Page 40 of Forever is the Sweetest Con
And then the balance of sweet, salty and buttery register on my tongue. “Not bad,” I say.
He coughs. “We need a rolling pin.”
We rifle through the drawers but come up empty-handed. There is, however, an almost empty bottle of vodka in the freezer.
“We could use this,” says Kei, swirling the dregs of the clear liquid. “But it really would be easier if it were empty.”
“We should probably drink it.”
“Absolutely. It’s in service of dinner prep.”
“It’s practically our duty.”
He passes me the bottle. “You do the honours.”
I unscrew the cap and take a long swig. I twitch, feeling the heat of the alcohol burn my throat and esophagus. I hold the bottle out to him, grimacing.
He tips it up and drains what’s left. “Ugh.” He shudders. “But it’s a perfect rolling pin.” he says, smacking the bottle into his palm. He flicks some flour onto the counter and places the lump of dough down. Within moments, he has rolled it into a thin, even sheet.
“I’m guessing they don’t have cookie cutters, but we can use…this.” He plucks a small glass from the dish rack and starts punching out rounds of dough. “Can you look for a sheet tray of some kind?”
I poke around, opening cupboards and drawers. The vodka has made me clumsy, and I yelp as a tower of Tupperware comes clatteringout of one of the cupboards. I get down on my hands and knees to pick it up, chucking it piece by piece onto the counter. There is a lid missing, so I shove my hand under the prep table and feel around. Nothing. I lower my head, my ear hovering over the floor, to get a look. There it is. I reach in to grab it, when I notice something else just a few inches away. It’s a tiny Ziploc baggie, just one inch by one inch in dimension. I grab it and pull it a little closer to me, aware of the cameras at my back.
The bag is mostly empty, except for a thin line of yellowish powder nestled into the crack at the bottom of the bag. I don’t know much about drugs—I prefer the paralyzing hangovers and soul-crushing shame spirals of alcohol—but there is no question of what this could be. I put the lid of the Tupperware over the baggie to conceal it and drag it toward me. I stand, and with my back to the nearest camera, I lean into the counter and shove it in my pocket.
“Check the drawer under the stove,” Kei says, nodding his chin toward the stove. He has gathered up the scraps from the cookie dough and is re-rolling it.
As predicted, there is a stack of sheet trays in the drawer. I give him the least grimy one.
“Perfect. In an ideal world, we’d line the tray with parchment, but we’re making do.”
“Parchment, what is this—medieval times?” We both crack up. Vodka, apparently, makes me hilarious.
I help Kei peel the cookies off the counter and place them on the sheet tray. I need to tell him about what I’ve found.
“I’m going to check the storeroom for some sprinkles,” I say casually, like I’m just a fun-lovin’ gal who loves the whimsy of sprinkles.
In the storeroom, I wait for the door to open, but it doesn’t. Kei must really think I’m looking for sprinkles.
I poke my head out. “I think I found some, but they’re on the top shelf. Can you help me?”
Kei wipes his hands on a dish towel and comes into the storeroom.“It smells rank in here,” he says, wrinkling his nose. He looks up at the top shelf. “I don’t see any sprinkles.”
“No,” I whisper, even though I know we can’t be heard. “This.” I pull the baggie out of my pocket and hold it up.
Kei takes it, holding it up to the dim bulb to inspect it closer. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it under the prep table. What is it?”
“Hard to say. Cocaine? Maybe Molly?”
“But it’s definitely drugs, right?”
“I think so.”
“What do we do with it?”
He shoves it into his pocket. “I’ll get rid of it.”
