Ritual by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page A

been
told. Is it possible to join?’
    ‘Of course, monsieur , by
personal recommendation.’
    Charlie ran his
hand through his hair. ‘You people sure make life difficult.’
    ‘Yes, monsieur , you could say that.’
    ‘So somebody
has to put me up for membership? Is that it?’
    ‘Yes, monsieur .’’
    Charlie thought
for a moment, and then said, ‘Is everything I’ve heard about you true?’
    ‘It depends
what you have heard, monsieur .1
    ‘I’ve heard
that you’re exceptional.’
    ‘Yes, monsieur .’’
    Charlie had
nothing more to say. The voice on the other end of the intercom refused to be
drawn. Charlie took hold of the gates and shook them, just to make sure that
they were locked, then he walked back to the car and
climbed into it. He leaned over towards the glove box and took out a pack of
Rol-Aids. The Colonial-style sauce was resisting all his stomach’s determined
efforts to digest it. That was the trouble with bad food, it always fought
back.
    ‘They won’t
take reservations unless somebody sponsors you,’ said Charlie.
    ‘What does that
mean?’ Martin asked.
    ‘It means
they’re just about the most exclusive restaurant in the whole continental
United States.
    It may not be
easy getting into the Four Seasons, but at least they want your business. This
place
    .. . who knows? How can you run a restaurant right in the middle
of nowhere at all, with no advertising, no promotion, not even a signpost to
tell you how to get there, and booking by personal recommendation only, in
writing, in advance?’
    ‘Maybe they’re
really good,’ said Martin.
    ‘What the hell
do you mean, “ maybe they’re really good”!’ Charlie
retorted. ‘The Montpellier is really good! L’Ermitage is really good! There are
twenty restaurants in America which are really good! But, darn it, even the
best restaurants have to advertise. Even the best restaurants have to let
people in!’
    Martin said,
‘What are you getting so upset about? If they won’t let you in, they won’t let
you in.
    Forget them.
There isn’t any point in including a restaurant in M A RIA if nobody can get to
eat there.’
    Charlie took
one last look at the implacably closed gates of Le Reposoir , then started up the car and turned back towards Alien’s
Corners. ‘If it’s that good, if it’s really that good, then I want to eat
there, that’s all. Even my stomach can only take so much good old country
cooking. I could use a revelation. Quite apart from the fact
that I’d be fascinated to find out what it is about Le Reposoir that upsets everybody at Alien’s Corners so much.’
    They drove back
through the woods. Another thunderhead had swollen up in front of the sun, and
the landscape had suddenly grown chilly and cheerless.
    Martin said,
‘Where are we going to stay tonight? Are we going to drive on to Hartford?’
    Charlie shook
his head. ‘Tonight we’re going to stay at Mrs Kemp’s boarding house, 313
    Naugatuck. I’m
not leaving Alien’s Corners until I can fix a table for two at Le Reposoir .’
    ‘Dad – we’re
going to be days behind schedule. What are the people at M A RIA going to say?’
    ‘I can fudge
the schedule, don’t worry about that. I want to eat at that Goddamned private
exclusive dining club and that’s all there is to it. There must be somebody
around here who belongs. That bank president, Haxalt, don’t tell me that he’s
not a member. All I need is one person who’s prepared to sponsor my
reservation.’
    Martin remained
silent as they drove back into Alien’s Corners. The light was turning to pale
purple, and the streetlights had already been switched on. Christopher
Prescott and Oliver T.
    Burack had left
the green; but there were lights on the upper floor of the First Litchfield
Savings Bank, and a few people were walking past the lower end of the green, on
their way back from the supermarket. Birds sang in the maples, that sad
intermittent song of early evening.
    ‘I don’t