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“What’s up?”
“I need to borrow you for a minute. Is there someone that can take over for you?”
“Nobody worth a damn, but hey, it’s your restaurant. Why should I care that your customers are about to eat burnt shit?”
Jim and I have a strange relationship. As the owner of l’Iris, he’s my boss. On the other hand, he’s about the only person I’ve ever met with a filthier mouth than mine. That’s just his way of connecting with me, though, and I can appreciate the effort.
I think it’s hilarious.
“All right, sit down, fuck face,” he tells me. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”
“Did Wilks jerk off in someone’s French onion soup again?”
“No,” Jim says. “Wait, what?”
“I’m just fucking with you,” I tell him. “Calm down.”
“It’s our covers,” he says. “Business is down—”
“It was Cannon,” I interrupt.
“What?”
“The French onion soup thing—I’m sorry, you were trying to tell me something.”
“Dane, I’ve got to level with you. We’re pretty fucked right now, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep you on. Short of adding pussy to the menu, I’ve been trying everything to keep people coming in, but with this fucking economy—”
“You’re closing down?” I ask.
I had no idea he actually wanted to talk to me about something. Usually when he calls me into his office, we end up taking a couple of shots and bragging about our exploits. Although, come to think of it, his tales bear a striking resemblance to some of the stories in the Penthouse Forum.
I wonder if there’s a connection.
“I’m trying not to,” he says, and sighs. “Look, I’ll keep you on as long as I can, but you’re going to want to start looking for more work. I just can’t swing an executive chef right now. I’m thinking of having your sous chef run the day-to-day—”
“Cannon?” I blurt. “I wasn’t joking about that French onion thing. The guy actually sent that out. I didn’t even find out about it until—”
“Yeah,” Jim says, “that was actually a special request from a VIP—it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to tell you—”
“Don’t tell me it was that chick who wrote those perverted fantasy-romance novels for teenagers,” I interrupt again, trying to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t work.
“Dane, I can give you a recommendation, but I just can’t afford to pay you anymore.”
“I just moved into a new fucking place, Jim,” I snap. “How am I supposed to pay for shit if I don’t have a job?”
“You’re a great chef,” Jim says, “but I’m out of options.”
“What if I stay on at a lower salary?” I ask. “Come on, man, I just need enough to pay rent and all that. People are going to start coming back as soon as—”
“What?” Jim asks. “People are going to start coming back as soon as the economy recovers? The people who have the most money aren’t fucking spending it, Dane. That’s why the economy’s in the goddamned tank. That’s why l’Iris is circling the drain.” He puts his hands together and leans forward. “Look, I’ve put in too much time, money, and energy to let this place go under without a fight, but I’m getting my ass handed to me, here. Trust me, letting you go isn’t an easy—”
“So that’s it, then?” I ask. “You’re firing me? I put this place on the fucking map, Jim. I’ve got just as much blood and sweat in this hole as you do and you’re just going to throw me overboard?”
Jim takes a moment.
“You’re not the only one I have to let go, Dane, but you’re the one with the biggest salary. When things get back on track—”
