Coco remained an enigma for the rest of the day as well. She responded to breakfast and lunch with prompt, military or prison-like quickness. Alvin never wished to put his black boss in incarceration analogies, but they were even closer to the party. Just a few more weeks.
She took her midday meal and shoveled the sustenance to her mouth. Quietly. She at least said thank you. She also made sure to sit facing her study, which she left the door open to.
Alvin tried to get a good look when he topped off her glass of wine, but it was just a busy-looking desk. Nothing stuck out to isolate and report to Matts. It did not stop Coco from staring at the contents of her work station like they were on a bad date.
Impressive, that she could ignore the world around her. She was at work. Where she lived came second to what needed taking care of.
The thoughtful Coco finished her lunch, only to go back to her work. She softly closed the door behind her for the next round, remaining in her study until dinner was ready.
No peep. No murmur. But she expected her next meal to bring her through the next phase of the work, and that invigorated Alvin in a way he could not explain. They were commanding some silent machine that worked on telepathy. There was a contract to do the job, and the job was what everyone needed. Alvin would throw up the clay disc, only for Coco to instantly shoot the target when it left his fingertips. The cook would be deaf. He would get all sorts of shrapnel affixed to his face. It hurt, but he was doing his job. And she had all she needed to do hers.
The personal chef never needed to fetch his employer whenever a meal was ready. He just had to have the food served by the time Coco’s designated dinnertime occurred. Between 6:30 and 7. She liked to think that was reasonable.
At 6:28, a refreshed-looking Coco opened her study door and casually walked over to the dining table.
“Almost done.”
“You’re fine. Thought I would take my victory lap by coming to dinner with time to spare. And you have succeeded in drawing me out.”
“Take a seat. I’ll get your plate ready.”
“Think I’ll take it outside today. Hope that’s okay with you and the food.”
Alvin was not sure what that meant. Although, the choice certainly meant something, to a CI. She had not eaten outside yet. Ever. As long as he had been in her employ.
He was probably thinking too much.
“I had my home office put together near the kitchen. So a cook like you could create something that made me finish whatever I was busy with in there,” as she gestured to the study.
“Feels very productive to work towards the manifestation of a good smell.”
Alvin kept his head down and stayed busy with prepping Coco’s plate.
“I don’t want to celebrate at the dining table. Seems fitting to envision tomorrow over open air and hot food.”
“Very good. Let me just—”
“You should join me.”
What was going on?
“I should probably clean up all my prep and cooking—”
“You’re the only one who uses it. You can do that later.”
In any other context, it would have been a strange thing for a chef to eat with their patron. It was some kind of conflict of interest. Alvin was not just some friend or significant other who came over to make a homecooked meal. He was the chef. He was providing a service and as the house cook, there was a code to serving up the food.
In actuality, he did not want to be forced into the strained compliments about his dinner. That, and it felt like some compromise to his other operation. As much as it terrified him, the secret agent chef felt better about sneaking to get the information, rather than being invited to skim it. But there was no way she would know what he was up to. Not yet.
“I guess I can eat.”
“Excellent. Fix yourself a plate and meet me outside.”
Alvin had a taste for frozen pizza that was messing with him all day. But Coco’s dinner would do. It was time to go to work once more.
He went outside to Coco tearing through her dinner with enthusiasm. She slowed down at the sound of Alvin approaching.
“How are the dishes going?”
“For the dinner party?”
“You know what? I don’t want to care about it now.”
“You sure? They’re going fine. I just—”
“Nope. Nope. No, I’m sure you have it taken care of. I just want to enjoy my dinner.”
“Sure.”
Alvin sat down and dug into his food. Coco started to concentrate on her plate singularly.
She had her cook provide food for more than several food meetings. Everything from being
a waiter for her and one more person to being one of four waiters for six to ten people. Which was ridiculous. But it demonstrated how much Coco cared about being a facilitator. It made someone’s case much easier, whether in the game of garnering support for whatever they were engaged in, or for painting a picture of deceit.
“Nice night. Appreciate the invite out here.”
“It helps. For whatever.”
“’Whatever’ is cool.”
Coco was just about finished with her meal. Alvin observed for the first time that his boss was a bit of nervous eater. She ate with the most vigor in between talking.
Or she could have just been hungry.
And Alvin knew how to whip up a decent dinner version of Dominican mangu, with fried mushrooms, instead of the fried salami the traditional dish called for. But Coco’s eating and her utensils scraping the plate seemed like a way for her to make up for the lack of talking noise where there were not any other sounds of social interaction.
“There’s a hierarchy to your cooking rank, isn’t there?”
“Most people interchange ‘cook’ and ‘chef’, but
