘Isn’t she from Highland Park?’ I said I kinda recognized her from somewhere. Then blabbermouth Stacie cuts in and said she did psychology at DePaul, but that she was a couple of years below us. You could see Trent doing the freaking math there and then. He spent the rest of the evening looking at my crow’s feet, Kendra explains despondently, pointedly waiting for a reassurance that Stephanie assiduously withholds. Why thank you, fucking bitch. — He hasn’t returned my call, she moans dismally. — I’d phone again but it would come over as too needy.

And at that point Stacie, wearing a short, pink pleated skirt and matching tank top, blond hair in braids, appears in the restaurant, waving as she approaches them. She gapes suspiciously at Kendra and Stephanie. — Were you two just talking about me?

— Oh, wouldn’t you just love for that to be the case. Stephanie’s teasing tones are pitched somewhere between a snort and a purr as Stacie sits down. — But you are needy, she immediately points out to a grumpy-looking Kendra. — You need him. Or somebody like him.

Ignoring Stacie’s widening eyes, Kendra has a thought, sparking in her mind like the wheel of an El train over a rail point. Is Stephanie a free agent? Does she have an agenda? — Are you still seeing Todd? she suddenly inquires.

Stephanie’s thin brows slant like a roof. — I guess, but he’s so fucking clueless and insensitive to my needs, she contends. — Jeez, it’s a hundred degrees outside and we don’t have central air con, she purses, then quickly qualifies this, —… as I choose to rent a cheaper apartment because I value my work above money…

Kendra attempts an expression of empathy at this point, but her nod comes over as pitying and she can’t stop derision and triumph molding her finely cut face, shearing it of its characteristic wariness.

—… which is a concept that clearly does not chime with his limited intellect, Stephanie spits in retaliation to Kendra’s contemptuous expression. — So I’m stuck with those crappy fans.

— Worse than useless, Kendra hisses.

— Yes… Stephanie says, now more cagily, trying to calculate whether the martyr bonus points beat the cheapskate debits. She regards Stacie who is all eyes, teeth, hair — a vacancy waiting to be filled — and knows that she’s made a gross miscalculation. — But the point is, she says grandiosely, — that the apartment is sooo gross. So I’m lying on the bed pooped, in front of the fan, after a particularly taxing day. I’d spent all morning talking to Sybil, that horrible, manipulative parakeet I told you about, and Benji, the aggressive tom who litters everywhere but the designated tray. So Todd comes through with a big smile on his face. He only wanted to do it!

— In this heat? In your apartment? Sooo gross, Kendra scoffs, enjoying Stacie’s affirmative nod.

In shared acknowledgment of her air con own goal, Stephanie winces, the ice water she sips tasting like vinegar, while Kendra grins. That motherfucker will run, they think the same solitary thought, but in polar opposite emotional channels. Moving on sharply, Stephanie states, — I gave him a piece of my mind and I told him that I didn’t want him in bed with me till it cooled. Of course, that simple statement of my personal need was more than enough to evoke the child in him, her nylonlike hair swishing and settling back as she moves her head, — That stupid pout. So moronic.

— But don’t you think that all guys have that little boy in them? Kendra inquires, suddenly keen to make a common cause.

— Of course, Stephanie agrees, acknowledging Kendra’s gesture. — That is nat the issue. The issue is ‘How close to the surface is it?’ In him I think it might just be a little too close for comfort. I told him, couch or cab home, buddy: you decide.

Stacie’s big browny-green eyes under those infeasible lashes turn first on one friend, then another, her head moving like a spectator at a tennis match.

— I admire you, Kendra purrs. — It would be great to have that sort of control over certain other parties.

— He’s so much more alpha than Todd, though, Stephanie gushes suddenly.

Stacie picks up the menu card. Thinks about sashimi. Made for this weather. — Who are we talking about? she asks.

Kendra shakes her head at Stephanie, ignoring Stacie. — That’s just the image he projects. To me it’s a case of ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much’. He’s probably a fag.

— Kennie! Stap it! Stephanie squeals in jovial reprimand. — Just because he works out?

— Who are we talking about? Stacie asks again.

Ignoring her once more, Kendra says, — No, of course not. He just dresses a little faggy.

— He’s got style, is all, Stephanie declares, then turns to Stacie, — and we are talking about Trent.

Stacie nods. — Right. Gotcha.

Continuing, Stephanie expands: — And a membership of the yacht club. And a convertible. And a nice house on Roscoe.

— He’s a sweet guy, Stacie opines.

— And rich. He’s a partner in an architect’s practice, Kendra says, narrowing eyes trained on Stephanie.

— A practice? Since when did architects have practices? Stacie asks, taking a drink of water which stings her teeth.

— They’ve always called them practices, Kendra’s head shudders in irritation, — like law, or medicine.

— Oh, I’m sure that’s a new thing, Stacie argues.

Kendra abruptly rises and heads for the restroom. — I think you’ll find that it’s always been the case, she hisses through her teeth as she departs.

When she is out of sight, Stephanie makes her hands into claws and performs an air-raking gesture. — Miaow! Looks like somebody’s kitty litter needs changing!

Adopting her party-piece tones of a Southern black girl, Stacie raps out, — Stick a lumpa Carolina coal up dat bitch’s white ass an she gonna shit diamond! And they high-five in triumph.

The chef coasts over to them with a tray full of small dishes. He has a habit of selecting the food for his favorite customers. To Kendra and Stacie, this constitutes special treatment. Stephanie believes it is a con and that he’s just working yesterday’s stuff onto them. — Very special food, for very special customers, he smiles. — Korean, the chef explains with a mirthful twist to his mouth. — Distinguishing feature of Korean food is spices. Basic seasonings; red pepper, green onion, soy sauce, bean paste, garlic, ginger, sesame, mustard, vinegar, wine.

Stacie’s nodding-dog routine induces a tightness in Stephanie’s chest, which is mirrored in her thin red lips.

Pointing at some small bowls of soup, Chef explains, — Maeuntang is spicy, hot seafood soup that include white fish, vegetable, bean curd, red-pepper powder. Twoenjang-guk is a fermented soybean paste soup with baby clams in its broth.

— Yummy, Stacie exclaims.

— Vegetable dish is also popular in Korea. Korean call dishes made with only vegetable namool. There two kind, one cold and raw, other warm and steamed.

— Namool, Stacie repeats.

The chef is glowing as his chest expands with pride. — Korean table settings are the 3, 5, 7, 9 or 12 chop, depending on the number of side dishes served. The average family takes three or four side dishes. When family hold celebrations or party, a dozen or more dishes served. Chopstick and spoons used for eating. Different from Japanese and Chinese, Korean use more thin chopstick made with metal, not wood.

— Mmm-hmm! Stacie smacks her lips.

Stephanie’s eyebrows arch, her open mouth quivering slightly before settling to form an appraising but urgent smile. Can we shut the fuck up and just eat this stuff that you’ve brought, that we didn’t order, she thinks, suddenly time-anxious. This afternoon will herald a potentially demanding consultation with Millie, the self-harming marmoset.

Kendra waltzes back from the restroom, equilibrium restored by another Xanax. It’s not kicking in yet, and it’s no placebo, but she savors the glow of anticipation, of knowing it will before long. Her friends note that she’s changed her eyeliner from yellow to a rose color. — Looks interesting, Stephanie says approvingly, not herself knowing whether she means Kendra’s makeup or the food.

— This is Korean stuff, Kennie, Stacie sings excitedly at her.

— Korean food have various side dish, Chef continues to Stephanie’s obvious chagrin. — Favorite side dish are bean-paste soup, broiled beef, fish, cabbage kimchi, and steamed vegetables. He accusingly fingers the various dishes like they were suspects in an ID parade. Then he taps the menu. — Full-course Korean meal called Hanjoungshik. Compose of grilled fish, steamed short ribs, and other meat and vegetable dishes with streamed rice, soup, and kimchi.

— What’s kimchi? asks Stacie, as Stephanie swallows a long gulp of air and drums her big nails on the table.

— Kimchi best-known Korean food. It is vegetable dish, highly seasoned with pepper, garlic, etcetera. Served with every kind of Korean meal. Stimulate appetite like pickles. Contains amounts of good nutritions such as vitamin C and fiber. Try, he commands, looking at Kendra.

Kendra spoons some up onto her plate, then takes a small forkful. — It’s very good, she nods in endorsement. Stephanie gratefully follows suit, as does Stacie.

The chef responds with a graceful bow. — Enjoy, he says, before retreating.

— I kind of like that chef, Stacie says as he departs, — that inscrutable oriental demeanor. It’s kind of neat. What do you think, Kennie?

Kendra is daydreaming. She is wondering if the rich developer guy, Clint his name is, will call her. — About what?

— Never mind, Stacie wearily sings, then changes her tack: — How’s Karla getting on?

— I cannat believe that the same sperm and egg sources that produced me provided the raw material to manufacture her, Kendra rants, aware that the Xanax she’s popped in the restroom is perhaps lifting her again. — She’s got one of those lame and passé tattoos above her ass that she thinks is sooo punk rock. It makes her look like a crack whore. And she must weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds.

— Ugh! Stephanie winces, then adds with concern, — Is she like, depressed or something?

— I don’t know what shit’s going down with her. Kendra shakes her head so emphatically she is moved to subsequently check that her hair is still secured back. — All I know is I had to intervene at my mom’s last weekend. I pulled her over to the full-length mirror and lifted up her tank top. I pointed at her stomach and said: ‘Care.’

— How did she react? Stephanie asks.

Kendra shrugs, taking in a long breath as she painfully watches a bum with a cart shuffle past the window, so gratified that he does not stop or turn to look in. Thank you. She nods tersely at Stephanie in shared relief. — The usual crappy defensive-offensive rhetoric about me being anorexic, you know how they lash out. She narrows her eyes. — You think I was wrong?

— No, not at all. I just think that the intervention could have been a little more structured, Stephanie offers.

Kendra considers this. Steph was pretty smart. Sometimes Kendra wishes she’d stayed on to do a masters at DePaul. Now Stephanie was almost a partner in that pet behavioralist practice on Clark, while she was stuck in real estate.

But she was making money.

— I ran into Monica Santiano yesterday, y’know from Highland Park. She’s moved into the city, Stephanie informs them. — You know what she said to me: ‘I really got to hang out with you guys.’ I was like, ugh, a total DNA situation! Stephanie and Kendra high-five each other.

— I thought she was kinda fun, Stacie says. — What’s DNA mean?

— Desperate and Needy Alert, they sing at her in unison. — Another one we added to our lexicon, I think it was in CJ’s on Wednesday, Kendra elaborates smugly. — Where were you, Stace?

Stacie looks a little forlorn as the conversation drifts back to work. — How’s the wonderful world of real estate? Stephanie asks Kendra.

— Still booming, and still lucrative, Kendra chirps, swinging into breezy professional mode, before something sours in her mouth. She hesitates for a second, then lets rip: — But that fat lesbo bitch Marilyn’s been on my case. She’s sooo disgusting, sitting there packing her face with Doritos all day and she doesn’t even have a college degree, she rasps.

— Loo-zir! Stephanie ticks, stretching out her fingers to examine her nail extensions. They were perhaps a bit long for the metal chopsticks.

— I see her looking at me sometimes in that creepy way, and then she breaks into that revolting smile of hers. And that horrible mole on her face. Yuk! Then sometimes she’ll go all girly and gross and make comments about straight girls wanting to experiment, Kendra winces. — It kinda makes me wanna puke!

— Gross, Stacie acknowledges.

— And bordering on sexual harassment. Stephanie’s head twists. — Somebody oughta stick a lawsuit on that bitch’s fat ass!

Kendra nods thoughtfully. Then she looks searchingly, imploringly, at Stephanie and Stacie. All suddenly raise imaginary rifles into the air, training and then firing them on invisible targets. — She’s so NRA, they scoff.

The girls exchange high-fives. — Not Really Awesome, they squeal in a delighted harmony. They catch the chef observing their antics, his dark eyes glimmering, and they raise embarrassed hands to mouths to stifle their nervous giggles.

It took Kendra a while to get ready for her run that evening. The gray DePaul sweatshirt and blue shorts were pulled on quickly enough, as were the Nike Air Zoom Moire trainers, a hundred bucks a throw and selected because their color matched the shirt, but the hair had to be off the face and the ponytail tied high. Most of all, the makeup needed to be just right. Too little was not an option, but too much indicated a lack of serious sporting edge, perhaps even hinting at sexual laziness or passivity. This stuff she used was subtle and didn’t run, not that Kendra intended to do much sweating.

Darkness is pressing down as she goes off at an even trot along Lakeshore Drive where it’s cooler, the air coming off Lake Michigan smelling slightly sour, tawny and feeble, like an elderly relative doused in a favored fragrance. After several yards, boredom and fatigue gnaw at her, and she feels self-conscious and ridiculous as an elderly man passes her with ease. No matter; the best part is the slow pretend-exhausted walk back around the neighborhood. Walking with Toto got lots of attention but the problem was that the male dog walkers were invariably gay. Jogging was different. Like the Lakeshore Athletic Club, it was a way of meeting straight guys. But it was not a good method of keeping your weight down; too much like hard work. Dieting was easier, except Friday lunch, which would set her up for the weekend. It was too hot for the sweatshirt but she worried that there might be a slight distension of her stomach after that lunch. It would take till Tuesday before she could be confident about just wearing the sports bra.

Kendra pulls up to a brisk walking speed in order to enjoy the night. Looming shadows emerging from the overhead trees herald little more than the chatter of lovers or more dog walkers — this is a safe neighborhood — and she notes there is a van parked outside her block. Two men are unloading furniture. There is a third in attendance whom she immediately recognizes as the Asian chef from Mystic East. It seems like he is moving in, to her apartment complex. — Hi… she simpers on approach. — Are you moving in, like here?

The chef seems to take a while to recognize her. He squints in the darkness, holding a framed print, which he sets down on the granite curb. — Ah… yes. Hello. His smiling face expands.

— I’m on the second floor, Kendra explains, watching two movers engaged in a sweaty push-pull dance with one of the last of the stubbornly heavy boxes on the back of the van.

— I move into third floor, the chef tells her.

— Come and have some tea, Kendra offers, reasoning that it will do no harm to keep in with her favorite local restaurateur.

— You are very kind. Chef bows his big head slightly. Kendra holds open the doors of the apartment building as he carries the picture up the stairs. She follows him all the way up, taking in his shadowless, almost spectral form under the fluorescent stair and hall lighting. Then she hears a sniggering behind her. The moving guys. Leering at her ass. Fucking pigs. At the stair-bend she tugs the edge of the DePaul sweatshirt south, her only concession to their presence.

When the men are left to finish putting the last of the stuff into the chef’s apartment, she takes him downstairs to her identical dwelling. Kendra feels a bit awkward as his eyes scan the clutter of her space. I should have fucking tidied up, she thinks. As she heads to the kitchen to make green tea, she notes that Toto, whom she’d left while she was running, and who was normally timid around strangers to the apartment, especially men, is enthusiastic about the Asian chef. First he licks his hand with an almost obscene look in his black, glassy eyes, and then rolls over, allowing his tummy to be rubbed.

— Very nice dog, the oriental cook smiles in delight.

— He seems to like yoooo! Don’tcha, baby? she says to Toto, — Don’tcha, sweet baby boy? Yes you do! Yes you do!

— If you ever need me to take dog for walk, the chef grins, sipping his green tea, — let me know.

— Thank you. Kendra twists her head to the side, as Chef goes out onto the stair to sign the removal docket and the men depart. They sit with their tea as Kendra tells him about the trash collection and the mailboxes, and she’s unable to resist slipping in some gossip about the neighbors. Then she takes him down to the basement to show him the laundry facilities, which he seems particularly keen to view. — Very important for Chef, he explains, as they embark on the long walk down the steep and badly lit back staircase. The gate to the laundry room is heavy and stiff, and she is pleased when he comes to her aid in pulling it open. Inside Kendra clicks on a switch and there is a hum as the pitch-black cavernous room flickers into a buzzing fluorescent bluish-yellow glare revealing two washers, two dryers and an aluminum rack of bicycles. Big silver tubes carrying the air con hang overhead, snaking into the cavities of the building like space-age woodworm. — Such an essential for a Chicago summer, Kendra smartly informs Chef, thinking of Stephanie sweating away sourly under fans — and an enthusiastic Todd — in that antiquated condo of hers.

No, Steph would be on top.

When the tour is over and Chef departs upstairs to organize his new home, Kendra is straight on the phone to Stephanie, then Stacie, delighted as she informs them, — Chef, our Chef, only just moved into my apartment block!

The next morning Kendra has a crisis. Christie, her dog walker and sitter, calls to say that she had just learned that her father has been taken seriously ill in Kentucky, and she needs to go there immediately. — Thanks for everything, Kendra says spitefully down the phone. She realizes that she is going to have to take Toto into the office. It is an emergency. Outside is hot, but muggy and overcast. The dour, dirty sky seems to press down on her, she feels it in her ball-bearing eyes, house-brick brain and anvil jaw. Toto whines a little, dragging on his leash and panting, until she’s forced to take his gasping body in her arms.

She is at her desk for about ten minutes, talking to her co-workers Greg and Cassandra, when Marilyn, hands on bovine hips, casts a shadow over her desk. — Kennie, princess, she looks at the dog, whose ears prick up although he remains sitting loyally at Kendra’s feet, — Toto’s a charmer, but the office isn’t for dags.

— But—

Marilyn’s large head cocks to the side, as she pats her stiff hair. Her voice coos, incongruently soothing, — Butts — even cute little ones — are for sitting on and getting fired, honey. Please don’t ask me to get more explicit.

— My dog sitter had an emergency, I’ll try to get something sorted out—

— Now, sweetheart. Her smile slides a millimetre south.

— Right, Kendra says neutrally, and picks Toto up.

Marilyn follows her out. As Kendra gets to the door, she stops her with an arm on her shoulder. As Kendra turns around, she can smell a sickly sweet corpse breath. Stroking the dog’s snout, Marilyn fixes her in a flinty stare. — In case you ain’t heard, hard times are ahead, baby. The condo market has gone to shit. People are like sheep. They see a few players making a killing out of condo developments and they build and build until there are too many developments and not enough people to fill them. It’s a classic bubble and you can see the pin. I’m talking layoffs. Do I make myself clear?

Kendra bites her tongue. How unprofessional is this bitch! Talking down the freakin market! — Yes, she says blankly, exiting and heading outside. The dog is panting in her arms as she walks down the street which shimmers in the baking heat.

She hates leaving Toto in the apartment on his own, but now she has no choice. On her way back she sees Chef hanging out in the shade of the porch by the apartment entrance. He’s out of his robes, wearing a blue suit, collar open at the neck, as he smokes a cigarette. The suit contrasts with the vivid red roses which climb up a wooden trellis next to him. For the first time she notes how thin his body is compared to his head. She tells him what has happened with the dog and her work. Chef explains that he is going for a walk by the lake. He has no shift until the evening and will be happy to walk the dog and look after him till she comes home from work.

Kendra is delighted, leaving Toto happily in his hands and heading back to the office. Avoiding Marilyn, she checks her messages, but there’s nothing from either Trent or Clint the developer guy. When she finishes work, she returns to the apartment complex, calling upstairs first where she finds Chef cooking in his kitchen. As she crouches Toto jumps up, into her arms, delighted to see her.

— Something smells good, she says. — Has he been a good boy?

— Dog no trouble at all, Chef says and puts some food on the small table.

Kendra notes how wonderfully organized everything is. Chef must have been working so hard to get all the stuff out of boxes and set up. The front room is dominated by a huge fish tank and a collection of ornate swords which hang on the walls. — Collect swords, Chef points at himself, then at the mounted weapons.

— These look… Kendra can’t think of a word, and then settles for, —… nice.

Chef takes one down from the wall. It has a curved blade of around thirty inches, with a black leather handle a foot long. He sets it down on the table, disappears briefly into the kitchen, returning with two large watermelons. He balances one on what looks like a giant cat’s scratching post that he has pulled out from a darkened corner of the room. — Stand well back, he smiles at Kendra, — blade very, very sharp. Can easy sever four inches of bamboo.

Kendra moves away. The chef takes the sword in two outstretched arms. He shuts his eyes for a few seconds and seems to go into an almost orgasmic trance. Then, in a sudden explosive movement, he twists and slices through the melon. It falls away, in two equal sides. Toto moves over and sniffs at one portion on the floor.

— Now you try. Chef places the next melon and gives her the blade by its handle. Kendra takes it and grips it tentatively. Chef moves behind her, standing close. — Take weight… that’s good. Feel the weight. This Musashi Japanese katana. Shinto sword.

— It’s kinda neat, she says.

— Imagine sword is part of arm. The edge of blade fingernails… His arms circle around her, holding her lightly but firmly at the wrists. — Now on count three you raise blade and bring down on melon. Like you putting fingers through melon. One… two… three… Chef pulls up Kendra’s wrists then pushes down, pulling his hands away at the last second as the sword falls, splitting the melon as before.

— Wow… Kendra smiles tensely, embarrassed now at the physical embrace and a strange charge that hangs in the air. — That was great…

Chef stands back, bows, and points to the food on the table. — Now eat, he urges her.

— Lordy… I can’t… she thinks of her weight, — you shouldn’t have done this… what is this?

— Pulgoki. One of the famous Korean dishes to Westerners. Means ‘Korean barbecue’. Marinated with soy sauce, garlic, sugar, sesame oil, and other seasonings. Cooked over fire in front of table.

She puts down the sword and examines the fish swimming in the tank. There are two of them. — Are these…?

— Pufferfish. Common red puffer. Also called avocado puffer. Not so cause taste good with avocado, but they do, he grins.

Kendra’s hand goes to her mouth, which is mimicking the fishes. — Do you… I mean…

— Yes.

— Oh, Kendra says, then, anxious to ensure that he doesn’t think she’s offended by this, adds, — I would love to go to Japan. Eat pufferfish in a big restaurant.

— I have prepare some for now. We eat them, he says, heading to the kitchen and returning immediately with some small raw fillets of fish.

Kendra looks at the fillets, then at the tank. — Eh… I dunno… aren’t they really dangerous to eat?

The chef stares at her, his eyes gleaming. — Can be fatally poisonous. In Japan they are delicacy after poison has been removed but eating can still be fatal. One hundred diners die each year from eating pufferfish.

— Is this okay? She looks nervously at the fish.

— Very good. Eat, he urges, then he lifts a fillet into his mouth.

Kendra takes the small piece of fish in her mouth. It is smooth and tastes buttery. She chews and swallows.

— With poison you feel tingling in mouth and lips. Then dizziness, fatigue, headache, cannot speak, tightness in chest, shaking, nausea and vomiting, Chef explains cheerfully.

— I… I… feel okay, I guess… she says shakily. Actually, she feels dizzy and sweaty, even in this air con.

Chef points at the tank. — Even though they poisonous, pufferfish popular in aquarium. Can be tame but no hand-feed because of sharp teeth.

In an instant, Kendra realizes that she’s not going to die, that the nausea is largely of her mind’s making. She walks over to the tank. — Can I see them puff up?

— No. Too stressful for fish to make this happen, Chef sternly shakes his head. Then he regards Kendra with those shining black eyes. — You seem like lady who loves food.

— Yes I do. I don’t overeat like some, Kendra says smugly, — but I like to try new things and I’m very adventurous, she purrs, suddenly horribly aware that she’s flirting with the chef.

— Me too. You can eat almost anything, Chef declares, then raises a finger, — if it is properly prepared. So you no try cook pufferfish at home!

— Don’t worry, Kendra smiles chastely, aware that she’s backpedaling, — I’ll always come to the experts.

Toto is at her feet and she picks him up, now anxious to leave without eating any more food. — Right, sweet baby boy, we’d better get you home! You gotta be hungry too!

In her departure, she is aware that her pulse is racing as she heads down the stairs.

The LP Tavern is very dark inside, illuminated only by some indented wall and bar lights, and a bank of buzzing neon at the gantry, all glowing phosphorous blue. Until their eyes adjusted, a stranger might be forgiven for thinking that it’s still the dive bar it used to be. However, the exotic and comprehensive range of spirits and beers on offer and the dress and bearing of the clientele soon dispel this notion.

Kendra is drinking with Stacie, Stephanie, and Cressida, a research assistant at Chicago University. Cressida wears her black hair short, and it glows silkily in the blue light in exactly the same way as her top. Sparkling earrings dangle like small chandeliers. The girls sit on tall stools at a round table, big enough for just the drinks and the odd elbow. Kendra admits that it is good having Chef living in her apartment complex. — He’s awesome. It’s unreal, she tells them. — Toto’s really taken to him.

— Seems like he’s not the only one, Stacie says, her tones and glance laden with coquettish inference.

— What? Kendra raises her plucked brows.

— Would you, like, well, sleep with him?

Kendra looks at her in disgust. — Don’t be crazy. He’s way too old. He’s… She stops and scrutinizes her friend’s face for signs of treachery. — What the fuck are you trying to say, Stacie?

— He’s kinda neat though. Stacie shrugs vaguely, then offers, — I’d go with an Asian guy.

— Well, you know where he fucking well lives and works, Stacie. Go and stalk him. Kendra shakes her head but she is satisfied that Stacie is too hollow to be hostile.

— I’m not saying him. He is a little old. But as a general point.

Stephanie yawns luxuriantly, her skin stretching translucent under the blue lighting. — They’re supposed to be a little, eh, light downstairs.

This comment sparks Cressida into a rage. Her pale, longish face has taken on a marine-like taint. In it her small teeth are bared, and Kendra thinks she can almost see the anger rising up inside her and spilling through them. — That’s racist BS. Who makes that shit up? The black man is too big, the yellow man too small. Who, then, is just right? Who is the fucking norm? Three guesses, she sneers, and springs to her feet, heading for the bathroom.

— Oh God, Stephanie gasps, her hand going to her mouth, — I’d forgotten all about her and that Myles guy. But I’m not a racist, how can I be? I work with members of the different species we share this planet with. If I can do that, how can I logically be opposed to different races within the same human species?

Stacie’s brow furrows in response.

— Ignore her, Kendra tuts. For some reason she always feels uncomfortable at signs of weakness in Stephanie that somebody other than herself has managed to induce. — All that Chicago Uni bullshit. She’s fucking some black professor and she can’t even be pleased that she’s getting some big tenured dick inside her. She still has to make herself out to be a victim. All this trust-fund guilt, identifying with minorities, it’s such a bore.

Stacie realizes then that Kendra will never fuck a chef of any ethnicity unless he has his own show on television. She signals to the waitress. — I wanna chocolate Martini.

— Gross, Kendra winces. — Gimme a Stoli and tonic.

— Me too, Stephanie choruses, considering that a serious and intimidating waft comes from Cressida. You can never be totally relaxed in her company. Then she looks gravely at them and leans in. — And you’ll never guess what I’ve heard?

They regard her, thin, plucked brows twisting in concentration. Kendra’s hand runs over her head to make sure that her ponytail is still tight on the crown.

Stephanie bends in still closer to them, allowing them to catch a scent of her Allure. — Trent is apparently seeing, or fucking — you decide — Andrea Pallister.

— My God, Stacie says. — Didn’t she flunk psychology at DePaul and have to change to, like, art or something?

Kendra seethes quietly, aware that their eyes are on her. — She’s got cats, she squeaks in a petulant misery she can’t quite manage to repress. — I thought Trent liked dogs!

Cressida returns, an air of serenity about her now, sitting down as the waitress comes over with the drinks. She orders a Stoli. Kendra stands up. — I’d better go to the restroom and moisturize. This is my second alcoholic drink.

As they watch Kendra depart Stacie tells Cressida, — We’re talking Trent.

— Oh, she says, then exchanges malicious grins with the others.

As Kendra applies her tinted moisturizer she thinks about Andrea Pallister. How she would have thrown herself at Trent. How she didn’t realize that, yes, some men did appreciate neediness, but generally only in short fucks. Then in her mind’s eye she sees Trent’s face slightly reconfigured from its iron-jawed, luxuriantly quiffed perfection; the nose more bulbous than she’d admitted, the complexion carrying a little extra flush. Perhaps a certain lassitude about the eyes and the mouth. On the wrong drugs. And so she readies herself to face her friends.

On her reappearance the conversation seems to strike up as if her presence has sent a signal, like an orchestera conductor waving a baton. — Never trust a guy who fucks a catwoman, Stephanie nods. — I mean, three cats! Her apartment smells so fucking gross. Who would tolerate that? Nobody but a closet slob.

— There is something just a little too gauche about him, Cressida agrees.

— That’s an interesting hypothesis, Kendra says icily, her composure restored. — You know what he once said about Toto? He said, ‘You could roll over and crush that little bastard and not even know it. I like dogs, but I prefer them big and robust. I wouldn’t want to live with something I could kill by mistake.’

Stephanie contemplates her friends with that look of knowing evaluation they’ve witnessed her deploy since their first psychology seminar at DePaul. — Reading between the lines that means he’s a slob. Covered in cat furs. Yuk! I’ll bet his idea of a good day out is the bleachers at Wrigley Fields.

— We’ve all done that one, baby, Stacie yelps in a guilty delight. The afternoon shift! And she notes two young men who are sitting at the next table. Hot, but obvious fags.

Stephanie is nodding in the negative. — In emergencies only, and just to check out a new look on the salivating frat boys. We never went there to seriously pick up, not like some demented, desperate sluts. Tricia Hales, anybody?

— A total SERB, Kendra scoffs.

Stacie looks blank again, as Cressida shrugs and Stephanie nods in approval. — Self-Esteem Rock Bottom, she gleefully enlightens them.

— She’s having a baby with that loser. In a condo, Kendra tersely observes.

Stephanie’s eyes widen in horror. — They aren’t even getting a house? God, I bet her parents are proud of her.

— You would really say that Trent’s a slob? Stacie asks.

A beaming Stephanie turns to Kendra and Cressida in complicity. — Let’s face it, none of us are exactly novices when it comes to analyzing human nature.

The young men at the next table are preparing to leave. As they go, one says too loudly to the other, — Oh my God, the DOGS are out tonight. The Desperate, Obsessive Girl Snobs of Lincoln Park!

The girls are stunned and then outraged as they register this. Kendra reacts first, shouting, — Don’t acronym us, you faggots, nobody acronyms us!

— Woof! Woof! the gay men bark back at the girls, who all, except for Stephanie, manage to smile.

At closing time they walk out into the city night air, and the aroma of baking tar and concrete. Passing car headlights strobe them. Muscled and waxed young men, standing on street corners or under roadside trees, pay their thin bodies scant regard.

— I guess we asked for that one, Kendra says, — but we have got to just own that title. DOGS. DOGS of Lincoln Park, she tries it out for size.

— No we do nat, Stephanie insists. — These guys are misogynists. The sort of fags who blame their mothers for all the shit life has thrown at them.

— Honey, Cressida responds, — everybody blames their mothers for all the shit life has thrown at them. That’s what mothers are for.

Bickering starts up, as Kendra is aware that tiredness has just run over her. She turns and leaves them in the street with a limp, backhand wave and heads home up Halstead.

When she gets to the stairs of her apartment block, Kendra realizes that the third Stoli was a mistake. Its charge makes her feel bare and lonely as she enters her home and the air con sucks the evening heat out of her. She presses the phone’s messaging system. The developer guy, Clint, hasn’t called. — Toto puppy, Kendra shouts. — Where’s my baby boy? Does he love his mommy? Yes he does! Yes he does!

Strangely there is no sign of the dog. He is usually all over her. — Where are you hiding! Are you sick, baby? Kendra murmurs as she picks the handset from the coffee table and clicks on the television set. A date show flashes into her front room. The losers on parade make her happier to have come home alone. But it’s too quiet. Where was that little monster! She goes into one room, then another, feeling herself being breached by a sense of imminence. The apartment is silent and she can hear her own heart thump as she checks the cupboards, under the beds, all his hiding places.

Nothing!

The dog has gone. There is no trace of him. Sensing something evaporating inside her, Kendra sits down. Gathers her breath. Then she gets up and ventures outside. Had he somehow darted out when she’d opened the door? Unlikely. She surely would have noticed. She wasn’t that drunk. Down in the railed garden courtyard, she repeats his name over and over. — Toto. Toh-toh-oh-oh-oh.

There is no sign of him as she walks down the sidewalk around her block. Kendra is tentative, as if she expects her dog to materialize out of the vaporous night air, like a furry, floppy-eared angel. She squats in the narrow deserted street and calls his name, as if to do so will launch him into her lap from behind some shrub or tree. Soon all she can do, though, is contemplate the designer rips, frays, and distressing on the knees and thighs of her blue jeans.

Chef suddenly comes to mind. He might have seen Toto. She remembers that she had to take in a package for him from FedEx earlier; a long box. Retrieving it, she climbs up the stairs and bangs on the door. He answers, and he’s still in his whites. — This came for you, she tells him, his face glowing as she hands over the box. — You haven’t seen my dog around, have you?

— No, he informs her, — not seen.

— I just came back from a drink with some friends and now he’s gone, she finds herself sniffing to stifle a fretful rising inside her.

They head back downstairs in the garden, where Chef, a flashlight in his hand, helps her to search again for signs of Toto. They shine the beam up to where a window is open in her apartment. It’s in the back spare room, but there is no way the dog could have survived had he fallen from that height and there is nothing in the garden to suggest he had.

Back in her apartment, Kendra sits on the couch all of a sudden aware that heavy sobs are bubbling up through her. She hears the chef’s voice through her muffled confusion; insistent, instructing, and she gets up and follows him up the stairs, without being fully aware why. The pufferfish in the tank pout in scandalized outrage at her. As Chef goes into the kitchen, she says softly to them, — I’m sorry I ate your friend. Please bring Toto back.

Chef comes through with two glasses of Scotch in cut-glass tumblers. Kendra thinks briefly this isn’t what she needs, then she tries to work out what it is she does need, and can’t, so lets the proffered glass fill the void. Then he makes her eat something, a noodle concoction.

As she forces down the food and drink, Chef opens the box she has brought and is delighted with the sword he takes out. Unlike the other one it has a straight blade. — Ninja sword, by Paul Chen, one of best makes, Chef explains. — Ninja sword always straight, no like Shinto katana. He points at the one they used yesterday. Chef swings the sword as Kendra half-heartedly munches her way through the small supper.

— As a chef, knives very important. A good set of knives is everything. Always must respect things that cut flesh, he says.

Kendra is not so fascinated this time, in fact she feels a little sick. She can’t help thinking about the danger such a weapon would be to Toto. He was so frail and small. How could anybody hurt something so defenceless? But there was evil in this world. She shakes off her melancholy thoughts. With the Scotch, the food comforts her a little and she regains some composure. — Thank you for being so kind. You like Scotch in Japan, yes?

The chef nods lightly with a dumb smile, like he doesn’t quite understand her.

— Japan, it seems so mystical, Kendra continues, feeling foolish as she recalls that Chef’s restaurant is called the Mystic East. — Eh, whereabouts in Japan do you come from?

— Korean, Chef points to himself. — Only came Japan study cooking. To Tokyo. But born and raise in Korea.

Korea.

And something thin and dark in the chef’s smile — something that does not lend itself easily to definition — disturbs Kendra greatly. Excusing herself she heads downstairs to her apartment. Cranking up the air con, she undresses quickly and tumbles into bed. An exhausted, alcoholic sleep claims her, and she feels herself fighting in the night against its terrors. Rattling sounds fill the bedroom. She can hear Toto whining miserably, as if entombed in the walls. She rises, aware that somebody is in the apartment. Chef stands in the doorway, naked. His body is sinewy and yellow in the light. He has an outsized penis, its tip almost at his knees. The samurai sword is in his hand, hanging losely by his side. Kendra screams.

She is back in her bed. Something warm lies next to her; her heartbeat races and dips, as she sees it’s just her pillow. The room is silent, save for the soft whirr of the air con.

The Saturday morning dawns muggy, the chirping of the birds in the oak tree outside particularly bellicose as Kendra wakes up, blinking in the striped sunlight pouring through the blinds. The bolt of fear surfaces in her. Toto, oh Toto. She rises and pulls on a Chicago Bears T-shirt, her dressing gown spilling, like so many other garments, from the wicker laundry basket to the floor. The desperate chaos of her apartment, clothes strewn everywhere, is hurtful to her, and it has been thrown into further disarray in the frantic search for Toto. Picturing the parental home at Highland Park, the stucco, the timbered gables, the electric green lawn, airy and swollen like a comforter (if only the earth really swallowed you up in that way), a sour alcoholic burping sob rises nauseously in her chest. She is supposed to work this Saturday morning but calls in, leaving a message on the answering machine. — It’s Kendra. I won’t be in this morning. My… she hesitates about telling the truth, —… my sister Karla… my baby sister, she says, choking with emotion as she recalls a young bathing-suited Karla with her on a lakeside beach, before an image of a galloping Toto with something in his mouth supplants it, —… was in a road-traffic accident… I just pray… I’m going there right now, and she puts the phone down.

Kendra doesn’t quite trust herself to drive and calls a cab, instructing the driver to head to the city dog pound at Western Avenue, on the South Side, going towards Cicero. In her emotional state, the guilt at using Karla in such an underhand way kicks in, and she fires off a prayer of forgiveness and one of salvation for Toto. On the journey paranoia is tearing from her. It takes them an age to get onto the Kennedy Expressway, and when they get to the South Side, it’s clear that the Indian driver doesn’t know the city. — You do nat stay on 55, Kendra screeches, her nerves shredded, — No Stevenson Expressway! No, no! You come off on Damon. Then you turn on to Western!

Now her overheated mind half recalls a recent case of a Chicago Police lieutenant’s dog being euthanized when it was supposed to be held for a ten-day rabies observation. The staff at the dog pound had tried to cover up the mistake and the authorities raided the facility. What if they had done the same thing with poor Toto?

Western Avenue is a desolate enough street on the North Side, but this far down Kendra finds the neighborhood positively sinister: run-down, empty, and with an ominous air of threat. Although it’s broad daylight, she is still happy to complete the short walk from the car to the building. But the dog pound merely distresses her further. Inside, all those uncared-for and abandoned animals. But a search reveals that Toto isn’t one of them. — I’m sorry, a chunky Hispanic woman tells her.

She dials a cab on her cell, waits twenty wretched minutes before it comes to ferry her back over to the North Side, away from all the happy poor people, reunited with their loved pets. On the way back, the pop-up downtown area drawing closer, she can’t stop thinking about Chef. Who was he really, and what did she know about him? His love of Asian cuisine and samurai swords, his keeping of pufferfish in the tanks to be consumed fresh. That sword. She suddenly shudders in her seat as she thinks of it cutting her beloved Toto in two pieces like the watermelon, his existence — and all that love — snuffed out in one sharp yelp. The cab is so hot inside and to stop her neck burning on the leather headrest, Kendra has to undo her ponytail and let her long hair fan out and act like a cover.

When she gets home, Kendra goes online, searching for ‘Korean’ and ‘dog meat’.

Her heart pounds as she reads:

Even more upsetting is a subsequent passage:

Kendra prints off some of the papers, then heads out into the street. Walking for a bit, she passes one blue police patrol car, then another, until they thicken, spilling out into the adjoining streets like casino chips toward their concentration in one parking lot at the side of a building that sits imposingly on the corner of a city block. It bears the sign: CITY OF CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT.

The desk officer is munching takeout and drinking coffee from Dunkin Donuts. As Kendra walks in, her untied hair swinging wildly, he licks his lips. — Yes, miss? he says obsequiously, his eyes going straight to her cleavage.

— My dog has gone missing.

— That’s too bad. Well, we got a little form for you to fill out with some of the details. He smiles broadly, pulling some paperwork from a box in a unit of slated pigeonholes.

— No need for that. I know where he is. I have a neighbor, she blurts out. — He’s a chef. And he’s always cooking!

The cop chuckles lightly to himself. — Guess that sounds about right.

— No, Kendra snaps in irritation, — he’s Korean!

The desk officer looks pointedly at her. — And what has this to do with your dog?

— A chef? Korean? Hello! Her eyes go as big as eight balls on a pool table.

The policeman laughs in her face, and she can even feel some of his spittle hitting her. She rubs it with her hand. The officer looks dumbly at her in some vague lame apology, then steels himself, moving into pompous official mode. — We cannot go harassing members of the city’s Korean population every time somebody’s dog goes missing.

— Well, maybe you should, Kendra says, slamming the papers she’d printed from the websites onto the desk, — because it’s well known that people in South Korea eat dogs and cats!

— We ain’t in Korea, miss. They don’t do that sort of thing here.

— How in hell’s name do you know that?

— Well, I guess it’s our different cultures. I see it as kinda about respect. Like, people in India do not believe in eating cows. They get horrified at the way cows are treated here in the USA. But they know we do things differently, so they accept it. Just like Korean folks accept that they can’t eat dog here. But it’s a valid point, in general terms, don’tcha think?

— No it is nat! The relationship between pets or even working animals and their owners is intrinsically different to that between humans and domesticated animals raised for food! Can’t you see that?! Kendra shouts, unable to believe that the police officer is even attempting to justify this.

The officer is not for backing down. — Dunno bout that. I guess the way they see it is that some animals are raised to hunt, others to fight, others to be eaten. Besides, pet breeds ain’t used for food back there in Korea.

— You don’t know! Kendra wails. — I’ve researched this! She points at the papers. — Because dog meat is expensive, the people in rural areas of Korea will raise and kill the dogs themselves; or steal them. That chef’s done something awful to Toto. I just fucking know he has!

— What kind of dog are we talking about?

— He’s a papillon.

— Right. No offence, miss, but a papillon dog don’t exactly constitute a banquet. Why, I doubt you’d get a decent portion of gyro outta one of them little guys, the cop smiles.

— I want him back! Will you fucking well help me find my dog!

The policeman’s voice grows firmer. — Now, miss, I realise that you’re a little upset here. Why don’t you just go home and see if that little fellow shows up and we’ll call you if anything happens this end?

— Thank you, Kendra sneers sarcastically. — Thank you so much for your help.

Outside on the steps of the station, she seethes in impotence. The only thing she can think of doing is to head home. Back at the apartment she stealthily creeps upstairs and listens outside the chef’s door. There is no sound. She goes back downstairs. Her despondency is compounded further by the mess of her apartment. A huge laundry has piled up but she can’t face going down into that basement right now.

Kendra decides to go and visit Stephanie at her workplace. She should be finishing up soon. Steph knows about animals and their behavior. She might be able to piece together Toto’s state of mind and his likely destination, if it wasn’t up the stairs and into the chef’s cooking pot. She heads to the practice on Clark. — Miss Harbison has just finished a consultation, the soccer mom receptionist informs her.

She goes into Stephanie’s office. Her friend is at the window, blowing cigarette smoke out into the street. — God, those people, Stephanie scoffs, looking below onto the Clark traffic, — they cannot seem to accept that they are nat my clients. They are merely the sponsors. Victor is the client.

— Who is… Victor?

— A Netherland dwarf rabbit with an eating disorder. I felt like saying to his stupid bitch of an owner, ‘Have you looked at yourself in a goddamn mirror lately? Ever stopped to consider that poor Victor might just be modeling behavior?’ Stephanie bellows in exasperation. Then she seems to regard Kendra for the first time. — But you look stressed out, honey. What’s up? she asks, then wariness sharpens her features. — Like, why are you here?

— Toto’s gone! The chef… upstairs, the guy from the restaurant; he’s done something terrible to Toto. He’s Korean. They eat dogs!

— You cannat be serious, Stephanie says, then she molds her face in that expression, the one she always thinks of as her ‘clinical, diagnostic’ look. It involves making her eyebrows almost collide. — Look, Kennie, Toto was — she corrects herself, — is… a very sweet dog, but let’s face it, he has several issues.

An arrow of filial failure thuds into Kendra’s chest. — You think I should have taken him to Dr Stark?

Stephanie flicks her cigarette out the window, sits down, crossing her legs. She regards her own fishnets, enjoying what she thinks of as ‘the coiled-springed sexuality’ of them. They were pantyhose but guys never knew for sure. You just reeled in the catch, like she’d most certainly done last night. A fortuitous chance meeting in the street on the way home, then a late drink, after the others had departed. She regards Kendra, who was just a little too quick to wind up the evening, and something approaching shame bubbles up inside her. Then she slips back into her professional mode. — Phil Stark would have identified Toto’s abandonment/rejection complex straight away and drawn an appropriate behavior modification program, she briskly informs her friend. — I also think it was a no-no calling him Toto. By identifying him with the dog in The Wizard of Oz, you subconsciously factor in the state of his being lost and searching for home as an inbuilt element of his psyche.

— But he has a home, Kendra cries, — our home!

— Course he does, princess, Stephanie agrees, — Toto’s a very loved little dog, she coos, realizing that Kendra is too distraught to be left alone. She calls Stacie, telling her to meet them back at Kendra’s apartment. They leave the practice and walk down Clark without speaking to each other. As well as the intense heat, they are now assaulted by thunderous roars in the skies above them, as four jets, like birds of prey in a mechanized flock, slash through the clear blue sky.

Back at the apartment, Stacie appears and they sit together on the couch, comforting a distraught Kendra with a glass of wine. — I can’t go out… I just feel so helpless, waiting by the phone, she says. Then there is an almighty roar from outside, the jets flying so low that the window bellies inwards. — Shit, Kendra barks in a galled enmity, — Can they not go to Iraq and do that? Is that not what it’s for?

— It’s just a show of strength. I find it pretty reassuring, Stephanie says. — I like the idea of us burning loads of gas in these trials.

— It must be terrible living in a war zone, Stacie shudders.

— It’s kinda what they choose, Stephanie asserts. — If they don’t like it, they can get off their butts and leave, like our forefathers who came here did.

Stacie seems to consider this for a while. Then she casts her eyes around Kendra’s apartment. It’s a mess, but it’s exactly what she needs. — I’ll bet this place is really expensive, she eventually says as she registers the empty spare room she has long harbored designs on moving into. — Can you afford it? she asks Kendra.

— Jeez, you don’t get it, Stace. That question should be reframed: can I afford not to have it? Get with the Breaking News: princesses live in palaces, she shrieks, sliding a Xanax into her mouth, and washing it down with a sip of red wine.

Stephanie fidgets, looks at her watch and tries to get onto the subject of work. — Real estates’s booming, right, Kendra?

Kendra would normally breezily chirp, ‘More than ever,’ even if the market was slow, aware that expectations drive everything and therefore need to be talked up. It was the professional way. Now she can only distractedly moan, — Toto was an angel in the body of a dog.

— She’s so upset, Stacie whispers to Stephanie, as she squeezes Kendra’s knee.

Some people just shouldn’t try to understand this world, Stephanie thinks wearily. Then she leans forward and touches her friend’s hand. — Kennie, I’m worried about you.

— No need, sugar, I’m fine, Kendra protests in a small, reedy voice.

Oh God, compassion fatigue is kicking in, Stephanie considers, trying to convert a yawn into a smile. She just about succeeds but the strain of it makes her consider exit strategies and she’s already thinking about a future engagement.

Stacie offers to stay in the spare room, but Kendra is absolutely insistent that she’d rather be alone. When they depart, she waits up, channel-hopping with the sound turned down. She can hear somebody entering the apartment complex. It’s Chef; she’s already gotten to know the plodding, deliberate pattern of his footsteps on the concrete stairs outside. Who else could it be at this time?

She heads out to intercept him on the stairs. — Hey, you!

— No sign of dog? he cheerfully asks.

— No… I’ve even been to the pound, she shakes her head. — I can’t sleep. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for another one of those medicinal drinks you gave me yesterday?

— Very tired, long day. Chef raises his dark brows in what she takes to be a plea.

— Just a little one? Kendra purrs, thinking, for some reason, of Chef naked.

— Come, says Chef, pointing to the stairs. At his apartment, he opens the door and ushers her in.

When he moves into the toilet, Kendra waits until she can hear his urine splash, then takes her chance and goes to the kitchen. She looks through some of the cupboards. Nothing. Then she moves to the refrigerator. She looks at it, hesitating in the face of its cold, immutable form. Then the thermostat clicks suddenly, and her heart misses a beat. Steeling herself, Kendra moves over and grabs the handle of the refrigerator, yanking the door open. Squints under the light as a small carcass greets her. She almost screams.

But it’s only a chicken.

She can see that. Kendra leaves the kitchen and moves across to the giant scratching post in the corner of the lounge, the one Chef uses for sword practice. Behind it is a small cupboard. She bends over and reaches for the handle.

— Do not do that, a voice comes sharply from behind her. She turns quickly, and Chef is standing in the doorway with a samurai sword in his hand. She freezes, mimicking the expression on his cold, immobile face.

The week passed without Kendra returning any calls, but Stacie was not unduly perturbed. Kennie could be a moody girl, she reasoned. A lost dog, new boyfriend, bad menstrual cramps, running out of Xanax; anything could do it, she’d joked to Stephanie. Besides, they knew where she would be come 12.30 p.m. on Friday. Stephanie, however, was a bit more concerned. How would she break the news to Kendra about her seeing Trent? It would be a tough spin. She worried that her friend had already somehow learned of this burgeoning romance, and that this was what the big sulk was all about.

Stacie and Stephanie meet on Clark. It is still hot, but the temperature has fallen a little. Smoky clouds hide the sun and the air feels heavy and muggy. When they get to the restaurant, the closed sign is up. The place seems deserted, but then the door swings inwards, and a grinning Chef emerges to greet them.

— Are you, like, open? Stacie asks.

— Always open, but only for special customers, Chef points at them. — Min go sick, in heat. Fall sleep at music concert in park. Have bad sunburn. Akiro back in Japan for funeral for one week. Only me here, but I cook very special dish for you.

Stephanie looks at Stacie, then at Chef. — Eh, have you seen Kendra?

— Oh yes, Chef smiles, — she will be here. Come!

The girls go into the restaurant and sit down, Stacie feeling more privileged than Stephanie that Chef has opened up exclusively for them. However, by 12.45 Kendra still hasn’t appeared. — It isn’t like her to be late, Stephanie muses, checking her watch, thinking that sashimi would be a good call in this heat. No rice; carbs after noon was a disgusting habit. — Probably a crisis at work. She said that bitch Marilyn had been bending her flaps, she snorts, as her thoughts turn to Trent. One more makeout session would probably close the deal and consign catwoman Pallister to the trash can of dating history.

— It’s terrible when you don’t get on with your co-workers, Stacie says.

How the fuck would you know? Stephanie thinks. — Well, condo developments. I ask you, she acridly observes. Trent pops into her mind again. An architect’s practice; a serious upgrade on Todd. No more twentysomething loser musos, their numbers as prolific as sparrows as they hopped around the city from apartment to dive bar to gig. No more feigning interest at unsolicited disclosures of ‘exciting projects’. And Stephanie and Trent had a ring to it. At family gatherings, perhaps a Thanksgiving up at the cabin in Wisconsin. Trent and I can make it in a couple of hours if we take the convertible. Poor Kendra. But omelette, eggs, breaking.

Chef appears with a large platter of meat. — For you to try. Very special dish.

— All protein, says Stephanie.

He watches as they prepare to take a bite.

Closing her eyes as her lips part around the morsel on the fork, Stephanie lets the buttery meat slowly dissolve in her mouth, inducing a rapturous response from her taste buds. An aura of hovering sunlight seems to melt through her. — My God, this is fantastic! So succulent. What is it?

— I love it, Stacie agrees, — it’s got a really tangy, almost salty taste, but it’s so subtle.

Chef contemplates her large eyes. His tongue darts over his lips to remove a layer of sodium that has frosted there. — Old recipe. They say this meat can be stringy but all is in marinade. Have to pulverize it to tenderize it first. That is secret.

— Is it pork? Stacie asks. — It sorta tastes like pork, but the texture’s more like chicken…

— Finish meal, I show you later, he points to the kitchen door and follows his own finger through to his den.

Stacie and Stephanie sit back and enjoy their meal, as they wait for Kendra to show up.

— God, Kennie will be so jealous, Stacie purrs, — we got to try something new and she didn’t!

They eat with a ravenous enthusiasm, captivated by this mystery dish; the meat tender and succulent, yet with a gamy strength to it, and it makes them temporarily forget about the absence of their friend.

Then, after a while, Chef reappears at their table. — I have something very important I must show you. Come! He beckons the girls into the kitchen. Bemused, they get up and follow him. — Secret ingredient in there. Then I have other surprise for you! Picking up a huge filleting knife from the sushi bar, Chef holds the heavy, swinging door open with his free hand and ushers them in, grinning as he lets it thump shut behind them.

Marilyn sits in the office and looks at the empty chair by Kendra’s desk. She thinks: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. A sentence escapes her mouth: — How long is that little bitch going to be ill over her freakin sister? she says, possibly to herself, although Greg and Cassandra can hear her.

About ten minutes after this Kendra Cross bursts purposefully through the door and heads toward her workstation.

— So, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, Marilyn smiles caustically. — And how is your sister?

— Never mind my sister, Kendra hisses, looking over her shoulder and putting some personal effects into her bag.

— Oh, so I take it you’re leaving us, Marilyn sneers. — Had a better offer?

Kendra turns around and regards her, hand on hip. — Yes I have, she lies. — You know why? she asks, and without waiting for an answer bursts into a rant: — I’ll have you know that you played a big fucking part in murdering my dog, you miserable cunt, and you know why you did this? Huh? Because you’ve never loved anything in your fucking pathetic life. And that’s because you are so inherently fucking unlovable.

There is a three-second total silence in the office.

— You fucking spoiled little… Marilyn breaks the impasse with a gasp, then whines painfully, — You don’t know me, and she looks around at her subordinates in appeal, — you know nothing about me… Kennie, you’re upset, I…

— I know that you’re so fucking lame. She looks around at the others. — All of you are! Get with the project: the real-estate market here is dead! They cannot make the pre-sales to keep constructing those horrible fucking condos and you’re all gonna be out on your lazy fat asses soon! And another thing, she focuses on Marilyn again, — you are always the laughing stock on our nights out, right, Greg?

Greg reddens and turns away sharply, as the front door opens and Stephanie, flanked by Stacie, steps into the open-plan office, carrying Toto in her arms. Seeing Kendra, he lets out a short volley of excited yelps. — Hey-ey-ey! Guess who showed up! Stephanie sings.

Kendra turns to face them, her mouth in a quivering spasm in response to the evidence of her eyes and ears. Her first thought is: could she be hallucinating? She’d gone up to her parents’ place in Highland Park for a few days to regroup, retrench, wait by her cellphone in hope, and then, when nothing happened, to mourn Toto. In the sleep deprivation, the Xanax, and the mind-mashing heat, she no longer totally trusts her senses.

— Chef found him trapped in the vent shaft down in the laundry room, Stephanie smiles, to Kendra’s bemused delight. — He must have opened that grille in your front room behind the couch and fell down there. He was okay, just a bit startled, hungry and thirsty. Chef gave him a good feed and he’s fine. She pushes the dog into Kendra’s arms. — Where have you been?

— Oh my God, I… I… I went to my mom’s, I was so depressed… but he’s back! My baby is back! She gasps as the tears of joy flow. — He came back…

— You don’t make fun of me, do you? Greg? Cassie? Marilyn pleads. Then she fixes Kendra in a poisoned glare. — Get out of here! Get the fuck out! Take that fucking little rat with you!

— I gotta go, Kendra smiles at her friends, walking to the door, with Stephanie and Stacie in pursuit.

Stephanie stops, turns around, and fixes the ranting Marilyn with a look of disdain. — Advice: try cock. Or at least find a bitch with a tongue that works.

— Ooh-hoo! Hell, yeah, sister! Stacie choruses in black girl’s voice, high-fiving Stephanie.

Marilyn screams at their backs as they go through the exit doors, — You fucking do not insult me in my place of work! I’m calling the police! It’s trespass, is what it is! Trespass!

— Jeez, Stacie exclaims, as they head into the street, Marilyn’s rant still ringing in their ears, — what happened back there?

— I guess I’m looking for a new job, Kendra says, filling her nostrils with the scent of Toto.

— Wow, Stacie smiles, thinking about Kendra’s finances and that empty spare room.

Stephanie pats the dog’s small head. — Chef was doing laundry when he heard the noise coming from the overhead air ducts. He left you a note but you’d gone. We thought you would be round at the restaurant today.

— I haven’t been back to the apartment… I came straight here from my mom’s…

— You missed such a feast, Kennie, Stacie sang. — Chef made us a big platter of wild boar. I got a fright when he took us back into the kitchen and made me open up the refrigerator and a big boar’s head was staring at me! He’s a real character!

— Thank you so much. You two are just the best friends ever! Kendra gushes, as her cellphone goes off. She digs it out of her bag with dexterity, as she’s still holding Toto. — Hi-i-i… she coos into the mouthpiece. — Okay, okay… no… this evening at eleven round yours is fine. Okay. See you.

Stephanie feels something ominous settling inside her, ready to fall like a lump of lead. She can’t speak. Stacie nonchalantly chirps, — Who was that?

— Trent. He called me this morning. Says he’s being stalked by some psycho-bitch, Kendra says matter-of-factly. — Apparently he and some loser had a drunken makeout last week and she’s been bombarding him with texts, emails, and phone calls ever since. You know the type, she shrugs. — I’m gonna go round and cheer him up, she smiles, oblivious to the blood draining from Stephanie’s face. — But right now I think I need some quiet time with this little prince, Kendra nods at her dog, then dabs at a few tears which form over her smile, before adding, — alone. Thanks… you two are the greatest!

Stephanie gasps, feels giddy and weak in the heat, and can hear nothing outside of a ringing in her ears and some traffic noises. She can see Stacie mouthing something at Kendra, who is waving them goodbye as she turns and heads briskly down Clark toward her apartment clutching Toto in her arms, who sits in his exhalted position, imperious in his regard for the other dogs.