Barbecue, Bourbon and Bullets

by M E Harmon

  Since the place wasn’t big, it was a short walk. She led us through a set of double doors. We entered a bright, shining, white and steel kitchen. Silver tubes of some type crisscrossed the ceiling. They ended in corkscrew hoses along varying ports on the walls and workstations.

  We stepped aside to let a twenty-something guy with a grey bin pass by. He had light brown hair shaved into a crew cut and was moving at a good clip.

  Debbie said, “OK, that blur was Connor. He’s pretty much does a little bit of everything, from busing tables to food prep. We’re a little short-handed tonight, so Connor’s been working overtime—like the rest of us. Um, you met Sylvie outside; she’s heading off to college in a few weeks. And this,” she said with a sweep of her arm, “is our kitchen.”

  She called out, “Hey, guys, this is the last table tour of the night.”

  In front of us, three people worked at various stations. They all turned and gave a quick wave. Debbie started in on what sounded like a very practiced talk.

  “Grover’s is a sustainable establishment, which means we do everything possible to make ethical choices about our food sources, energy consumption and impact on the environment. We buy from local growers or from fair-trade businesses. Our meat and milk is purchased from ethical meat and dairy producers. And as for our energy consumption...”

  She pointed at the ceiling. “If you look up you’ll see those silver-colored hoses, which are part of our air pneumatic system. All of our appliances are run by air power, including our ovens, though we still use some electricity for lighting and the air-compression generators. We even use the air hoses for cleaning.”

  I asked, “All the appliances run on air? They’re powerful enough?” I followed the line of the hoses from the ceiling down the walls. And sure enough, I could see how they ended in various kitchen gadgets like a professional-sized mixer, food processor and blender.

  Debbie tilted her head to side as if she’d been asked this question before. “Yup, all the appliances are specially made to work with an air system. We even use them with some special attachments to get everything super-clean too, like with the dishwasher there in the back. But for those that need a little boost, we have our favorite chef, Greg—that’s him over there—tinker with them till they’re just right.”

  A man of average height but with the bulky chest and arms of a retired wrestler called over his shoulder. “You know I don’t like being called that, Debbie.”

  Our waitress rolled her eyes. “My mistake. Greg, our CWA over there, is a great fix-it man.”

  “Better. Next time say it like you mean it, woman.” Greg laughed while arranging diced potatoes on a plate.

  Avery asked, “Let me guess, CWA stands for Chef with Attitude?”

  Debbie slapped her hands together once and touched the tip of a forefinger to her nose. “You got it, sir, he’s also our co-owner and all-around troublemaker.”

  Greg did a little jig and stuck his tongue out. A white hose with a lever on the end dangled from the shelf above his workstation. He grabbed it, aimed the nozzle at Debbie, and pulled the lever. A strong blast of air ruffled her hair.

  “As I said. Troublemaker. From our chef’s little demonstration there you can tell how powerful the air system is. Anyway,” Debbie went on while finger-combing her locks back into place, “behind him, sweating it out over the grill, are line chefs Gill and Todd.” The two men didn’t look up but offered quick little waves at the sound of their names.

  “And, um, I don’t see Rick, but he’s the other owner, fellow cook and the in-house whiskey expert. You can’t miss him, he has this really bright, red hair; it’s totally cute. He personally buys all of the bourbon brands we carry here at the restaurant.”

  She pointed to the rear of the kitchen. “As for our barbecue, the smokers are out back. We use filters to minimize the smell to the surrounding areas. Grover’s has yet to get one complaint from our neighbors. The owners make sure Grover’s is compliant with all city laws, of course, but we all do our part not to have a negative impact on the community. Now, I think I see your dinner being plated. If you’ll follow me back to your table, I’ll bring it right on out.”

  It was a nice setup. Even after a busy night, the kitchen appeared spotless. Someone was running a very tight ship. To my right, a door opened and a woman stalked in. She had on a green silk blouse paired with linen capris. Her mouth was pursed tight, showing off where wrinkles would be permanently etched in a few years. In her hand was an empty liquor bottle.

  Greg glanced up, said nothing and went back to work. The woman stomped through the kitchen and shoved the back door so hard it bounced against the rear wall. Seconds later, the sound of glass exploding against concrete drifted in like angry musical notes.

  Less than a second after the breaking glass, a man came through the same door the woman had used. His hair was closer to being orange than red. Splotchy scarlet patches darkened his cheeks. He saw the open back door and made a beeline for it.

  Debbie and Avery had preceded me leaving the kitchen. I was the only one who’d caught the show. Though nothing was said, the mood in the kitchen perceptively shifted. I could see it in the tightened shoulders of the workers who’d remained. And Greg’s cheery disposition had evaporated.

  A tense kitchen equaled an unhealthy restaurant. Things weren’t going so well here, after all.

  Avery touched my elbow. “What’s wrong?”

  I gave the room a final glance and moved out the door. “I’ll tell you later. Nothing is wrong, though.”

  His brows furrowed as if my answer was more worrisome than reassuring, as I had intended.

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing, really. Probably just drama between co-workers. We food artists tend to be a sensitive lot.”

  “Did you just call yourself a ‘food artist’?”

  “Darn right, I’m an artist,” I quipped, saying artist like ar-teest. “You haven’t had my morning cinna-mini-rolls.”

  He stood aside to let me walk by first. As I did, he put a hand on the small of my back and said close to my ear, “Maybe one morning soon I’ll have one.”

  The scent of his cologne brought delightfully carnal things to mind. The heat from his fingers prickled the skin along my lower back. My legs went a little wobbly in the knees, and I had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Sweet Lord, I was going to pass out.

  We crossed over to our table where Debbie was already waiting patiently. Yippee, I’d made it back without falling flat on my face. Why was I such a dork?

  Avery put in another bourbon order and Debbie said she’d be back with the booze and food. The minute she’d left, I wracked my brain for something to say that wouldn’t sound silly. Then Avery aimed those grey-blue eyes at me and all thoughts instead went to silly-putty. That eye color combined with the cafe-au-lait complexion made him male model handsome.

  Fortunately, he asked something I had enough wits to answer. “So, what happened back there?”

  My hands felt conspicuously empty. I wished Debbie hadn’t taken the empty glasses so I’d have something to play with. I fiddled with the candleholder instead. “Oh, it was probably nothing. Some lady was really ticked off and stormed through the kitchen. Broke an empty liquor bottle outside. You didn’t hear it?”

  “No, I didn’t hear anything over the noise out here.”

  It was loud in the dining area. I looked around the room. The patrons were guzzling bourbon and shoveling down BBQ with glee. Noisy glee. Though he’d only been a foot away from me at the time, Avery wouldn’t have heard anything over the din.

  I glanced up and he was staring. “What?” I asked.

  “You think it’s something I should check into?”

  “I don’t think it’s anything to get excited about, Kojak.”

  The detective held up his hands up, palms out. “Sorry, it’s hard to turn off cop-mode sometimes. And how do you know about Kojak? You’re not old enough.”

  “TV Land,” I added
quickly, hoping to veer away from any questions about my age. Though I was only a few years shy of twenty-seven on the over-thirty side.

  The waitress returned and slid two mini-troughs full of meat in front of us. It was sheer debauchery, featuring barbecue ribs. Next to it she added a fried onion blossom with bacon-chipotle, sweet ‘n spicy mustard, and creamy chili dipping sauces. Just when I thought the table would crack into two, Debbie slid in a plate of baked potatoes, and of all things, broccoli.

  Avery pointed at the vibrant color marring the perfect arrangement of meat and carbs. “What’s that doing here?”

  Debbie answered, “Grover’s believes in a balanced diet and every dish comes with something green. Trust me, the head chef makes the veggies scrumptious; even I like ‘em. And I hate vegetables.” She winked at me, “Try ‘em, you’ll be surprised.”

  I am a firm believer that chocolate should be a designated food group, so the yummy veggie thing was a hard sell. Avery’s face said he was in the same camp. We looked at Debbie as if she’d sprouted a second head.

  She winked again before walking off. “Trust me.”

  I stabbed a stalk with my fork. As a kid I always ate the vegetables first to get the nasty part over with fast. Then I could enjoy the rest of the meal without having my mom nag me. Avery was already tearing off a rib.

  After a few bites I said, “She’s right, this is good.”

  Avery scoffed and pointed a rib at me. “You need to quit playing around and get down to the BBQ. I have no qualms clearing off your plate if you’re silly enough to leave something on it.”

  And with that, I did put down the green and got to the part we’d come there for.

  ***

  An hour later, I felt as if I needed six burly construction workers to load me onto a flatbed truck. My belly was full, too full, but it felt good in a hedonistic way.

  “So, how are you all doing?” Our waitress mocked surprise. “Oh, I see you ate all of your broccoli, the both of you. For that, you should have dessert on the house.”

  With those words, I decided right then and there Debbie was more than a waitress; she was an angel. No matter how stuffed I was, there was always room for dessert—especially if it was free.

  “I can bring two of scoops our Vanilla-Me-Loco, if you like. It’s gourmet vanilla ice cream dipped in a coconut, toasted corn flakes, pecans and cookie crumbles coating. Then it’s fried and served with fresh whipped cream. But if you want something else off the menu, that’ll be on your dime.”

  It sounded like Nirvana in a bowl. Really, I could’ve kissed Debbie. That was how elated I was. “That sounds perfect. I’ll take one, but can I take a peek at the dessert menu, too?” Then I went on to tell Debbie, and Avery so he didn’t think I was being a glutton, that as a baker I loved to see what other restaurants were serving. Avery agreed to the fried ice cream too, and Debbie said she’d be right back.

  The detective leaned back and rubbed a large hand over his belly. “So, looks like we’re going to close the place out.”

  A glance around proved he was right. When we had come in, Grover’s was bursting at the seams with people. Now, there was only one other table occupied besides ours. It was couple finishing off their after-meal coffee.

  I said, “After this dessert, I think Debbie might have to lay out a mat so I can take a nap before going home.”

  The detective nodded, but before he could say anything someone screamed in the kitchen. It was a piercing, heart-aching sound. It was followed by a lot of shouting.

  A man hollered, “He’s bleeding, get help!”

  Avery bolted for the kitchen. He moved so fast, he was almost a blur. I sat there with the other patrons, stunned. The three of us exchanged wide-eyed looks.

  Through the swinging doors, I could see small glimpses of what was beyond, but could hear Avery barking questions. Then the entire restaurant went quiet. Even the noise from the traffic outside seemed to stop. For the span of several heartbeats, I strained to hear the slightest sound from the kitchen, but there was nothing.

  Debbie burst through the doors, ponytail swinging. Sobbing, she threw herself against the nearest wall and slid ungracefully to the floor. From behind her hands she wailed over and over again, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

  My heart beat a hard staccato in my chest. Avery hadn’t returned, and I didn’t hear his voice anymore. I looked at the other couple, who were frozen in place. Slowly I rose and took several measured steps to the kitchen doors. I peeked through one of the two plastic windows embedded in the doors. Everyone in the kitchen was gathered in a small group. Their backs were to me. All heads were bent to the floor.

  Someone, in all white, stepped aside. But then, no, I realized he wasn’t just stepping aside; he was getting out of the way. Just where black rubber floor mats ended and white tiles began, something was spreading. As I watched, a pool of crimson grew in an ever increasing semi-circle.

  Avery broke from the group. I caught a glimpse of bright red hair on the floor. It was the man I’d seen earlier. The one who’d been in an obvious fight with the woman.

  In a single stride, Avery was at the kitchen’s swinging doors. He snatched one open. A gold badge now dangled around his neck on a black lanyard. “This is a crime scene. I want everyone in the dining room, now!”

  The brunette, the bottle throwing one, got to her feet. Mascara smeared dark tracks under her eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are? I’m not leaving my husband. He’s hurt! If you’re some type of cop, go get him an ambulance! This was an accident, not a crime, idiot!”

  Avery’s jaw clenched. The vibe that rolled off of him in a thick wave made even me take a step back. He was in full on robo-cop mode. He shoved the door open wider. It smacked so hard against the wall, something clattered off a nearby shelf.

  “Lady, I am Detective Avery Hamilton of the New York City Police Department. That man has been shot. He’s not hurt, he’s dead.”

  Now his voice boomed. “All of you, get out of my crime scene NOW!”

  ***

  Maybe, just maybe, there was something wrong with me. It was just like when my best friend and I were snooping around to discover who had killed upcoming reality TV star Heidi Chakiris. In the middle of mayhem, I was insatiably, almost cheerfully, curious. It was if somewhere within me, new nerve endings had become operational and were waiting for data to analyze, to process. I’d developed a sixth sense keen on solving puzzles.

  The puzzle on hand—who had killed the owner of the hottest new restaurant in Manhattan?

  Avery stood in the middle of the dining room like a disgruntled circus ringmaster. In one ring, or rather at various tables around the room, he kept an eye on the Grover's employees. In the other ring, were the unlucky patrons who'd lingered too long after dinner. The couple appeared ready to bolt.

  “You keep telling me someone is on the way. What's the ETA?” Avery listened, then he jabbed at the phone, hanging up with a grunt.

  “Everyone, listen up. Because of the demonstrations, every police station in Manhattan is spread thin. The precinct for this area will send someone as soon as possible but it’s going to take some time. We all have to be patient.”

  The couple next to me, a pair in their early thirties, groaned. The man, balding and dressed in grey chinos pants, made a show of checking his watch. “Listen, we have a sitter and got to get home. How long is this going to take?”

  Avery answered brusquely. “As long as this takes, sir. There's a body in the kitchen, and the detective who gets assigned to this case will need statements from everyone here.”

  “We were out here; how could we possible know what those people were doing in the kitchen?” This was from the woman. She had dark circles under her eyes, sported a push-up bra, and had a new mom on the verge of a breakdown look to her. The bra implied her attempt to be sexy for date night. The dried spit-up stain on her v-neck tee confirmed a new baby at home. Her “those people” comment rubbed me wrong. I
took an instant dislike to her.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience. Anything you have to contribute may be beneficial. And if anyone here has plans, I suggest you alert whomever necessary that you'll be delayed.” Avery ignored the audible groans throughout the room. “Listen, I’m off duty right now, work in a different precinct and I have to be patient just like you.”

  He crossed the room and bent down by my chair. “Hey, I bring the fun, don't I?” he whispered with a sly smile.

  I gave a little shrug, “If murder is fun, then totally. How long we're gonna be here, really?”

  An ambulance's siren whined in the distance. The sound was low, so it was still far off, but closing in fast.

  Avery turned to the front of the restaurant. He answered, scanning the street. “The department put a lot extra bodies on the marches. It may be just us for a while.”

  I thought, good.

  ***

  The ambulance braked to a hard stop in front of Grover's. Emergency medical technicians in real life don't resemble the ones on TV. On television, they sprint to the patient with stretcher in tow. Not the case in reality. They tend to do more of a stroll with purpose. These EMTs, a male duo, were no different. Avery directed them from a position where he could keep an eye on what was going on in the kitchen and monitor the dining room’s occupants.

  Debbie had taken up a spot near me. She sat in a booth draped over the table, face hidden in a napkin.

  When Avery wasn't looking I switched to a chair closer to the waitress. “Debbie, you OK?”

  The head attached to the napkin bobbed up and down.

  I whispered, “What happened in there?”

  She uttered a little noise, sort of between and whine and a sob, and I thought I'd uncorked another round of uncontrollable tears. Instead, she wiped her nose with the back of a hand.

  “His B of a wife happened. That's what happened. Now that this place has a line around the corner, she wants it for herself.”