The Sleeping Doll

by now, according to the news story he’d heard on the radio, some pompous ass named Charles Overby making the announcement.
    Jack’s had an outdoor patio with a view of the fishing boats and the bay, but Pell wanted to stay inside and keep an eye on the door. Carefully avoiding the urge to adjust the uncomfortable automatic pistol in his back waistband, Pell sat down at the table, Jennie beside him. She pressed her knee against his.
    Pell sipped his iced tea. He glanced at her and saw her watching a revolving carousel with tall cakes in it.
    “You want dessert after the sand dabs?”
    “No, honey. They don’t look very good.”
    “They don’t?” They didn’t to him; Pell didn’t have a sweet tooth. But they were some pretty damn big hunks of cake. Inside, in Capitola, you could bargain one piece for a whole carton of cigarettes.
    “They’re just sugar and white flour and flavorings. Corn syrup and cheap chocolate. They look good and they’re sweet but they don’t taste like anything.”
    “For your catering jobs, you wouldn’t make those?”
    “No, no, I’d never do that.” Her voice was lively as she nodded toward the merry-go-round of pastry. “People eat a lot of that stuff because it’s not satisfying, and they want more. I make a chocolate cake without any flour at all. It’s chocolate, sugar, ground nuts, vanilla and egg yolks. Then I pour a little raspberry glaze on the top. You just need a few bites of that and you’re happy.”
    “Sounds pretty good.” He thought it was repulsive. But she was telling him about herself, and you always encouraged people to do that. Get ’em drunk, let ’em ramble. Knowledge was a better weapon than a knife. “Is that what you do mostly? Work for bakeries?”
    “Well, I like baking best, ’cause I have more control. I make everything myself. On the other food lines you have people prepping part of the dishes.”
    Control, he reflected. Interesting. He filed that fact away.
    “Then sometimes I serve. You get tips when you serve.”
    “I’ll bet you get good ones.”
    “I can, yeah. Depends.”
    “And you like it? . . . What’re you laughing at?”
    “Just . . . I don’t know the last time anybody—I mean a boyfriend—asked me if I like my job. . . . Anyway, sure, serving’s fun. Sometimes I pretend I’m not just serving. I pretend it’s my party, with my friends and family.”
    Outside the window a hungry seagull hovered over a piling, then landed clumsily, looking for scraps. Pell had forgotten how big they were.
    Jennie continued, “It’s like when I bake a cake, say, a wedding cake. Sometimes I just think it’s the little happinesses that’re all we can count on. You bake the best cake you can and people enjoy it. Oh, not forever. But what on earth makes you happy forever?”
    Good point. “I’ll never eat anybody’s cake but yours.”
    She gave a laugh. “Oh, sure you will, sweetie. But I’m happy you said that. Thank you.”
    These few words had made her sound mature. Which meant, in control. Pell felt defensive. He didn’t like it. He changed the subject. “Well, I hope you like your sand dabs. I love them. You want another iced tea?”
    “No, I’m fine for now. Just sit close to me. That’s what I want.”
    “Let’s look over the maps.”
    She opened her bag and took them out. She unfolded one and Pell examined it, noticing how the layout of the Peninsula had changed in the past eight years. Then he paused, aware of a curious feeling within him. He couldn’t quite figure out the sensation. Except that it was real nice.
    Then he realized: he was free.
    His confinement, eight years of being under someone else’s control, was over, and he could now start his life over again. After finishing up his missions here, he’d leave for good and start another Family. Pell glanced around him, at the other patrons in the restaurant, noting several of them in particular: the teenage girl, two tables away, her silent parents hunched over their food, as if actually having a conversation would be torture. The girl, a bit plump, could be easily seduced away from home when she was alone in an arcade or Starbucks. It would take him two days, tops, to convince her it was safe to get into the van with him.
    And at the counter, the young man of about twenty (he’d been denied a beer when he’d “forgotten” his ID). He was inked—silly tattoos, which he probably regretted—and wore shabby clothes, which, along with his