Page 35 of Aftertaste

The customer had been a young guy, a freshman at NYU double majoringin history and East Asian studies. He’d wanted to see his granddad, to show him that he was finally learning Cantonese. The request was so sweet and simple and uncomplicated that it made Kostya smile. There was no grand drama playing out here. No high stakes. Just a kid, wanting to see hisYé ye, who had passed peacefully in his sleep a few months prior.

Except, after nearly an hour of romancing an aftertaste, Kostya hadn’t gotten so much as halitosis. He felt awful. Not only a failure but a fraud.

Frankie had been helping in the kitchen—sometimes, on days off, he stuck around in hopes of feasting his own eyes on the mysteries of the unknown—and attempted to cheer him up.

“Don’t sweat it, Bones,” he said, wiping down the counter. “There’s always next time.”

Kostya slapped lids onto a half-dozen plastic containers—the remains of his untouched mise en place—and labeled them with the date.

“Except I’m on a losing streak, so next time’s probably gonna flop, too.”

“Always looking on the bright side.”

“I just thought it would get easier with practice.” He shoved the containers dejectedly into the fridge. “I wish I knew what I was doing wrong.”

“Maybe it’s not you.” Frankie finished with the counter and dried his hands on his apron. “Maybe it’s them. Maybe not every spirit wants to come back.”

“But these ghosts are supposed to be suffering! Sister Stacy said so. Don’t they want my help?”

“Theyprobably do, but how do you know they’re the ones you’re getting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Take this kid tonight. All he wanted was to show off his homework, right? And Grandpa died peaceful, from what he said. No regrets. No big deal. Doesn’t sound like suffering to me. So maybe he didn’t need to come back.”

Kostya frowned. “Maybe. But if you were dead and had the chance, need or not, wouldn’t you just go?”

“If it were me,” Frankie said, untying his apron, “I’d just stay dead.”

“Bullshit. You’d be first in line to get back here!”

“Not a chance! There’s some things I won’t fuck with.” He reached into the fridge for a bottle of Coke—the good kind,Hecho en México—and popped the cap on the edge of the counter. “Know how many stories my’lita’s got about spirits who fucked around and found out? One for every damn day of the year.”

He handed the Coke to Kostya and got a second for himself.

“And yet”—Kostya took a sip—“you have no problem helping me bring them back.”

“That’s just cooking.” Frankie swatted the thought away. “Same as any other kitchen. I don’t gotta eat tripe to be able to serve it.”

“Oh.” Kostya laughed. “Okay.So it’s fine for everyone else?”

“Look.” Frankie held up his bottle. “It’s like Coke. You got Diet; you got Zero; you got Freestyle if you’re nasty. Call me a purist, but I like it classic. Everybody’s gotta make up their own mind about what they want. And me? When I’m dead, I wanna stay dead.” He took a long sip of soda, smacked his lips. “Matter of fact, gimme your word.”

“On what? That I won’t bring you back?”

“Yup.”

“Okay? Sure. You have my word.” Kostya frowned. “But what if something happens? What if you’re suffering? Don’t you want to at least—”

“Nope.” Frankie shook his head. “Save your hocus-pocus for the other guys, Bones. Folks with baggage.” He polished off his Coke. “I plan on dying without any.”

“Right. Naturally.”

“I got it all figured out.” Frankie grinned. “I’ll win a James Beard or three. Couple Michelin stars. Get famous. Make a name. Open my own spot. Fuck around until I do because, well, when you look this good—but once it’s set? Settle down. Give my mama her grandkids. Live a nice long life and die in my sleep around ninety. Before I need Viagra.”

“Sounds pretty nice. We still living together in this scenario?”

“Oh, no, you’ll be out on your ass. Better start looking for a new place to raise the Dead.”

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