This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “Proof of Life”.  No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

No Reservations

©2008  by: Riley

“Fuckin’ hell!” Terry stared down at the coin as Dino, laughing like a lunatic danced around it. Heads. Terry had lost. “Well, this fuckin’ sucks,” he groaned.

“You should know better than to take the toss, you always lose buddy,” chuckled the red head as he bent and collected his lucky silver dollar.

“Two outta three?” Terry almost begged.

“Nope, he’s in the conference room. Here’s the file. Have fun and play nice,” Dino guffawed and reached for his golf bag.

“You’re a bloody prick, ya know that?”

“Well, yeah! A prick with a tee time. See ya in a few weeks.” And the prick laughed all the way out of the office.

Terry sat at his desk to review the file. No one hated playing nursemaid minder more than Terry Thorne. It wasn’t the usual since he and Dino started the business, but of course, there are always exceptions, especially when a client was as big as The Travel Channel. “The Travel Channel? What the bloody hell was that? My whole life is a Travel Channel,” he groaned and flipped through pages.

Anthony Bourdain was working his third season with the network, doing his own style of food/travel and leisure show for those with a taste for the sarcastic. Most times, Bourdain was well minded no matter where he went; surrounded by network assistants, cameramen and staff, the bloke wasn’t really facing much risk of kidnapping. But the network was ready to invest more and more into Bourdain’s show. One of those investments went beyond standard K&R insurance. It demanded one on one protection while the man took a walkabout to choose sites for his next season’s shows.

Food was food, sustenance to keep up one’s strength as Terry saw it. He liked good wine, nice, flavorful food served on fine bone china plates with pretty fresh herb garnishes one never knows what the bloody hell to do with. He liked taking his dates to classic restaurants, but what Terry knew about food was minimal. He’d never once seen Bourdain’s show and had no clue what to expect.

Well, he’d kept the bloke waiting long enough, best to get on with it. He tapped the file on his desk and headed for the conference room.

Bourdain, typical American, was lounging back in his chair and grumbling on his cell phone. He looked like he was a tall man, graying hair, slender. He swiveled the chair back and forth and basically ignored Terry. Ah well, probably deserved it, then. He did make the great Anthony Bourdain wait a full ten minutes, right? Terry scowled. There was nothing worse than a minor celebrity.

Usually a meeting of this nature would have several people present, representatives from the client and the insurance company. He was surprised to see the man was alone; no back up from anyone for those points Terry would be making to limit Bourdain’s freedom in an effort to keep him safe. But perhaps it would go smoothly; just maybe they’d get along fine.

Not likely. The first words out of the bloke’s mouth after Terry grinned a tolerant ‘g’day, Mr. Bourdain’, were:

“You a fucking Aussie?”

“Yeah,” Terry leveled a glare. “I’m a fuckin’ Aussie.”

Bourdain chuckled. “Oh, man. No. That wasn’t an insult. It’s just…me. It’s my sense of humor, I meant nothing by it.”

“Ah, so you’re just naturally rude?”

“Something like that. Hey, come on. Let’s start over. Look on the bright side, it’s a cushy job. We travel, we eat great food, we stay in nice hotels. Piece of cake. Easiest job on earth.”

“Look, Mr. Bourdain – ”

“Please, call me Tony. I’m Tony.”

Terry shuffled in his seat, the glare never lightening. “Look, Mr. Bourdain. No one in my position likes this kinda assignment. So what do ya say we cut to the chase here, go over the itinerary and see if we can make this whole thing as painless as possible?”

“Sure, sure.” Tony tugged a folder from the seat beside him then booted up his personal laptop. His eyes glared at Terry over the screen. “No,” he grunted, closed the computer and stood. “We start over, Aussie. You, me, downstairs at that pub. Fifteen minutes or I’ll do my travel alone.”

The American stomped out of the glass walled conferences room and poked a finger at the elevator button. But Terry watched him look back more than once, that hopeful expression in his eyes. He flipped through the folder and pretended to ignore the bloke.

“Ah, come on.” Bourdain’s whine was right at Terry shoulder.

It was a little boy lost face and Terry rolled his eyes. “Fine mate. Fine. But you’re buying the beer.”

“Cool, man.”

Terry gathered his jacket and shook his head. Did all Americans cut their teeth on Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure?

~*~

Plans worked out well enough, considering the fact that with each beer there was a bit more confusion as to why they were going where they were going. The first week of the excursion would take place traveling across the States, and the second week…should they survive each other that long, would head for the Far East. Terry really didn’t care where they were going, as long as he knew the itinerary and had ample time to make security arrangements. It was the why’s that baffled him.

Two days later, they were on the flight from London to Maine for a whale watching excursion (what this had to do with culinary concerns was a mystery to Terry). It would be easy to keep a close eye on Bourdain on a small tour ship. His issues came when the man balked at staying in hotel suites with Terry.

“Bugger that,” Terry grunted as he hauled his luggage from the cab into the Portland Maine hotel. “You know how it goes, we talked about this.”

“Christ,” Bourdain griped. “You’d think I had enemies or something.”

Dropping his suitcase inside the suite’s common area with a thud, Terry growled, “Mate, I’m sure you have enemies.”

“Outside of this suite?” grumbled Tony as he twisted opened a beer. But his eyes twinkled and his grin grew. “Tell me something, Terry. Why the hell do I need you here? It’s not like there’ve been any threats on my life or like people want to kidnap me or anything. What’s up with all this precaution?”

Terry caught the beer bottle Tony had tossed and twisted it opened, took a deep gulp and shook his head. “Fuck if I know. Your employer has taken a bloody platinum level policy out on your arse. I took some time the other night to look over your shows. They might be right, ya know,” he teased. “You most certainly take your shots at other chefs…and chefs do carry knives ya know.”

Tony squared his shoulders. “What are you saying? People don’t like me? Well, poor fucking them. It doesn’t mean they’d do me bodily harm. Look, I just think you’re taking this all a little too seriously. We could have fun on this expedition, you know.”

Terry dragged his suitcase to his bedroom and shouted. “What’re ya suggesting, mate?”

“I don’t know. Just lighten up. We’re six hours together and already I want to kill you. And I am a chef…I do carry knives.” Tony leaned on the doorjamb.

Terry turned and lifted his pistol. “You were sayin’?”

“Can’t you just ease up? Let’s have some fun. It’s not like I’m a fucking party animal anymore. We’re all getting old, Terry. Besides, I’ve got a publishing deadline in three weeks. I’ll be working too, you know.”

Terry sat on his mattress. “What the fuck do ya want? I won’t compromise on the rooming arrangements, can’t hardly protect ya if you’re staying on some other floor or in a different hotel, now can I? I’m not going unarmed, that’s just bloody foolish. And you’re not getting outta my sight. Trust me, there’s no other way to do this.”

“Yeah, there is. I don’t really give a fuck about the suite shit. Go on, carry a fucking gun, just watch where you aim the damn thing. But if you plan to be in my face, twenty-four seven…we need to get over this animosity. Travel with me, Terry. Be a friend. I swear, I can show you a fucking great time and you’ll never eat better. All I want you to do is lighten up. Get the fucking stick out of your ass.”

Terry glared, Tony chuckled. “You know,” he continued. “Last season I did a show in Africa. There’s a tribe there. They have some ritual where the sacred K&R man has a stick shoved – ”

“Spare me. So let me get this straight. You’ll be okay with the rules if I play best mates with ya?”

Tony’s smile dropped. “Yeah, something like that. We’re on the ship seven AM. Good night, Terry.”

Terry finished his beer, head shaking and staring at the closed door. Bloody hell, it wasn’t like the bloke was asking for something so impossible. Maybe it was time to make friendly. He crawled into bed, his head pounding. Closed his eyes and chose to believe that day two with Anthony Bourdain would be somewhat more tolerable. After all, he did say he’d deal with the rules.

~*~

The whale watch tour went well enough, Terry having made sure no one was on the tour but he and Bourdain.

“Kinda takes the fun out of it all, doesn’t it?” Tony said sarcastically, but he got back at Terry in spades when they were served a flavorless stew of boiled fish for dinner. What was that gray froth, anyway?

The next stop was deep in the hills of wild and wonderful West Virginia, and Terry was a bit more on edge. They were led into the mountains where Bourdain interviewed an eighty year old moonshiner. Terry avoided drinking the swill that smell more like gasoline than alcohol, but the food was better, grilled over a fire. Three rabbits and something he was afraid to ask about had sacrificed their lives for the evening meal. They’d all be camping that night but Terry knew he wouldn’t be doing any sleeping. It wasn’t the eighty year old bloke that concerned him. It was the man’s two bald, nearly toothless sons that gave him the willies. Fuckers laughed while they played Dueling Banjos over and over and over again. Oh fuck no; Terry wasn’t even going to get near sleep that night.

Stop number three was far more pleasant. Bourdain explained that a wonderful chef he knew near Steamboat Springs, Colorado cooked and served beautiful gourmet meals in a teepee. Odd, but at least Terry figured he’d eat well.

The chef did cook in a teepee, but not a teepee any original Native American would have recognized. Inside the massive thing was a state-of-the-art stainless steel kitchen and a staff of five. Terry and Bourdain were served delicious elk and buffalo steaks, grilled to perfection and accented with wild mushrooms. Outside the opening, they were graced with a magnificent sunset over the Rockies. The wine was great but the beer was better…and Terry began to believe that the remainder of the excursion just might be tolerable.  

But that evening, Bourdain wanted to have some fun. “Hooters,” he said with a grin, taking the rental car keys from his minder and Terry rolled his eyes. Ah well, a few beers and back to the suite. At least Colorado was pleasant enough, beautiful actually, the mountains, fresh air and relaxed energy.

They sat in the smoky room, loud music pulsing and televisions, tuned to every sport Americans like most, blazing from every corner. The waitress brought beer and Terry tried to unwind. His eyes scanned the place carefully. At least there, no one seemed to recognize the great Anthony Bourdain and they were actually having civil conversation, talking of family, ex-wives and life in general. Then Terry’s eye caught something… more specifically, someone.

“Be right back, mate,” he said and left the table.

Tony watched carefully, noting how Terry stayed close enough to see him from the corner of his eye. The Aussie reached out and touched a waitress’ arm and when she turned, her face brightened and Thorne got himself a hug. Curious, very curious. She didn’t look anything like the type he suspected Terry would be attracted to. She was short, a bit on the heavy side but had a brilliant smile that became sad as they spoke. The conversation went on for several moments, and Tony began to wonder if he needed to get a date for himself that night…Aussie was making the woman laugh then actually kissed her cheek with a rather long, lingering embrace. Smug as all hell, Bourdain ignored him when he returned to the table…but it didn’t last, he couldn’t stand it.

“So, when do you want me out of the suite, Aussie?”

“What?”

“Obviously you’ve got yourself something for tonight, just wondered – ”

 “Wrong.” Terry glared.

“Then who was that?”

A deep sigh, a sip of beer. He did promise the bloke he’d be friendly. “A case once. Her husband, a traveling diplomat, kidnapped. Lost him during the extraction, died in my arms.”

“Wow,” Tony choked.

“Yeah, two kids, one in uni. Poor sheila’s killin’ herself workin’ three jobs.”

“Isn’t there insurance or something?”

Another glare. “Mate, this is real life. Bad shit happens and in the end, someone’s always left to carry the heavy load.”

“Fuck, can’t anyone do anything for her?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you going to do for her?” Tony’s brow was curled accusingly, as though it was Terry’s full responsibility.

Guilt flared and he cleared his throat. “Doin’ what I can. Didn’t realize things had gotten so hard.”

Thoughts flew though Bourdain’s head. His chest actually ached. What Thorne did for a living was nothing short of amazing. The man was more than a pompous Aussie fucker. He was more than a businessman taking care of the job nobody else wanted. He laid his life on the line for his clients. Day in and day out. It was a comfort to know that he wasn’t all that important and it was likely he’d never really be at risk. Precautions are just that. But the reality was something else. He had a whole new respect for Terence Thorne. What a prick he’d been, insisting that the man act like a buddy.

“Let’s get out of here,” he finally said and Terry nodded, downing the last of his beer and more than happy to get some sleep.

But he didn’t sleep well. Several things Bourdain said that evening stuck in his head, floated around and made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t supposed to feel responsible… but he did. Poor Marcia Williams had more than a tough road ahead. She was a sweet woman, and Terry would never forget her difficulty during the long months of negotiations for her husband. When everything collapsed and he knew he was going in for Benjamin Williams, she was stronger than any desperate wife he’d ever seen under those circumstances, and he’d seen quite a few.

Even during the funeral, which again he was not responsible to attend; she was far more concerned for her children and him than herself. Marcia was a real trouper, and she was in trouble. His brain scoured every possible way to help her without making look like it. Mrs. Williams did not take charity and despised pity…and that’s how it would look. Of all the difficult cases and hard situations he’d been through, the Williams case haunted him most. When he’d finally come to grips with his guts, faced the facts that this was her life and not his business, he’d hoped he could then catch a few hours of sleep. But there was that other thing Bourdain said…about having a woman.

Terry slipped into the shower at three AM, sprayed hot water and brought himself to a magnificent climax. Now that should help him sleep.

It didn’t.

~*~

Pounding on the door woke him at six. Terry slid into his jeans and stomped to his door. In the center room, Bourdain was filling his suitcase.

“We’re going to New Orleans. Get your bags.”

“New Orleans is not on the itinerary, mate,” Terry yawned wide.

“Look,” Tony stood tall. “I’m going to New Orleans. You don’t want to go, fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. Otherwise, flight’s in an hour. Chop, chop.”

“You made the flight arrangements?” Terry growled.

“Yeah, I’m not completely incompetent. S’go! I got someone to see!”

“Who?”

Tony grinned wide. “A chef and adversary for over twenty years. You need to have some fun and this is going to be a blast! This guy really hates me.”

The glee in Bourdain’s voice made Terry shake his head. Was this fucking bloke looking for trouble?

“Come on, it’s a friendly rivalry. You don’t want to miss it. I just got word he’s at his restaurant. I want to get there before his dinner rush.”

“Mate, what does this have to do with the Travel Channel?”

“Not a fucking thing. This is about the Demi-glace War of 1986. Not charging any of this to the network and like I said, you don’t even have to come…but you should. It’ll be a laugh a minute. Hurry up, dammit. I don’t want to miss the plane.”

Terry dialed his cell. The idiot didn’t realize that Terry needed to make special arrangements to fly armed. The idiot didn’t have a clue how tired he was or how irritated he was. All the idiot knew was that some opportunity to mess with a fellow chef was on the horizon. Bourdain’s eyes were glazed over with the excitement. He looked like a bloody kid in a condom store.

They made the plane and sat in coach, crowded together for four hours that made Terry want to aim at his client’s temple and pull the trigger. When they finally climbed into the rental after touching down in New Orleans, Terry asked the question.

“Why the hell are we here?”

“The Demi-glace War of 1986…ah never mind, you wouldn’t understand. This guy is a hack, a real amateur who never cared for classic style or technique, just wanted to turn a quick buck. How he got his ACF certifications are beyond me, but hell if I care. I gave him an awful review a few years back and he has been out for my ass ever since.”

“And now, we’re giving him a chance to get your arse?”

“Nah, he’s too much of a fucking pansy to try anything. I just want to see him shit himself when he sees me sitting at one of his tables. Name’s Walter LaRouche. The guy couldn’t cut a bruniose if his life depended on it.”

“Doesn’t he have some cooking telly show?” Terry was sure he’d heard the name before.

“Yeah, go figure. That uneducated, no-talent bastard telling other people how to cook. What a fucking hoot,” Bourdain laughed aloud and pointed for Terry to turn left. “This is how we do it in the culinary world, Aussie. You think K&R is tough? Ha! Another left here and use the valet parking, the restaurant pays.”

When Terry sat at the table, he took a long look around. The restaurant was elegant, dark and comfortable with beautiful antiques and Creole music wafting from hidden speakers. He hoped Bourdain wasn’t about to embarrass him, but knew it was not going to be a pretty evening.

Chef LaRouche walked out from the back and directly toward them, a huge smile on his face, his tall hat and jacket pristine and white as the driven snow. Terry tensed as the man reached out his hand for Bourdain.

“Tony! How wonderful to see you! Welcome to the Red Street Inn. Please, please, dinner for you and your guest will be on me.”

Bourdain’s eyes twinkled. “You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? Taint my review with a bribe. What have you got back there worth eating?”

LaRouche didn’t miss a beat, his smile appearing genuine and his hands calm. “It’s a good day, my friend. Oh, I’ve replaced the entire kitchen! Would you like to come back and see?”

“Hell yeah,” Tony turned a grin to Terry. “Let’s go. It’ll give me an idea of how far in debt this fucker went, thinking new equipment would make his cooking better.” And he laughed all the way to the kitchen.

Trailing close behind, Terry had to admit he was impressed. Everything shined, not a fingerprint on any stainless steel surfaces, sparkling pots and pans hanging from the rack, the hum of an exhaust system behind the rock and roll shouting from a boom box on the counter.

“Nice,” Tony said. “Get new coolers? The kind with thermometers?” he jibed.

LaRouche proudly led them to a long hallway, opened a deep freezer and Tony nodded. Then he opened a door to the cooler. “Three room cooler, Tony. Each with controlled temperatures for produce, dairy and proteins. Go on, take a look!”

Terry had no intention of walking into the shiny cave like cooler. It was a cavernous series of attached cubicles, each eight foot by eight foot and separated by clear plastic flaps. But Tony had walked right in, so what choice did he have. He’d never been inside one before. The shelves were lined with wrapped and labeled items, neat and clean. Damn, it never occurred to him how many ingredients a restaurant must have on hand at all times. Talk about tying up money?

And that’s when it happened. The air shifted and the door suctioned. Terry turned, LaRouche was nowhere in sight. Before he could make the three quick strides to the door, the clank of the lock resounded. Bourdain appeared between the plastic separator.

“Uh-oh.”

Terry’s scowl was accompanied by a loud groan. “Well, this isn’t good.”

Tony slid a case of oranges and sat on it. “Relax, it’s just a cooler. He can’t keep us in here too long.”

“No?” Terry’s eyes were scanning every corner of the space; sealed tight, blowing Freon enhanced air all over him, making his skin crawl with the cold.

“Nah,” Bourdain lifted the lid to a three gallon plastic container. “Won’t be long before he needs his beef base…no wonder the fucker’s veal demi tastes like pig swill. What are you doing? You can’t fire that in here. Pull up a crate and have a seat.”

Replacing his pistol, Terry walked through to the other sections, rubbing his arms when he returned. “Think we’d best stay here, warmer than back there, mate. What the fuck were you thinkin’, walking into this damn thing?”

“Ah come on. There’s not a chef alive who hasn’t been locked in a cooler at least once. This is my…um…third time. It’s not so bad.”

“Mate, it’s a fuckin’ cooler! It’s bloody cold in here.”

Bourdain tugged a case of mushrooms from the shelf, opened his pen knife and began carving at them.

“What are ya doin’?” Terry growled.

“Showing off. Just a little thing to teach LaRouche what beauty on a plate really is.” Bourdain carefully peeled and carved the mushroom caps into designs that impressed even a shivering K&R man. “I bet we’re out of here before I finish this case.”

But Tony had carved three watermelons into artistic forms, made a whole case of cantaloupe birds and was starting to work on a case of apples. “Relax, you weren’t prepared for this, it’s not your fault. Here, eat this one, it looks like crap.” He tossed an apple to Terry. He examined it, shrugged and chomped.

“Are ya sure you don’t want me to call the local police?”

“No police,” Bourdain was eyeing another watermelon.

“How long we gonna sit here? I’m freezing my fucking tits off.”

 

“Trust me. This is going to work out just dandy for all…” Bourdain looked up at Terry and they both turned to the opening door.

“Need the beef base?” Tony sniped.

“Come and eat,” LaRouche swept his hand for them to exit.

“Oh goodie,” growled Tony. “Now the torture begins.”

Terry had had enough. He reached for his gun but caught the expression on Tony’s face. It was the first time since meeting Bourdain that he understood. This really was a friendly rivalry. There was no real danger and no reason for concern. Maybe…it was even fun.

LaRouche groaned at the fruit and vegetable menagerie on his cooler shelves then led his guests to the warm dining room. They were seated at a large booth in the far corner, the table already displaying several plates of food. Looked good to Terry, but bowing to Bourdain’s expertise, he waited for word as to what was good and what wasn’t. LaRouche slid into the booth next to Terry.

“I am Chef Walter LaRouche. Please, forgive my rudeness.”

Terry shook the man’s hand.

Bourdain grinned. “You know, Terry here is from my kidnap and ransom insurance agency. Pull his jacket there and see what he’s got.”

Terry played along, raised an arm to expose the holster and pistol and curled his brow at the chef.

“Oh yeah,” Bourdain chuckled. “He means business. So, Terry. How many laws has LaRouche broken in the last hour or so? Aside from taking so long to produce six entrees and what…no dessert?”

LaRouche had begun to sweat. He gathered his nerve and leaned toward Bourdain. “I want no trouble. If you are here to eat, eat…then leave.”

Tony dug into a plate and slowly raised the fork to his mouth. He was enjoying this way too much. But when the food touched his tongue, his expression immediately changed. “Jesus Christ! When did you learn to cook? This etouffee is remarkable! Try this Terry.” He dove for another plate then another.

LaRouche was still sweating. It wasn’t his cooking that was concerning him. When the plates were licked clean, Terry mopping up the last of the sauce with a chunk of warm French bread, LaRouche waved for the table to be cleared. Bourdain leaned back and rubbed his full belly.

“Tony,” the chef said quietly. “All I want is a good review.”

“You kidnapped me. Isn’t that what you call it, Terry? Kidnapping? When someone locks you in a cooler and leaves you there? No escape.”

Terry glared, watching the two chefs play this game was getting more and more intriguing, but whatever they were up to, he wasn’t breaking the law just to play along.

“You know I had no intention of hurting him,” LaRouche was whispering, his eyes begging Terry. “I just wanted to cook without his mouth running like a broken faucet.”

“It was abduction, Mr. LaRouche, and that is against the law.”

“But,” Bourdain grunted, his eyes glowing with something Terry didn’t think he liked one bit.

“But what?” LaRouche and Terry spoke in unison.

Tony pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. “A hundred thousand dollars made out to this…and I’ll forget all about it.”

Now both chefs were grinning and Terry was even more confused. “That’s embezzlement, mate.”

“Nope, that’s the Demi-glace Wars of 1986. We’ve been doing this shit for years. Eight of us. This time…I won and you helped.”

Terry shook his head as LaRouche grumbled and pulled his checkbook from his back pocket. Looked as though the bloke already knew he would lose. “If I make this out for two hundred thousand and leave it blank, can I get a good review?”

“Can’t bribe me, LaRouche. You’ll get a great review. Might even schedule you for my show next season. Meantime, just make out the check. We can get a redeye back to Steamboat Springs.”

LaRouche slid the check across the table. “I’m going after Bouton next month. Care to assist?”

“You bet your ass! Thanks. Let’s go Terry.”

~*~

Terry became more and more angry as they flew across the country. His head was throbbing and his back ached. What the fuck did this bloke think? That he was his personal playmate or something? Finally in their car again and driving the dark streets in Steamboat, Terry growled.

“That’s enough, mate. I’ll stick around ‘til I can find a substitute to watch over ya. I’m finished with this shit.”

Bourdain sighed. “Fine. Just one more stop then you can go. Don’t even care if you get a replacement, you can see I’m in no danger.”

“No danger? Bloody hell, I may fuckin’ kill ya!”

Tony was quiet, letting Terry rant all he wanted. The Aussie didn’t shut the fuck up until they pulled into the Hooter’s parking lot.

“I don’t want a fuckin’ beer, Bourdain. Back to the hotel.”

“I don’t want a beer either,” and he got out of the car.

Terry reluctantly followed, already dialing his office, getting the off hours answering service and slamming the cell closed. Inside, he stood in the darkness at the door.

“You stay here,” Tony ordered and Terry snorted.

No fucking shit he’d stay there. Nothing would please him more than to see the selfish fucker get his arse…what? Abducted again? Shot? Injured? “Fuck” He followed at a distance, easily watching Bourdain’s head over the crowd. When Tony stopped, Terry slowed then his mouth dropped to the floor.

Bourdain was standing with Marcia Williams. He was talking a blue streak and she was nodding, her mouth agape. Then he handed her the check.

Terry was baffled. And he was grateful. How else would Marcia have taken money? He could just imagine how the chef-turned-writer-turned-TV celebrity-turned-nice guy had explained the money to her. He didn’t care. He left the bar and waited in the car.

“So, where to next?” Terry asked when Bourdain returned.

“What? You having fun or something?”

“Somethin’ like that. How was the check made out, Tony?”

“To the University of Colorado. The lovely Marcia Williams is quitting her job at Hooters as we speak. Next stop? Moose meatloaf in Kaltag, Yukon Alaska. Hope ya brought your long underwear, Aussie. And you thought a cooler was cold.”

THE END