"It's not glamorous, but if you can take the trash out to the dumpster, I'd appreciate it."
I jerked my head towards the can in the corner, the bag spilling over the rim.
"Consider it done." He carefully tied the neck and carried it out.
I handed the last of the pots to Cass to rinse out before they went in the dishwasher and grabbed up a cloth to wipe around the stove.
"Is Archer looking for a job here too?" Cass asked jokingly.
"Archer has a job," Archer said, stepping back into the kitchen. "I'm working on a play right now. It's about a chef."
"It's not about Chef Stabby, is it?"
I didn't want to be the next big thing on Broadway. The demon chef who murdered people and turned them into dinner. For one thing, it wasn't original, as musicals went. Although maybe there was more room on the stage for something other than the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. The man who sliced his customers throats instead of shaving them. While singing, if the musical was to be believed.
"If it is, can I be in it?" Cass asked eagerly.
"You could be the cute nerdy guy who does the washing up," I told him.
"You think I'm cute?"
"Of course I do. I think you're both cute," I told them.
I cocked my head at Archer. "You didn't answer the question." If he thought I was going to let that slide, he'd have to think again.
"It's not about Chef Stabby." He placed another bag in the trash can and smoothing down the sides. "It's about a chef who helps people in need. People who've had a hard life. Bad things happened to them." He pressed his lips together.
"I could still be the cute nerd that does the washing up," Cass pointed out.
Archer regarded him. "Possibly. I have to finish it first."
My face heated. "You're writing a play about me?"
"It's worthy subject matter," Archer said with a twitch of his shoulder. "And it'll draw attention to the fact there are people out there who have real need. I want to get it in front of as many rich and famous people as I can." The look in his eyes suggested he might tie them down if they didn't turn up to watch voluntarily.
"Archer Hardwick, social justice warrior," I said, approvingly.
"What's the point of art and literature if you can't use it to speak for you?" Archer said. "It's all political at the end of the day."
"I suppose it is," I agreed. His angle certainly was. If he wrote a play about Chef Stabby trying to level the playing field for innocent people, that was too.
"No one would believe the other story," Archer said, opening the dishwasher for Cass to load the pots inside.
"I hope not," I said. "It'd be hard to keep a low profile if?—"
I stopped talking when Shelly stepped into the kitchen with a pile of plates and bowls in her arms. Cass took them from her and she hurried back out.
"We shouldn't be talking about this stuff here," I said.
Not while Shelly and Yvette were around anyway. The last thing I needed was for them to stumble on what their boss and her boyfriends were really like. That would be awkward to say the least, and dangerous at worst.
They could go to Detective Getzoff and tell him what they knew. Or I'd have to stop them from doing that, which was the last thing I wanted.
No, the less they knew, the better.
If you told me a few months ago, even four other people knew what I was doing, I'd shoot down the idea. Before that, I largely worked alone, only sharing the occasional kill with Archer. It seemed easier that way. Safer. The fewer people who knew what you were up to, the less chance there was of being found out and turned over to the police.
Or people like Hypnos and Zeus.
