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13
October 2009
| "The I Do's of
March"
by M. Mitchell Marmel & E.O. Costello © 2007-9 by M. Mitchell Marmel and E.O. Costello Willow Fawnsworthy, Reggie Buckhorn, Franklin Stagg, Orrin Brush, Leslie duCleds, Kara Karoksdottir, Charles Foster Crane, Inocenta du Cleds (nee de Ciervos), Carlos de Ciervos, Senora de Ciervos © Eric Costello Rosie Baumgartner, © M. Mitchell Marmel Marryin’ Sam and Lulubelle Mae Brunswick © E.O Costello and M. Mitchell Marmel Brenda and Covina Johnson © Walter D. Reimer Part Eight
Rosie: Sure hope Geneva don't go after the exterminator. That guy's GOOD. Anyhow, I got the storeroom cleaned up and stocked with all the goodies Willow and Reggie had brought over. By then, it was knocking-off time. Next morning, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the urn ... well, this may sound weird, but it made the whole place come to life. Like it was grateful. I was settled at the counter, sipping at my cup when someone knocked at the door. "Come on in!" The someone in question turned out to be a strawberry blonde vixen. "Hi! Can I get a cup of coffee?" "Wellll...technically, we're still closed..." The vixen looked crestfallen. "But have a cup with me, nu? Rosie Baumgartner." "Victoria Knox. Call me Vicky." She neatly poured a cup, added sugar and settled down a couple of seats over. "...I saw the Help Wanted sign out front." I nodded. "Interested?" Vicky smiled. Nice smile. "Could be. What do you have open?" I bit down the obvious answer. After all, I was taken. "Apart from owner, pretty much everything . . ." We both chuckled. "For starters, a cook. One waitress to start with. And a handyfur to take out trash and wash dishes." Vicky sipped her coffee. "Well . . . Mama used to say I could burn water, so chef is out." I snickered. "They told me I couldn't boil pizza. So, where ya from?" "Here and there," Vicky grimaced a bit. "Got tired of the carny circuit." I was liking this gal more and more. "Carny, eh?" “Yeah. ‘Vicky Knox, Knife-thrower Extraordinare.’ Got top billing in some shows. But now I’m looking to put down some roots.” "Same here." I refilled her coffee. "Worked in burley-Q for years. Sooo . . ." I looked at her speculatively. "What you looking for?" "Oh, the usual. Love, understanding, a big mansion with hunky gardeners . . ." I laughed. "Would you settle for, say . . . ten shillings an hour?" I winked. "Not in the same league as those high priced joints on Casino Island, you understand." Vicky thought it over, and stuck out a paw. "Done and done." We shook paws on the deal. “Like I say, I’ve got contractors coming in to spruce the place up, so I’m looking to open in about a week. Okay?” “Looking forward to it. Do you have a uniform?” Tempting . . . very tempting . . . "Nope. Sorry. Wear something appropriate; I'll provide the apron and such." “Fair enough.” She finished off her coffee. “I’ll be back in a week, then, Rosie. Thank you again.” "My pleasure," I beamed. A ... speculative look from Vicky. Made me wonder what she'd heard about me. "In a week, then!" She smiled as she let herself out. I sipped my coffee. My first employee! "EEK!" The sound of a slap, followed by the iron gate slamming. I was at the door so fast I spilled most of my coffee. Vicky was stalking down the street, leaving a tall rabbit in her wake, grinning and rubbing his face. H'm. Vicky wasn't feline, but she was a fellow femme. Solidarity with a sister and all that. I arched one eyebrow coolly. "Can you be helped?" Bunny-boy turned, still grinning. “Hallo! I see you have the sign saying ‘Help Wanted.’” His accent was Russian. “If it is help you are hiring, I, Nikolai Ivanovich Lopanearov, am at your service.” "Mmm-hmmm. You just pinched my only waitress. Hopefully, she'll come back. So. What are YOU good for?" He was already scraping plates in my imagination. “Ho ho! I have the honor of having been the second chef at the Grand, on Casino Island.” “Oh?” Second chef at one of the good joints? What was he doing here? “Okay, Nikolai Ivanovich . . . ” “Nick, please.” “Okeh, Nickplease,” a snicker from the bunny, “we’ve got a couple burners working. Make me something.” One really GOOD salmon and cheese omelet later: “Wow. How come you left the Grand?” “Because I no make the egg foo young. Nikolai Ivanovich refuse.” “Why?” “Because it was not egg, nor was it young. It was merely foo.” He made a face before laughing. I was having second thoughts; at least he didn’t make a Smokey Stover joke. “And your wages were . . . “ “Twenty shilling the hour.” “Huh. This place ain’t the Grand. Twelve shillings.” He thought it over, then stuck out his paw. “Rosie Baumgartner,” I said. He had a good grip. “Thank you. You will see, and you will not regret. Nikolai Ivanovich is a great cook!” With that he left, whistling jauntily and nearly knocking over one of the painters. I sighed, a mixture of relief and concern. I HAD to make a go of this place now. People were depending on me. next |