Killer Pancake

Julian moved to the shoe-store door and opened it wide. We quickly carried our culinary burdens past rows of brightly colored pumps and air-cushioned cross-trainers. Curious customers and gaping store employees allowed boxes of sandals and sailboat shoes to drop from their hands as we hustled past. They acted as if they’d never seen a catering duo lugging eighty pounds of food past them before.

The store manager, a tall fellow with sandy-red hair, came to our side quickly and murmured conspiratorially, “I know about the routing for the banquet.”

I wondered if he was going to ask for the password to cross enemy lines. “Sorry,” I whispered from behind the broccoli. “This’ll just take a few minutes.”

As the manager moved across the store’s carpeted floor to reassure his customers, Julian said, “I don’t know if those security guys will be able to protect us going back and forth.” He glanced back at the garage. “Just for safety, we’d better make all our runs in tandem instead of alternating.” He nodded knowingly to show how much he was learning about food service.

I didn’t return the nod. It looked as if more people had joined the altercation outside. Julian was right, though. When two caterers work an event, one usually hovers over the delivered food while the other brings in the rest of the supplies. If you leave platters out anywhere before serving time, people will take the mere presence of edibles as a sign it’s time to start consuming them, no matter how impenetrably the food is wrapped. Perhaps there would be a bar at the nightclub where we could stash all the courses below eye level.

We came out the main entrance of the shoe store and turned to enter the august beauty of the renovated main hall of Westside Mall. In the late sixties, when it opened, Westside had been a splashy, hugely successful shopping center. But Westside Mall had gone bankrupt like an F. Scott Fitzgerald hero: gradually and then suddenly. The Denver papers had been full of accounts about stores going out of business during the first phase of the oil recession. It wasn’t long before the whole mall ended up repossessed as part of the savings-and-loan mess. After several years of vacancy, the management of Prince & Grogan, a department store chain with its headquarters in Albuquerque, had agreed to provide the anchor for a redone, upscale mall. A complete face-lift of the old shopping center and construction of the multilayered garage had transformed the former shopping haven into a glitzy series of fancy stores and chic boutiques.

But Arch had mourned the loss of the old Xerxes’ Magic Shop. As I stepped across the threshold of the Hot Tin Roof Club, I imagined my son would be awed at the unquestionably magical transformation of the old store he’d loved so much. Gone were the rows of masks, the shelves of top hats, the glass counters filled with tricks. The walls of the enlarged space were painted silver and black. Under high-intensity spotlights, chrome buttons and table edges glistened. An array of overstuffed furniture had been upholstered in black leather. A slender woman with elaborately teased hair and a sheath as diminutive as Claire’s nodded in our direction and motioned us past the hostess stand.

We moved uncertainly out of the service entry and through the new foyer. Despite the fact that it wasn’t quite eleven in the morning, a palpable air of excitement filled the place. Lively music pumped out of overhead speakers. About thirty women had already arrived and were bustling about. One was setting up a slide projector. Another pulled down a screen. Two more checked on the audio system and the podium. Whether the high-pitched voices and feverish rushing around were the result of nervousness over the upcoming event—the unveiling of their fall line—or the presence of the demonstrators outside was impossible to determine. I saw Claire briefly. She seemed to have forgotten us as she giggled and squealed and moved from group to group of chattering females. On one long table, three rows of brightly colored corsages were arrayed. Some women already had them on. Others were in the act of pinning them to their stylish outfits. My guess was that the flowers had something to do with the fall colors we were about to see. I wouldn’t have minded having a corsage, I thought absentmindedly as I moved toward the bar with the heavy tray of broccoli. On the other hand, was there such a thing as a bittersweet-chocolate-colored orchid? With raspberry-colored roses to complement it? Probably not.

A sudden banging and shouting outside caused a momentary hush to fall on the bevy of scattered women. Launching into a new song, the music from the speakers blasted into the silence, overwhelming any sounds of a disturbance. I cursed silently when I thought of all the food Julian and I still needed to bring in past whatever had erupted outside.

Julian read my mind. “Stay put,” he ordered firmly. “I’m making another trip.”