Liquor

by Poppy Z. Brite

  Rickey looked at Mike’s narrow face, the nose twitching like a rat’s, the little eyes glittering with Mike’s latest dose of cocaine. Asshole bosses were a hazard of kitchen work, just like cuts and burns, but suddenly Rickey didn’t feel like dealing with this particular hazard for one more second. Not worth it, he told himself, and tried to keep his mouth shut.

  “I heard you tell Terrance you went to the football game yesterday,” Mike said. “I guess you think that’s a good reason to ask off, to go to a football game, when I just worked a seven-day week.”

  “I didn’t ask off,” said Rickey, incredulous. “I was scheduled off, and you called me on Saturday night to see if I’d work the shift anyway.”

  “It was an emergency.”

  “It was another one of your scheduling fuckups.”

  “I don’t make scheduling fuckups!” Mike screamed.

  Rickey saw that there were little whitish wads of dry spit in the corners of his boss’s mouth. He suddenly felt very tired. “Look,” he said. “It’s none of your business what people do on their days off. Some of us have lives outside of this place.”

  “Yeah, I heard about your life, or should I say your lifestyle?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” said Rickey. He took a step toward Mike and was gratified to see Mike flinch back a little. Rickey was taller than Mike and broader through the shoulders, and he doubted Mike knew how to fight. “You got something else to say to me?” he prodded.

  “Don’t expect a recommendation!” Mike flung the words at Rickey as if he actually expected them to sting. Rickey started laughing; he couldn’t help it.

  Rickey’s laughter seemed to make Mike so insanely angry that he forgot he’d been scared of Rickey a few seconds ago. He reached out and grabbed Rickey by the front of his white chef jacket. Without thinking, Rickey broke the hold, drove his knee into Mike’s crotch, and slammed Mike against the door of the walk-in. Mike’s body instinctively tried to double over, but Rickey held him up by jamming his thumbs under Mike’s collarbone. “You ever put your hands on an employee again,” he said into Mike’s face, “you better make sure it’s a waiter. And I’d bet ten bucks even a waiter could kick your ass.”

  Mike started to say something, but Rickey never got to hear it, because at that moment a huge black hand came down on Rickey’s shoulder and pulled him away. There was no aggression in the touch, but there didn’t have to be: Terrance was so much stronger than either Rickey or Mike that he didn’t need to use force to separate them. His muscular arms and his shaven head glistened with grease from the pots he’d been washing. Far from being a violent guy, Terrance was even squeamish about killing cockroaches, but Rickey wasn’t sure Mike knew that.

  “Whatever he said to you, it ain’t worth getting in trouble on your last day,” Terrance told Rickey. “Why don’t you go on home? We can cover the rest of your shift.”

  “I didn’t say he could go home,” Mike protested.

  “Mike, are you ever gonna learn when to shut up? Go on, Rickey. I’ll meet you in the locker room in a couple minutes.”

  Rickey had finished changing into his street clothes by the time Terrance came in. “What’d you do to him?” Rickey asked.

  “Aw, nothing. Soon as he could catch his breath, he just pushed me off and went running to his office. Figure he’s hitting the powder again.”

  “I can’t believe he put his fucking hands on me.”

  “I can. Mike hired you in a pinch and he never has liked you. Know why you got the job? The only other guy who qualified was black. Blacks can wash dishes at Escargot’s, and the grammaws can make desserts, but Mike ain’t never putting a nigga on the hot line.”

  “Jeez,” said Rickey, digesting the information. He’d had racist bosses before, but none who actually refused to hire black cooks. No wonder Escargot’s kitchen was so understaffed. “He’s gonna be pissed at you. You think you’ll get fired?”

  “Mike ain’t gonna fire me. I try not to abuse it too much, but I got a hundred percent job security here.”

  “How come?”

  “Mike don’t care for blacks in the kitchen, that’s true. But he don’t mind them in his office sometimes.”

  “Terrance, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Well, it just so happens that my cousin supplies our esteemed kitchen manager with his favorite pick-me-up.”

  “Your cousin sells coke to Mike?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Right here in the restaurant?”

  “You certainly are making some wild guesses about what goes on when Mike closes that office door of his. Yes sir, you certainly are conjecturing.”

  “If I ever get my own restaurant, will you come work for me? You know everything.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” said Terrance.

  Anthony had decided to close the Apostle Bar’s kitchen tonight so he and Laura could concentrate on serving drinks, the big New Year’s Eve moneymaker. G-man was at home trying to watch as much basketball as possible before their cable was disconnected. The bill had gone by the wayside while they caught up on rent, but so far no one at the cable company had noticed. He was watching the Lakers play the Spurs when Rickey came in.

  Arriving home from the last day of a job you’d grown to hate, you would usually do a little happy dance, or have a daiquiri in your hand, or at least throw your arms in the air and say, “I’m free!” Rickey did none of these things; he just stood there looking dazed. At first G-man thought he had the bludgeoned look one got after a horrendously busy shift; but no, it wasn’t quite that.

  “How’d it go?” G-man asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Rickey. He sat on the couch next to G-man and watched the game for a few minutes. On the screen, Tim Duncan stepped deftly around Shaquille O’Neal and sank a bucket off the glass.

  “I am so freaked out right now,” Rickey said at last.

  “Well, what happened?”

  Rickey outlined his day: the phone call from Lenny Duveteaux, the dustup with Mike, Terrance’s intervention and revelation. “Why’s Lenny taking an interest in me?” he finished. “Sure, Mike’s a dick—he proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt today—but why would Lenny call me up to tell me about it?”

  “Maybe he’s headhunting you.”

  “He had his chance to hire me. I wanted that hot apps job at Crescent. I love making appetizers.”

  “Maybe he wants you to do more than apps. Maybe he’s thinking about you for sous chef or something.”

  “But why? I’ve never been sous chef anywhere, and Lenny Duveteaux doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “Hate to argue with you, dude, but it looks like he does.”

  “Who would’ve told him?”

  “Forget it for now, Rickey. You’re done with Escargot’s. Be happy. We’ll go out to Lakeview on Sunday and you can find out who put a bug up Lenny’s ass.”

  “Things are weird lately,” said Rickey. “I don’t like it when things are weird.”

  “I guess things are a little weird,” G-man admitted. “Hell, the Saints won a playoff game and New Orleans hasn’t even frozen over yet. You like that, huh?”

  “Yeah, I like that. But—”

  “C’mon now, shut up about it or you’ll just get yourself worked up. Go grab a beer.” G-man glanced at the TV, where Spurs players swarmed around Shaq like climbers on a mountain. “Watch this game with me and I’ll rub your feet.”

  “They probably stink.”

  “That’s OK.”

  G-man must really want to see this game. Rickey knew he should go shower, but he didn’t have the energy yet. G-man was right: he needed to get his mind off all this weirdness and relax for a while. No matter what Lenny wanted with him, he was still starting full-time at the Apostle Bar next week, and they were going to come up with a kick-ass menu. The mystery of Lenny could wait.

  Rickey settled back onto the couch, stuck his feet in G-man’s lap, and watched Shaq
miss two free throws. The beer was cold and tasty. G-man’s thumbs on his left instep were almost orgasm-inducing. He began to feel a little better. Maybe later they’d even go out and celebrate. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had New Year’s Eve off.

  Rickey fell asleep before he finished his beer. G-man made it to the end of the game, then dozed off watching the postgame show. The low deep cough of fireworks in the distance woke them. On TV, the ball in Times Square had dropped an hour ago, and now it was a new year in New Orleans too.

  chapter 4

  On Sunday morning, Rickey opened his eyes and stared up at the bedroom ceiling. Why did today feel sort of like Christmas and sort of like he had to go to a really tough job interview? He couldn’t remember at first. Then he did: today they were going over to Lenny’s.

  Years ago at culinary school, Rickey had met an older, famous chef who promised to introduce him to Julia Child. It never happened, and ever since then, he’d refused to be impressed by celebrities. You saw them when you worked in kitchens, but Rickey never cared. Lenny Duveteaux was just a transplanted Yankee lucky enough to have a French-sounding name. So why did Rickey have the faintest suggestion of butterflies in his stomach?

  G-man was already up, heating milk for coffee in the little kitchen at the back of the house. “I thought I might fix some eggs,” he said. “Get a protein rush going for the big-ass meeting.”

  Rickey sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, watching G-man crack six eggs into a bowl using only his left hand, slide them over low heat, grate cheddar into the skillet, add some minced scallion tops and a few grinds of pepper. The eggs were fluffy and buttery, the toast crisp but not rock-hard. G-man had always had a nice touch with breakfast.

  Not sure how formal this meeting was supposed to be, they attempted to dress up a little. The results were somewhat unfortunate. Rickey spent a long time choosing between a long-sleeved purple dress shirt with frayed cuffs and a green-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt with a stain on the hem. In the end, he chose the Hawaiian shirt because it was a warm day and he didn’t want to get sweaty. G-man wore a dress shirt made of some blue-gray, faintly iridescent fabric.

  “Couple of sharp dudes,” G-man said as they regarded themselves in the bathroom mirror.

  “Couple of dorks, you mean. I wish we had some decent clothes.”

  “What are you so nervous about?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rickey admitted. “It’s like we’re being summoned. I keep wondering why Lenny would want to see us.”

  “You don’t think it’s the tape?”

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

  “Well, you don’t have much longer before you find out.”

  “That makes me nervous too. I feel like I’m about to lose my innocence.”

  G-man laughed. “Dude, it’s about twelve years too late for that. I ought to know.”

  “Yeah. But G, I never been involved in anything really sleazy before, and that seems like it could change really fast.”

  “Damn!” said G-man. “Good thing for Lenny you’re not some girl he asked out. You would’ve already booked the church and hired the priest by now.”

  They had to leave home around one o’clock to be certain of reaching Lakeview by three. The trip required catching a series of buses, at least one of which was likely to be late, break down, or fail to show up altogether. By 2:45 they were walking along a street with exquisitely landscaped yards and houses built in the style of the space age as conceived in the early seventies. One house appeared to have been made of white foam sprayed onto giant balloons. Another was bisected by a flat disc of Plexiglas. Thinking of the effect a hurricane would have on it, Rickey winced.

  G-man pulled a city map out of his back pocket and peered nearsightedly at the Lakeview section. It was an old map with the location of every now-defunct K&B drugstore marked in purple. Economically and otherwise, Lakeview was far from the neighborhood where they had grown up, and they were unfamiliar with these streets.

  Eventually they found Lenny’s house, a pink stucco mansion on a lot that ran right up to the Lake Pontchartrain levee. Two cars were parked in the semicircular driveway, a red Lexus and a black Saturn. The Lexus’s vanity plate read GUMBO-1. Rickey smirked at that, wondering if Lenny thought it made him seem local or something, but he kept his mouth shut. Three small steps led up to a set of white wrought iron doors. You didn’t see much white-painted ironwork in other parts of New Orleans, but it was a popular look in these lakeside neighborhoods. They climbed the steps and stood on the little porch hunting for the doorbell.

  “Try that key thing,” suggested G-man.

  “What key thing?”

  G-man pointed at a brass key protruding from a shiny brass faceplate. Rickey twisted it, and a loud chime sounded inside the house.

  “Yeah?” said Lenny’s voice from a speaker at the bottom of the faceplate.

  “It’s us.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “John Rickey and Gary Stubbs.”

  “Yeah, OK, come on in.” A buzzing sound came out of the speaker. Nothing else happened. After a minute, Rickey twisted the key again.

  “Problem?” said Lenny.

  “Uh, we can’t get in.”

  “Push on the door when you hear the buzzer,” said Lenny patiently.

  “Heavy-duty security,” said G-man. “I never seen anything like it.”

  “They had shit like this in New York,” Rickey recalled.

  The buzzer sounded again, Rickey pushed the door open, and they stepped into a foyer as large as their living room. On the left was a wet bar, on the right a walk-in closet full of golf gear. “Lenny?” Rickey called.

  “In the kitchen,” Lenny said from far away. “Come through the great room and follow the little hall.”

  The “great room” turned out to be a huge central atrium with a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A curving staircase swept up to a gallery edged with more white ironwork; behind it could be seen the shadowy rooms of the second floor. The carpet was white, as was the sectional leather sofa. A pair of chef’s clogs discarded near the sofa and a DVD of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly on the glass coffee table were the only signs of human habitation.

  “This must be the little hall,” said G-man. It was as wide as their entire shotgun house. They followed it to the kitchen, where they could hear Lenny’s voice.

  “So I said, ‘Well, I just think I ought to be able to buy fish from anybody I want, if it’s good fish,’” Lenny was telling a woman seated on a barstool at one of his gorgeous granite countertops. The woman smiled and nodded, obviously trying to look interested. She was a groomed, toned blonde, but her tight black dress and carefully made-up face gave her the appearance of Sunday-morning leftovers.

  “I gotta go,” she said, eyeing the newcomers.

  “OK, honey, you gonna be at the club tomorrow?”

  “No, I don’t work Mondays. I gotta go shopping.”

  “Right. I’ll call you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said to Rickey and G-man as she left, though they had not been introduced.

  Lenny stood at the double sink rinsing dishes. He was a stocky man of middling height with a face that was square and honest until he smiled; then it split into a leer that made everyone nervous. He wore a pair of boxer shorts and a wife-beater undershirt from which springy black hair poked in all directions. His eyes were puffy, his upper lip and jaw dark with beard shadow. He was an appalling sight. Rickey and G-man barely noticed. They were too busy looking at his kitchen, which was absolutely beautiful.

  In addition to the granite tops, Lenny had a six-by-nine-foot butcher’s block with storage space underneath. A smaller block bristled with the handles of heavy carbon-steel knives. There was a six-burner stove, a pair of dishwashers, an enormous reach-in refrigerator, and a wood-burning tandoori oven that shared a hood with a grill out on the patio. The stunning array of appliances included a twenty-five-quart standing Hobart mixer, a big Rob
ot-Coupe food processor, and a 1940s-style silver bar blender.

  Perhaps Lenny was aware of the effect his kitchen had on younger, poorer cooks, because he allowed them to drool for a few minutes before he turned away from the sink, wiping his hairy hands on a cotton towel. He draped the towel over his shoulder and came forward to greet them. “Rickey, thanks for coming. G-man, good to meet ysou.”

  “Lenny,” said G-man faintly. He had just noticed a thirty-piece collection of Le Creuset cookware on a set of shelves near the reach-in, and he was wondering how the shelves kept from collapsing under the weight of the massive pots.

  “Wow,” said Rickey at last. “Lenny, I’m sorry, our mouths must be hanging open. This is the most beautiful kitchen we ever seen.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice, huh? I love my new stove. I did an endorsement deal with Viking last year—they set me up with that baby. I had an Aga in here before, but I like this one better. Hey, excuse me a minute, let me go put something on.”

  Lenny left the kitchen. G-man poked Rickey and pointed at the shelf of Le Creuset. Rickey was examining a red Dutch oven when Lenny came back in pulling a golf shirt over his head. He had put on pants and slicked down his thick dark hair with some sort of gel, but he still had an unkempt look, fuzzy around the edges somehow. Rickey wondered how long it took to groom him for television appearances.

  Lenny handed them bottles of beer, then took a pan of ribs from the fridge, poured the excess marinade into one of the sinks, and rubbed the meat with a spice blend from a jar with his picture on it. “Come on out in the yard,” he said. “We can get these ribs going.” He’d been in New Orleans long enough that his nasal Maine accent had begun to soften around the edges, but it sharpened up every now and then—can sounded more like kyan, and yard was very nearly ya’ad. To their untraveled ears, he sounded foreign and slightly nerdy. At least he doesn’t say New Or-LEEENZ, Rickey thought.

  They followed Lenny through sliding glass doors to the patio, where he set the pan on a picnic table and began to fire up the grill. A lush expanse of lawn rolled away to the top of the levee. In its center, an egret perched on one leg like a snowy scrap of origami against a green background.