The insects and champagne flowed freely, washing down swarms of cinnamon chiggers and grubs in duck sauce. There was only one problem, and that was when the LA. Times restaurant critic complimented Perry on the popcorn shrimp and Perry had, not thinking, corrected him.
"Those are locust larvae."
"Larvae..."
"Grubs. You know, you're eating grubs. Your grub is grubs. Hee-hee," he added, giggling at his own joke.
The critic turned avocado and cured his suddenly active stomach by chugalugging a bottle of Chateau Sauterelle '61.
"Let him go," Heather urged.
"It's three hundred bucks a bottle."
"It's a million dollars in free publicity if he's spiflicated when he writes his stupid review."
In the end, the grand opening was a smashing success. The petty problems, liquor-license troubles and health-examiner payoffs were forgotten by the time the last guest left just after midnight.
Perry turned to Heather, beaming. "We pulled it off. Admit it."
"Okay, we pulled it off. Let's see if it lasts."
"Are you kidding me? Insects are forever. They'll outlive us all."
At that point, a weird humming came from the kitchen.
"What's that?"
Perry smiled broadly. "Tomorrow's profits exercising."
They went to the vault door and through the traditional swinging doors into the kitchen. The building had formerly been a major bank. Instantly, their noses were assaulted by a plethora of odors. They had learned not to retch. Bugs tasted okay if they were sauced or simmered correctly. But they sure stank during preparation. Hence the vault door to protect the clientele's delicate sensibilities.
The house chef was stooping over a wooden crate. It was buzzing.
"What's this?" Perry demanded.
"Did you order bees?" he asked, frowning.
"I don't remember ordering bees."
"This box is filled with bees-if I know the sound of bees."
"Bees aren't on the menu," Perry insisted. Heather concurred. Bee bodies contained venom that was impossible to clear out. They were worse than Japanese blowfish, which could kill if the wrong portions were ingested.
"Perhaps someone is making a suggestion."
"No," said the chef of La Maison Punaise, who was, of course, French. Just in case they had to reconcept overnight.
"Well, let's open it."
Remy the chef took a short pry bar off a shelf and attacked the crate. It was held together with black metal strapping. It wouldn't budge.
Perry found a pair of wire cutters and went snipsnip. The strapping spanged apart and coiled back, snapping at him. A piece of strapping caught him on the cheek, producing blood.
"Be careful."
Remy attacked the crate with the pry bar. The lid came off with a sharp screech of nails and the groaning of stressed wood.
When they got the box open, they all saw that it was empty.
But it was still buzzing.
"What the hell is making it buzz like that?" Perry wondered aloud.
"It sounds like abeilles," said Remy. "Bees."
"I know it sounds like bees. But it's empty."
At that point, the drone of the bees that weren't there changed in character. It swelled. It seemed to fill the kitchen with an all-pervasive sound. It was all around them.
Perry smacked his right ear. It was a natural reflex. The sound seemed to have attacked his ear. Only it was short and sharp, like a mosquito.
Then Heather slapped her left bosom. It jiggled. And kept on jiggling. Silicone was like that.
Remy ripped his white starched hat off his head and began swatting the empty air around them and cursing in prickly French.
The buzzing swelled and swelled, and as it ascended the scale in an increasingly angry drone, adrenaline overcame the Chateau Sauterelle buzz and they all looked at one another.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Perry said.
"I'm with you," said Remy.
They ran for the swinging doors. No problem. The insistent sound seemed to follow them.
They got to the vault door. It had fallen shut. No problem. Remy tackled the dog wheel.
That was when the buzzing began to attack them. In earnest.
They felt it as a pricking sensation on their skin at first. Then as heat. Hot heat. Painful heat. A million tiny red-hot needles might produce such a sensation.
But when they looked at the backs of their burning hands, they could see nothing except a creeping redness. Like a rash.
Perry looked up from his red palms to his wife's shocked face. It was turning red, too. An angry, embarrassed blush. Before his eyes, her pouty red lips seemed to twitch. And from one corner dribbled something white and vaguely waxy.
"I think my paraffin injection is leaking," she said.
Then she grabbed herself with both hands. "My boobs. They're wet."