The scent of simmering deviled garlic and freshly shaved necro-parmigiano wafted from Bae-lissimo’s Café; a scent indulgent, pungent and just slightly threatening, like most of the customers inside. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths, flickering candles, and the soft crackle of a well-worn vintage tabletop radio spilling out warbly crooner ballads gave the place the air of Green Mill in Chicago, if Capone’s booth came with a summoning circle and a demonic waitstaff.
At the corner table, Mepho twirled linguine around his fork, the noodles glistening with butter and Bae’s famous red sauce. He wore his mortal guise: an elf with dark skin, glasses perched low on his nose, black hair slicked back neatly, and crimson eyes that glowed faintly behind the lenses.
Across from Mepho sat Don Bael (just “Bae,” if he had his way) with his ogrish appearance and while his hulking presence strained even the chair beneath him. His suit winced every seam, his combover was an offense to those who had eyes, and his bushy oily mustache gleamed by candlelight. His shirt wore a constellation of stains, each one a flavor from the night's kitchen labor.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Bae said, wagging a marinara-smeared finger, “but Ol 'Lyle's skippin’ taxes again.”
Mepho groaned, setting down his fork with a clink. “What loophole did that slippery bastard find this time?”
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“Says the latest contract don't apply to ephemeral exchanges,” Bae said, idyly sloshing his wine with a snort while he talked. “So he's now movin' all his business to the astral plane. Still got clients, still got moolah pourin' in, but its all off the books. I tells ya, guy is allergic to payin' ya dues."
“That's not.. that's not what that clause is even for. How did he.. ugh.” Mepho pinched the bridge of his nose. “I write the fine print myself. He shouldn’t be able to find these holes. But he does. He. Always. Freakin'. Does.”
“That’s why we love wiseguy.” Bae smirked. “And why we’d love to squeeze his greasy little neck till dem eyes pop.”
“Do not tempt me.”
“He could be worse. 'Least when he screws ya, ya saw it comin'. The others? They smile, kiss ya cheek and ring, and then they twist the knife. I'll take sneaky 'Lyle any day."
"Yes, and Mother hates it when the children squabble." Mepho's voice turned sarcastically dry, "So we all put on our masks and play our parts in this... whatever council of hers."
Mepho sighed and returned to his food, the noodles somehow heavier now. He popped a bite into his mouth, chewed slowly. “This is good. Rich, though. Real rich. I would almost say too -”
“Don't. Ain't no such thing has too rich. You know I don’t do light,” Bae said proudly, thumping his meaty paw against his chest. “Not at Bae-lissimo’s.”
“If I was a human, my doctor would be very upset with me.”
“Zio, that's how you known it's good.”
Mepho rose, tossing a few coins on the table. “You’ll send a warning to 'Lyle then, from me?”
“I’ll do more than that,” Bae said with a greasy wink. “I’ll offer him a discount for protection, ya know, from said warnin'.”
“Charming. Well, please do pay tax on that. Extortion is not exempt.”
As Mepho left the café, his stomach began to subtly cramp. The food was far too rich, too decadent, so indulgent at Bae-lissimo's that it was clear Bael only cooked for his own tastes. It was the kind of meal that stuck with you. Mostly in the arteries, and Mepho was glad he was no mortal.
