The two men and three women—lawyers for one of the investor groups, if their boring suits and sharky eyes are any indication—reach for the appetizers. I watch like a hawk to make sure they’re selecting from the ninety-five percent of puffs that are Chef Samson perfection and not the five percent that feature an extra ingredient just for Howard Randall. Those ticking time bombs are marked with extra garnish and are placed on the side of the tray facing me so I can keep them out of reach of any innocent partygoers.
As the probable lawyers are loading up on puffs, the band launches into the opening notes of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and a deeply tanned white woman enters the room with a bird in a cage, walking with great ceremony to the small, leafy tree sitting in a pot in front of one of the Christmas trees.
“Ohhh a partridge,” one of the women says around a mouthful of crab. “So I’m guessing that’s a pear tree.”
“Great, now I’m craving fried chicken.” The man next to her turns to me. “Any chance that’s on the menu tonight?”
I glance at the pretty little partridge in its cage, then back at the guy hungrily licking his lips. Definitely an investment bank lawyer.
“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ll check,” I say politely as I slide away from the table.
As I drift through the large room toward Howard and his VIPs, I give a mental fist pump. Maxine said he’d set up shop at they biggest table with the best view of the stage as part of his plan to woo the most important of his potential IPO investors, so I went all in on placing my doctored Christmas ornaments in this area, hanging from the branches of the nearby trees, nestling them into table’s centerpiece, and stringing them from the evergreen boughs draped overhead and conveniently near the heating vents. Howard’s home base is lousy with my special decorating touches, and ohhh, those ornaments are going to fuck up his night.
But first, I need to come face to face with Howard and pray he doesn’t recognize me.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter under my breath as I approach his table with my best please don’t look at my actual face demeanor. The closer I get to the VIP group, the more I’m aware of a vaguely unpleasant smell that tells me my decorations are doing their job, and I toss a quick prayer to whatever deity’s listening that the durian fruit I stuffed into those hollow ornaments keep up the good work as the night wears on.
Sweat prickles my scalp under the wig as I walk toward Howard. We haven’t seen each other in person in half a decade, and he’s such a prick that I’m guessing he doesn’t remember the faces of the women he hasn’t tried to cheat on his wife with. Still, it would’ve been better if my server friend was the one delivering the ghost pepper-laced appetizers to his table like we planned. But when Marissa started vomiting this afternoon, there was nobody available to step in other than me. So here I am in a poorly fitting uniform and baby’s first drag show makeup.
Counterpoint: this disguise lets me enjoy the stress in Howard’s voice once I’m in earshot.
“—no idea why,” he says in a nasally tone. His beady little eyes sweep the mostly empty room, and the sparse beige hair clinging to his scalp can’t hide the tan splotches from too much golf and not enough sunscreen. “Like I told you, this party is the highlight of the season every year for Sounder employees. I don’t know where they all are.”
My lips twitch. According to my sources—a.k.a. Maxine, and how glad am I that we ended up splitting a bottle of wine at a local businesswomen’s event a few years ago?—this is the first year Howard’s hosted any kind of holiday party that took place outside of the office and didn’t involve room-temperature catering from one of the sandwich shops in town. He only pulled out the stops to convince these investors to officially commit to helping him take Sounder public. Maybe if he’d tried a little harder for his employees over the years, it wouldn’t have been so insanely easy to hijack his plans and ruin his party. Based on the uncomfortable body language around the VIP table, I’d say Operation Tank Howard is off to a strong start.
Instead of heading straight for the man with the punchable face, I move to the right and hold out the tray to a pair of middle-aged women staring dubiously into their cocktail glasses.
I don’t know why the bar ended up with only Rumple Minze, and I doubly don’t know why they’re mixing it with grapefruit juice, but I’m counting my blessings. It’s both gross and strong, which is a win/win for me. And sure, I feel a little bad ruining the night for the rest of the guests, who by all accounts have no idea what a corrupt shitweasel their host is. But taking down Howard will save them from legal and financial trouble down the road and, frankly, will make the world a better place.
“Crab puff?” I ask the couple.
“Yes, please,” the dark-haired woman says, taking a puff for herself and for the silver-haired woman next to her.
Hey, at least the terrible drinks won’t stop them from enjoying Samson’s food.
Making sure the safe crab puffs are the easiest to access, I offer my wares to the rest of the group. The bone-thin man, who paired his slim-cut tuxedo with an eye-searing emerald bow tie, turns down the hors d’oeuvres, while his bone-thin wife in the black dress with a shoulder bow larger than her head grabs two. So do the young, twitchy guys in flashy paisley tuxes. Given their age, clothing choices, and commitment to their phones, I’m guessing those two are the private equity investors and that it might not be Rumple Minze, but something white and powdered, giving them that extra sparkle in their eyes.
The last members of the group are two severe-looking seventy-somethings with snowy hair and oddly taut pink faces. With the other couples, I can’t tell who’s the investor and who’s the spouse, but it’s immediately clear that this SPAM-faced man is the deep pockets, and the thin-lipped woman’s his wife. It’s all in his puffed-up body language and her deferential tilt in his direction, plus the fact that Howard’s practically kissing the guy on the mouth. I’m guessing this guy’s from Vanguard or one of the other major players; rumor has it that a deal with a mutual fund is one of the make or breaks for the IPO.
Well, I plan to break it, one canapé at a time.
The woman purses her lips when I hold out the tray.
“No seafood.”
I take a quick step back. “Allergies?” Sending someone to the hospital isn’t in the plan.
“Preference.” She shoots a peeved glance at her husband. “Didn’t you tell them in our RSVP?”
He spares her a short glance and grabs two puffs. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” Then he’s back to whatever intense conversation he’s having with Howard, although his nose twitches as he glances around for the source of the foul smell circling the table. He can look all he likes, but he’s not going to find the durian fruit tucked into the pretty red ornament nestled into the centerpiece inches from his plate.
“I’m so sorry, Joanne.” Howard’s wife pats the woman’s hand, but her sympathy doesn’t stop her from taking a puff as well.
And then I’m facing the man I’m here to crush. I subtly rotate the tray forty-five degrees and pray that my hunch about Howard’s general greed will pay off and he’ll reach for the largest of the appetizers left on the tray.
“Crab puff, sir?” I ask in a low voice, keeping my eyes downcast. He grunts a yes and his meaty hand grabs three with extra garnish—the biggest, just like I was counting on. As much as I’d like to stick around to watch what happens next, I don’t want to attract any attention by lingering, so I walk sedately away, pivoting the tray again so the remaining delicious versions are once again in grabbing reach.
I’m hugging the wall on my way back to the kitchen when I hear a loud hacking sound and can’t resist glancing over my shoulder. Howard’s eyes bug out as he frantically wipes at his tongue with a napkin, and I quickly whip around so the VIPs can’t see my triumphant smile.
