EQMM, July 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  But my grandfather said that he found a body in the backyard down by the chicken coop when he went out to the toilet one cold evening in November 1967. And maybe if that didn't actually happen, that was what was meant to happen and possibly I will just have to content myself with that. And, of course, with a load of black-and-white photographs that now live in boxes in my attic in Yorkshire.

  Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Nadel

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Fiction: FIVE STARS

  by Mike Baron

  If you're a reader of comic books, you may already know Mike Baron's work. He broke into the field with Nexus, the groundbreaking science-fiction title he co-created with illustrator Steve Rude. He's won two Eisners and an Inkpot for his work on Nexus, which is now published in French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish as well as English. His debut story for EQMM is something very different from what he does in the comics genre, but we think you'll like it!

  Bill Scald stared at his computer screen trying to think of a synonym for “piquant.” Some clueless bottom-feeder had written to point out that he'd used the word twice in his last review. Well, whose fault was that? His or the copyeditor's? Scald typed “thesaurus.com.”

  “Hey Bill,” Sarah Sorenson, the fashion editor, said to him over the cubicle wall. “Nazz wants to see you.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Scald said, automatically shutting down and locking his computer. Internecine warfare was constant and ferocious at Metro Plus, the premier magazine in the premier city in the premier country in the world, if one discounted the recent Liberty Index issued by an international consortium of nonprofits dedicated to world government.

  Scald rose, straightened his gray silk jacket, and headed toward the plush offices of editor and publisher Nasmir Hamadi, aka “The Nazz,” a Lebanese Christian who'd purchased the rag out from under Leslie Brahmin for an undisclosed seven-figure sum.

  Scald paused at the men's room, where he washed his hands and straightened his bow tie. Scald was a tall, middle-aged man with a luxurious head of silver hair and a colonial moustache who cultivated a genteel bohemian persona in manners, word, and look. He kept a black-and-white photo of Cary Grant from His Girl Friday over his desk.

  As Metro Plus's restaurant reviewer, Scald had the power to make or break any of the twenty thousand restaurants in New York. Two hundred new restaurants had opened within the last twelve months, down from a high of 250 only because of the recession. Within his own little circle, Scald was a titan. He had been Metro Plus's restaurant critic for fifteen years. More than one eating establishment had been badly burned by his “scalding” review.

  As Scald smoothed his hair, his nemesis, the oleaginous Joe Duva, entered. Duva was what the stars of Jersey Shore would look like if they lived that long. Duva flashed his perfect white choppers at Scald, removed a comb from his hip pocket, and swept through his long brown hair. He seemed to be perpetually auditioning for the road company of Grease.

  “Bill! How's it hangin'? You know about our special restaurant insert, right? I'm countin’ on you, babe.”

  Scald shuddered. “Yes, well, best of luck with that.” Duva actually expected Scald to write a feature, “The Ten Best Restaurants in Manhattan.” Scald was tempted to write: McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Burger King, Baskin-Robbins, Dunkin’ Donuts, Taco Bell, KFC, Popeyes, Atomic Wings, and Subway.

  “Nazz is lookin’ for ya,” the intolerable Duva said, admiring himself in the mirror.

  “I'm on my way.”

  Swiping a paper towel with which to grip the lavatory door handle, Scald couldn't escape fast enough. He walked through the renovated loft with its fifteen-foot ceilings and exposed duct work, framed cover art, and hardwood floors toward The Nazz's office at the front of the building overlooking 42nd Street. The door was open.

  The Nazz, a fireplug of a man with a mop of blue-black hair, looked up from his desk. “Bill! Close the door. Have a seat. Got a job for you.”

  Scald closed the pebbled-glass door and sat on the brown leather sofa with its front legs on the Persian rug that reached across the floor to Nazz's nineteenth-century Queen Anne desk. Between them, a free-form maple coffee table supported all the dailies, weeklies, and monthlies churned out by a sedulous and frantic media. Mags and rags completely covered the table. Behind the editor, a bay window looked out on the theater district five floors below.

  The sofa creaked as Scald sat. The Nazz folded his hands and grinned at Scald like an excited schoolboy who knows the answer. “Guess what?”

  Oh God, Scald thought. “What?”

  “Great new restaurant in town.”

  “I'll be the judge of that. What is it and where is it?”

  “Gargano's in the Village.”

  Scald grimaced. “I can't do that. That's a mob joint!”

  The Nazz's smile did not waver. “Nonsense. There is no mob. Ask the Justice Department. Ask the Italian-American Civil Rights League.”

  Scald leaned over the pile of newspapers, picked up the Post, and held it toward The Nazz.

  “MOB BOSS SHOT 5 TIMES IN FACE, DUMPED AT LANDFILL: Lucci Was Target of Fed Probe.”

  “The Post is desperate,” The Nazz said. “They'll do anything to boost circulation.”

  Scald folded his arms across his chest. “What if the food's bad? Do you really want to piss off the mellina crime Family?”

  Sweat appeared on The Nazz's forehead like pop rivets. “There's no connection between the Mellina crime family and Gargano's.”

  “Islam means peace,” Scald snorted. “The stimulus worked.”

  “Look, Bill, this is an assignment, okay? I want you to do this. I'm ordering you to do this. What makes you think it's a mob joint?”

  “I have friends in the industry, Nasmir. The Mellinas open up a new restaurant every couple of years to launder money. They don't care what the food's like. What's going on?”

  The Nazz rose to a towering five-six and placed his meaty hands palm down on the desk. “Now look, Bill, I'm not asking you to give them a puff piece, I'm just asking you to do your job. I expect copy on my desk Monday morning, okay?”

  Sighing, Scald heaved himself to his feet. “As you wish, my sultan.”

  “Take a friend,” The Nazz said to Scald's back. “Have fun.”

  Scald headed back toward his cubicle, a Level-3 headache gestating behind his left eye. He preferred to find his own restaurants without the assistance of the ad department. Like a dog sensing a treat, Duva appeared waving a sheet of paper. “Just sold a quarter-page to Gargano's!” he declared with the alacrity of a prime minister announcing armistice.

  Scald ducked into his cubicle and busied himself with copy paper hoping Duva would pass by. No such luck. The guido stuck his head in the cubicle.

  “Wouldn't hurt if you'd write a review, broheim.”

  As if Duva hadn't arranged the entire sordid scenario.

  “Mm-hmmm,” Scald said. Go away.

  Duva mercifully withdrew, firing his Carpathian shot. “Countin’ on you, broheim!”

  Broheim.

  At least Duva hadn't called him pally.

  Scald decided to go on and get it over with. It was Tuesday and Gargano's was unlikely to be “mobbed.” He could slip in and out before anyone was the wiser. Scald hated any kind of confrontation. The Nazz's suggestion that he take a guest was wise. Not only would The Nazz pay for it, it might be smart to have a witness on hand in the unlikely event Gargano's recognized him.

  Scald had striven for anonymity over the years, shunning photos and using his limited thespian skills to change his appearance from time to time. Long-time staffers bet on when the next change would occur and what it would be.

  No one knew he was bald. He'd started balding in college and had promptly been dubbed “Bald Scald,” a sobriquet he hated and left behind in the small Iowa town from whence he sprang.

  As he walked toward his co-op on West 26th, Scald riffled through his mental Rolodex of possibl
e dining partners. There was Joy, of course. She'd been his escort to innumerable dreary functions such as exhibit openings and movie-star sit-downs and he rewarded her by taking her to the finest restaurants in town. Scald and opportunity only knocked once. Even if he loved a place, Scald never returned. There was simply too much turnover, new places clamoring for his attention.

  Joy was a shouter. She'd yell things like, “Well, that was delicious!” Or, “This salmon tastes like bull testicles!” He'd stopped taking her because she was giving the game away. He could only imagine what she was like in bed.

  There was Scald's sister Edna. And there was Edna's son Dyson, a cage fighter. Dyson was a human pit bull with shaved skull, tribal tats, and the flat eyes of a shark. Dyson's favorite cuisine was buffalo wings, but he might be just the ticket to stave off Mellina muscle. Dyson was too stupid to know fear.

  Dodging bicycle couriers and dog shit, Scald arrived home. Bastienne the Cajun doorman held the door for him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Scald.”

  “Bastienne.”

  Scald used his key to open the mailbox in the foyer. Stuffed, as usual, with invitations, credit-card offers, and magazines such as Modern Food, Wine Country, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Entertainment Weekly.

  Scald walked up the age-stained stairs to the third floor, inhaling deeply of the tobacco-soaked ambience. He unlocked the door to his unit and let himself in. A marmalade tabby began twining between his legs, purring like a generator. Scald crouched to scratch the cat behind the ears.

  “What's up, Mr. Schermerhorn? Anything happen while I was out?”

  The cat meowed loudly.

  Scald went into his parquet-floored kitchen, iron pots hanging from an iron rail, and fixed himself a very dry martini with Boodles gin. He took it into the living room, sprawled on the purple velvet sofa, and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed his sister Edna.

  “Hellooooo?” she sang.

  “Edna my dear, it's Bill.”

  “How are you? It's been ages. I really should have you over to dinner.”

  Scald's stomach rumbled in protest. “That would be delightful. The reason I'm calling, I'm trying to reach Dyson.”

  “Oh, he's right here. Dyyyyson!”

  Scald heard furniture scraping. A moment later the lunk came on the line. “Whassup, Uncle Bill? Where's it at?”

  “Right here, Dyson. The reason I called, I wonder if you'd accompany me to a restaurant that I have to review. Do you have dinner plans?”

  “I was gonna do a protein shake. I got a fight coming up.”

  “Yes, well, wouldn't you rather dine on fine Italian cuisine? You have to keep up your strength.”

  Dyson, who worked as a personal trainer at McCarthy's Gym, gave it five seconds. “All right, what the hell. But why me? I ain't got no food chops.”

  “And that's precisely the reason I want you to accompany me, Nephew. I need a fresh point of view, someone who hasn't been tainted by preconceived notions from watching nasty food dictators on television.”

  Dyson agreed to meet Scald at the restaurant at seven. Scald caught a taxi and gave the Jamaican driver the address. Gargano's was on Bleecker Street, between an electronics wholesaler and a haberdashery. Dyson was waiting beneath the striped awning, to the obvious discomfort of the maitre d', who glowered at him from the safety of the restaurant. Dyson wore blue jeans and a TapouT hoodie with the hood up.

  Scald got out of the cab and paid the driver. “Nephew!”

  Dyson sidled up, a mesomorph among mesomorphs. Dyson was six feet tall and weighed 240 pounds. A shaved skull shaped like a Howitzer shell presided over tiny, deep-set eyes that twinkled with amusement. His shirt did little to conceal the elaborate tattoos that went to his wrists.

  “How the hell are ya, Unk?” Dyson demanded, enclosing Scald in a bear hug. “Figured I might as well carb up since I'm running tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. Shall we?”

  The maitre d’ became all smiles as he held the door. “Welcome, Mr. Scald, welcome!”

  Shit! Scald thought. How did they know? He peered at the tall, thin specimen with slicked-back black hair and a hairline moustache. “Have we met?”

  “I saw you once on the Food Channel.”

  Scald recalled giving a reporterette an interview at the International Grape Festival but had deemed his appearance too obscure to threaten his anonymity. Like hell.

  “Please don't tell anyone, Luigi,” Scald said, reading the man's brass nameplate. “No fuss. I'm just another diner. It is of the utmost importance that you treat me just like any other customer or the review's no good, you see?”

  Luigi nodded enthusiastically. “I understand. I have a private table for you gentlemen in the back. No one will bother you.”

  Luigi led the way through the dark room, which was done up in industrial chic with faux zebrawood floor, a curving bar, exposed duct work, and tiny streamlined chrome lamps that hung from the ceiling in long lines. Garish splashes of color hung on the wall in simple black frames. At least Gargano's avoided the usual pictures of St. Peter's Basilica, the Colosseum, and Naples.

  Luigi led them up three shallow steps to an elevated deck with three tables and two black leather corner booths. They sidled into one of the booths, from which they had a view of the main floor and the entrance. Luigi handed them heavy red-leather menus on rough-surfaced ecru paper with gilt edges and a gold tassel. To mark one's place.

  Luigi clasped his hands and beamed like an indulgent parent. “Michelle will be your server tonight. The wine steward will be right up.”

  Luigi withdrew. Dyson struggled to read the flowing script of the menu in the dim light. “Gee, this place is friggin’ hoity-toity, ain't it?”

  “Nothing but the best, nephew.” Scald reviewed the appetizers. The usual sampling of oysters, calamari, grilled scallops, and shrimp cocktail. He had just turned the heavy page to entrees when the wine steward, a wizened homunculus in a black tux, white shirt, and red bow tie, appeared, plucked the red leather-bound wine journal from its perch among the condiments, and handed it to Scald.

  “Gentlemen, tonight we are debuting a very subtle cabernet from the Verdi vineyards in Napa. We also have a droll and nutty merlot from Capretti in Capua.”

  “What you got on tap?” Dyson said.

  “Beck's, St. Pauli Girl, Peroni, and Birra Moretti.”

  “Jeez,” Dyson said, frowning. “Don'tcha got, like, Bud Lite or anything like that?”

  “I'm sorry, sir, we don't carry any domestic brews. May I recommend the Peroni? It's a full-flavored lager I'm sure you'll enjoy.”

  “Aw, what the hell.”

  “Is that a yes, sir?”

  “Sure. What the hell, I'll try the guinea beer.”

  Scald blanched. This would be a good test of the staff's professionalism. Scald looked up. On the main floor near the front, Luigi was talking to a hulking gentleman in a dark blue three-piece suit with light-blue pinstripes, a black shirt, and ivory tie. The man turned toward the back of the restaurant and stared.

  Terrific. Now everybody knew. Now they would get the special treatment. Scald hated this corruption of the process. He fantasized ventilating Duva with a shish-kebab skewer. The food would be adequate, he would suck it in and write a blandly approving review and move on. Worse things could happen.

  “I'll have a glass of the merlot,” Scald said.

  Michelle was a long-stemmed rose with swinging chestnut hair, model's cheekbones, and ruby-red lips. She headed their way like a DreamWorks CGI effect.

  “Shut your mouth, Dyson,” Scald whispered. “You're drooling.”

  Dyson used the white linen napkin to tidy up.

  Michelle deployed a dazzling smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Michelle and I'll be your waiter tonight. May I tell you about our specials?”

  “By all means,” Scald said. Although he had no use for pretty women, he had no objection to them either.

  “Chilean sea bass with mango chutney served on a bed o
f wild rice. That's twenty-nine ninety-nine. Elk medallions in a reduced raspberry sauce with fresh asparagus. That's thirty-two fifty. And finally, my favorite, grilled wild salmon with collard greens and a selection of beans in a light cream sauce, for thirty-two fifty. Do you gentlemen need a few minutes to come to a decision?”

  Dyson seemed to be in a trance staring at the waitress.

  “Yes, give us a few,” Scald said. “In the meantime, would you bring me a bowl of the seafood bouillabaisse and my young friend here will have the grilled scallop appetizer.”

  “Certainly, gentlemen. I'll put those right in.” She twirled and strode off without setting pen to paper.

  “Holy shit, Unk!” Dyson enthused. “I'd sure like to take her order!”

  “Please don't say anything to her. It might affect the service.”

  Dyson made a zipping gesture over his lips. “My lips are sealed, Unk.” He buried his head in the menu. “Don't they got no sandwiches?”

  The wine steward returned with their drinks. He poured Dyson's Peroni expertly into the glass, whipped out a corkscrew, and opened the wine with an economical twisting motion and handed the cork to Scald. Scald passed the cork beneath his nose and nodded. The sommelier decanted a half-inch of dark red into a glass and handed it to the critic.

  Scald looked at Dyson over the rim of his glass. “The five esses—see, smell, sip, savor, and swallow.” He ran that puppy under his nose. He sipped like a cat. He savored the wine. He swallowed and nodded, setting his glass on the white linen tablecloth. The wine steward filled the glass and placed the bottle on a cork base on the table.

  Well, the wine wasn't bad. In fact, it was a very cunning little merlot. What in Dante's Inferno did elk have to do with Italian cuisine? There were no elk in Europe. Dyson drained off half his beer, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and beamed. Dyson did a double-take toward the front. Scald followed his nephew's gaze.

  The very large gentleman in the three-piece suit, black shirt, and white tie advanced, surprisingly graceful for such a large man. He glided up to the table and clasped his hands behind his back. He had full, smooth cheeks, a rosebud mouth, and steely gray hair that kinked back in waves.