The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard
Written By: Elijah Douresseau
Copyright © 2021 Elijah Douresseau
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Dan Garza
"Do this in rememberance of me."
For Gretel, matriarch of the Richards family.
Mom, thank you for taking the torch.
Chapter 1
“Run this by me one more time.”
“She is not a big fan of spicy ketchup for her home fries.”
“You put ketchup on the fries?”
“No. Who serves any potatoes that way? You don’t have to be a chef to know that.”
“I’m just trying to figure out why she gave you that blackeye.”
“It was just a little Tapatio mixed in. I didn’t think she’d react violently to a minor tweak.”
“Don’t make us begin to think we chose the wrong CI for the job.”
“Then I should go. She’ll be expecting the smell of breakfast to make her stir soon.”
“Odd demand.”
“Hence my blackeye.”
“Stay the course and continue to fade into the background. Check in later.”
Get in. Get loyal. Get trustworthy.
Then step aside.
That was the job.
Alvin Gates did not know what would break him more that day. Really, it was going to be a hellish several months. The FBI was close. Whatever they needed, Alvin, the personal chef to Coco – his baddy boss – was going to help the Bureau get it. But it was definitely strange – being in the middle of Lady Justice’s path.
Should not someone help her wield her sword and hold those scales? Alvin did not want to come across as an ableist bigot, but who could actually use a sword in real life?
What the man was dealing with was not some action movie. Although it felt a tiny bit that way.
It did not help that the young cook was cornered. Nor did the threat of life imprisonment after he landed what he thought was the gig of his dreams. Cooking for a high-profile, wealthy client, Alvin just wanted to be able to pay for good cable on his own without stressing about it.
The personal chef warned Agent Matts he had to go a smidge before he really needed to. So he could get down to business. It was time to plan the week’s menu.
Within five minutes, Alvin was already distracting himself with the prospect of his predicament being something of cinematic importance. If everything at hand was in an action movie, the menu would be for him to plan and for his boss to accept.
The film would be some Italian mob drama, in which the Don, his trusted officials and goons powwow on the next illegal operation. They would also discuss any internal issues and squash them then and there.
Why?
They were meeting over life-changing food. Taken for granted only by the viewer. But the organization, they did not just meet anywhere. They were willing to compromise their most precious information for a chance to have soul-filling Arancini, just one more time. You never know if it was going to be your last day.
But the chef in the back, the one the kingpin knew by name, his credit was good from there to the old country. Whatever he needed, he was taken care of.
Alvin had to prove himself. Even though he was sure he and the other third-round job candidates broke some laws during the interview and examination process.
He did not care. At some point.
He was too ambitious not to get hired. There was something else to it, too. But he made it through the fire, and it also seemed to be too late to throw up his hands and go home.
And he promised his granny he would make something of himself.
A month in, Coco had appeared to have no interest in letting Alvin just do his thing. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she wanted specific plates of food. The dishes did not have to be the same, but they had to contain the ingredients the boss requested. Tuesday and Thursday, Alvin just had to keep her happy. No holds barred.
He was not allowed to be around on the weekends. Which for the cook employee, was icing on the cake.
He could work on personal projects. Entertain friends. All while pretending not to sell his soul for a little more money.
Alvin was not selling who he was if he was sure his employer was into some shady dealings, right? He should have gotten some points for being aware of it. He just had not seen the crimes directly.
Whatever Coco was doing was major. Enough for the government to be concerned. She had the FBI’s attention. The Federal Bureau of Investigation. Most people in the nation lived their whole lives not interacting with the agency so closely. Although the tax-paying public probably disrespectfully disagreed.
Alvin would have happily concurred two months ago that the FBI was a mostly obscure outfit, never having to deal with them.
The cooking dreamer shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed one last street before heading up to his Los Feliz apartment. And suddenly – a ring. From the work phone.
“Al.”
“Morning, Hendrix. Everything okay? I’m not due for another hour.”
“Right. Yeah, but she wants you here ASAP.”
“You sure everything is okay?” The good, old classic work knots of anxiety started to form in Alvin’s belly.
“If you want everything to be, I suggest you get off the phone and shoot over here. But as far as I can tell, no. You’re in the clear.
“Good looking out, sir.”
Click.
Alvin could not help but feel like something was up. Should he have second guessed his preparations for the week ahead? Was he going to be
