by Don Bruns
He walked back and I stood up.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Got her number, so we’re good to go.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Breakfast outdoors at South Beach’s News Café was an experience. James, Em, and I, working on an expense account plus the three grand a week, dined on omelets with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and onions, a Quiche Lorraine, and a vegetable quiche.
“Bacon, cheese, onion, light cream—”
“James.” I nodded toward the sidewalk. A heavyset older couple walked by, the man in a Speedo bathing suit and his jiggling wife in a see-through cover-up. Nothing apparently underneath.
“I would use a little cayenne pepper and—”
“James, let us enjoy the food,” Emily said.
“You should know what you’re eating, Em.”
“All I know is, I’m enjoying a free meal. Save the chef spiel for work, okay? Leave it alone.”
They fought like little kids.
“Check this out.” James reached down and picked up a plastic bag. Setting it on the table, he reached inside, pulling out a dark, polished wooden box. He opened it and held it up for us to see inside.
“A knife,” I said.
Removing the shiny knife, he carefully placed it in the center of the table.
“Not just a knife. A Wüsthof nine-inch chef’s knife. Forged from a single piece of carbon steel that will cut through veggies and meat like butter.” He held it up, the sun glinting off the blade. “This was a gift from Michael Trump, head chef at Jack’s Half Shell, when I graduated from culinary school. He’d had it for years, and, after I interned with him, he thought it was a fitting tribute to my culinary future.” Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled sadly. “I’ve only used it maybe five or six times, but still—”
Trump obviously pictured a brighter future for James Lessor. The truth was, my roommate hadn’t used the Wüsthof knife in years.
I had to admit it was a piece of art. The flow of the design and the curve of the steel along with the dark, triple-riveted handle setting off the silvery blade made it look as if the knife should be framed and hanging on a wall like some medieval dueling weapon preserved for the ages.
“It’s got this little nick in the tip, right here, but other than that, it’s a piece of work.”
“You have to bring your own tools?” Em was intrigued as well.
“Any chef worth his weight has his own knife. Or knives. First thing Bouvier asked me. ‘What kind of knife do you have?’ He seemed impressed when I told him it was a nine-inch Wüsthof Classic.”
“The guy doesn’t really care what you do in his kitchen, but he’s concerned about your tools?”
“I’ve got to look the part, Skip. A chef, a cook, needs his knives. I start with my chef’s knife.”
He was right. Even if Bouvier wasn’t offering him an actual kitchen position, he needed to look the part. James needed to do everything possible to make his coworkers buy into his cover. It all started with his four years of college and a knife.
“Well, tonight’s your first night,” I said. “You’ve got your cell phone and your knife and—”
“Chef says no cell phones.”
I swallowed a forkful of smoked salmon. “Screw Chef. If he wants results, we’ve got to have open communication, right? What if you need to contact us?”
“I explained that to him. Bouvier says I can take restroom breaks or sneak outside for a smoke and—”
“You quit smoking.”
“Oh,” James smiled, “you pay attention.” James had tried for years to kick the habit for good. Now he had an excuse to start his habit all over again. The kind of luck James always had.
“What if someone comes out and catches you talking to one of us and—”
“I’ll buy a pack. I’ll look legit. My guess is that anyone in that restaurant who ducks out for a smoke break also checks their messages. It’s the perfect excuse to use the cell phone. As for the cigarettes, I can light them and look like I’m grabbing a smoke. I just won’t inhale.” His smile was a dead giveaway.
“Right,” Em rolled her eyes. “But I’m sure you’d consider taking up smoking again if it was part of the job.”
“Anyway,” James took a bite of his toast, “there are no exceptions in his kitchen. What happens outside during my pee breaks, or my smoke breaks, no one is the wiser. I’ll find a reason to get out so I can call you guys.”
A young man walked by on the sidewalk, sporting skin-tight lycra shorts and holding two leashes, black Doberman pinschers straining at the leather. I quickly looked back at Emily. Behind her a young lady in a micro bikini strutted across the street, her sculpted breasts bouncing with each step. South Beach.
“Guys,” James affected a somber look. “As much as I like the idea of three thousand dollars a week, and as much as we could use the money, I don’t like the idea of being in that kitchen any longer than I have to be.”
Em raised her pretty eyebrows. “James, I thought this would be your lifelong dream. Working in a celebrity kitchen.”
He cleared his throat. “My dream, Emily, would be to have my own kitchen. I’m not ready to work in a four-star restaurant.” James threw her a sincere gaze. “I can be an egotistical asshole sometimes, I am aware of that. But I am telling you, this shtick scares me.”
It wasn’t like James to acknowledge any shortcomings.
“I wouldn’t normally admit this to anyone, but I’m not ready for sous chef. As much as I’ve thought about being in this type of position, I never really visualized it. In less than,” he glanced at his cell phone, “six hours, I have to present myself to one of the finest restaurants on the East Coast. Let me tell you, friends, I am seriously not ready for this. I’m so sure they will find me out.”
Honesty, brutal, total honesty was not a quality of my friend. So either he was lying to us, or he was petrified and had to tell someone. I believe it was the latter.
“I am woefully unprepared. I have no idea what I’m getting into. And, I may be working with a murderer.”
“James,” I looked him square in the eyes, “if you want to back out, we both understand. I mean, the people who work in kitchens,” I hesitated, trying to find the right words, “they are a little strange. The pressure, the heat, the fast pace—”
“How the hell do you know all this, Skip? You’ve never been exposed to a commercial kitchen. I studied this for four years.” James raised his voice and I could tell I’d touched a nerve.
“Yeah, you’re right. But I read Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential in one sitting. Pretty brutal.”
“Trust me,” he almost whispered, “that guy didn’t get everything right. It’s not all yelling, swearing, sex in the walk-in, stealing food, and doing drugs.”
“It’s not?”
“No. The guy didn’t get it all right, okay? Apparently working in a celebrity kitchen is also about a chef’s kid getting killed because of a coke deal. It’s about kitchen help getting murdered in dark alleys. It’s about a dominating wife who runs the show.” There was no smile. Just the cold, hard facts.
“Yeah, well, there’s that too,” I said.
My friend stared out at the sidewalk as South Beach woke up to the sun and fun of a new day. Tourists and locals mingled in a dance unlike anywhere I’d ever been. Beautiful women, chiseled men, and so many dogs I lost count. I couldn’t imagine living in this crazy section of South Florida.
“James, just go with the flow. We’ll be right there if you need us.”
“I’m going to do it, Tonto, but I’m very apprehensive.”
“I think you made that abundantly clear.”
“Like Skip said, we’ll be here. Whatever you need,” Em said, hesitating, “within reason.”
“You’ll be on call.”
“We will,” I said.
I just had no idea how fast that call would come.
CHAPTER SIX
I drov
e him to work in the truck. It’s a white Chevy box truck that barely runs, drinks oil like a bar lush drinks whiskey, and bounces over potholes like it has no shocks. Actually, the truck needs new shocks. Hell, it needs new brakes and new tires, but we can’t afford everything necessary to make it a dependable means of transportation. What we needed was a new truck.
I diss his truck on a regular basis, but my rusted-out Taurus doesn’t run at all, so we share the truck.
“How about we use some of the money we make for new shocks and to get you a new battery.”
He agreed.
“So far, the cops haven’t admitted to any suspects,” James patted his shirt pocket, checking to make sure he’d brought his pack of Marlboros.
“No.” I recited the brief information we’d seen on TV. “Multiple knife wounds to the abdomen. No immediate person or persons of interest. Friends, relations, and coworkers being interviewed.”
The interviewer had been very interested in Em’s relationship with Amanda Wright. He’d hung onto the fact that Em had been a good friend, then they’d drifted apart, then she’d fixed James up with Amanda, and finally that we were dining at L’Elfe largely because Amanda was the sous chef.
“Did you ever argue with the victim?” he’d asked. “Did your relationship with Miss Wright go any further than just friends?”
The whole question and answer thing had really upset Em. His final question was about James.
“You set your friend up on a date with a James Lessor. What’s your impression of Mr. Lessor? Does he seem to be a stable person?”
“Damn,” Em said after the conversation, “James? Stable? I hope I never get asked that question in court. I couldn’t lie under oath.”
I steered the truck by the MacArthur Causeway where two giant cruise ships were docked off to our right.
“I’d think that tonight you get a chance to listen, pick up some of the conversation.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “They’re going to be discussing it. It’s all over the ’net, TV.”
“Should be a lot of rumors flying around. A lot of gossip in the kitchen, it’s a given, right?”
“I’m sure the dining room will be buzzing too.” He was starting to get into it, I could tell by the excitement in his voice. There was also some apprehension. Starting a brand-new job was stressful.
“There is going to be a lot of interest in you, too. People wanting to know why you were hired so soon. What magic ingredient you have that caused Bouvier to make the hire.”
James nodded. “I thought of that. And since I don’t have a good backstory, I’ll go with what I’ve got. Four-year degree, brief internship, and Cap’n Crab. Bouvier thinks I have potential. Other than that, I’m going to attempt to do a whole lot more listening than talking.”
“Good idea.”
“There will probably be a lot of thrill seekers in the restaurant who can Tweet their friends and say ‘guess where I am?’ “
“You said the little guy will be there?”
“Told me that he needed to be the calming influence for the next couple of nights. I think it’s a good idea. And Sophia, his wife, is supposed to be there as well. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. I mean, the way she barged into the interview. I’ve been told she kind of brings the place down.”
Sophia Bouvier. Arguably, one of the main reasons that Chef Jean was so successful. She ran the commodity side of the business, selling the spices, the pots and pans, the cutlery.
We’d researched the husband and wife team on the Internet. Besides the business venture, hundreds of full-time employees, the multimillion-dollar corporation with its various streams of income, besides the celebrity, the fame, and instant credibility, there was the death of Jean-Luc. The drug deal death of their son seemed to overshadow everything in the celebrity duo’s life. Maybe Sophia’s dour attitude was based on the price she paid for her position in this world.
“But remember,” James said, “I’m just there for decoration. My job is to see if there’s a killer in the house. They couldn’t give a damn about my culinary skills.” He was still miffed.
I’d only seen him on television. Jean Bouvier was a small guy with a big mouth. He had a shtick where he’d start preparing a meal, get to a certain point, then look to the camera. He’d point his index finger in your face, give you a cute little smile and, I swear, his eyes would sparkle.
“Any one of you can do what I just did,” he’d say. “That part is simple. But can you do this?”
Then he’d whisk something or slice something or sprinkle something and supposedly the magic would happen. I’d seen him do it a half dozen times when James was watching The Food Channel. “But can you do this?” had become a tagline. It was even an answer on Jeopardy one night, and James found it in a New York Times crossword puzzle. “But can you do this?”
“You know,” James was staring out the window, watching the water catch the late afternoon sun, “there’s one common denominator in that kitchen.”
“Common denominator?”
“Yeah. There’s something that qualifies almost anyone on that kitchen staff to be the killer.”
“And what’s that?”
“They all know how to use a knife, Skip. They all know how to filet, slice, dice, chop. It’s part of the culture.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
I saw his expression change, his eyes reflecting with a blank stare. “Well, that’s not entirely true,” he said.
It had made sense to me. “No?”
“The dishwasher. I mean, you start as a dishwasher. Bottom of the chain, you know? That guy, that girl doesn’t have to know how to use a knife. Dishwashers are exempt. But everyone else—”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, and five minutes later I dropped him off at the rear of the small white-stucco building.
“You’ve got your knife?”
“Yes, Mother. And I’ll play nice with all my new friends.”
“Be safe, James.”
He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and forced open the squeaky door. Glancing back at me, he folded his hands in front of him.
“Think about me, amigo.”
“I will.”
“And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Both of these doors get harder to open every day,” he said. “Get some WD-40, Skip. Oil the damned doors.”
“Call if you find work,” I shouted as he walked into the restaurant.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Em lives just down the street in a condo twenty-three stories over the water. I love waking up there in the early morning, looking out at the clear blue water and South Beach in the distance. I love going to sleep there, watching the tiny lights of South Beach, Star Island, and the causeways twinkle. I actually love waking up next to Emily. Most of the time I wake up at the crummy apartment where James and I live, where I can see a muddy dirt-brown ditch running behind the units. Not quite the same. I shared James’s dream about one day being rich and famous. But the longer I spend time with him, I realize the way to achieve that dream is not always the same as my best friend’s.
Em was waiting for me, and we’d decided to spend some time going over Amanda’s past, seeing if there was anything Em might remember about her friend that would shed some light on the grisly killing.
I immediately thought about Amanda confessing to a crime that Em was accused of committing, but my girlfriend had told me that story wasn’t going to see the light of day. Emily, being a strong woman, had laid down the rules long ago.
Her mom had died when she was eleven, a victim of breast cancer. Em had grown up an only child with a workaholic father who wanted only the best for his daughter. She’d taken on adult responsibilities at an early age and now practically ran the construction business for her father. She’d begged me to work for the company, I guess hoping that I’d finally grow up and be responsible for a change. But I couldn’t convince myself to do it
. Working for Em’s dad would have been like working for Em, and that just wasn’t going to fly.
When she was right, she was right. And, she seldom was wrong. If you didn’t believe it, just ask her.
I was halfway to her condo, the white box truck sandwiched between an Escalade and a Porsche Panamera, when Bruce Springsteen’s ring tone blared from my pocket.
“James, it’s only been fifteen minutes. You’ve solved the crime?”
“Skip, there’s a little matter here that I could use some help with. You know you said you had my back and all?”
I remembered that. “And we do. We have your back. Why would you even question that?” I’d told him that we were going to be approaching the murder from a different perspective. “James, tonight we’re going to talk about Amanda and see if Em can remember—”
“Kind of a change in the plans, amigo.” I heard him take a breath. I was certain it was a lungful of smoke.
“Got a smoke break already?”
“Chef Bouvier phoned me and asked me to go out and call you.”
“Come on, James. What’s so important?” Jeez, had something happened already? Fifteen minutes had passed and he was already either panicked or had the murder solved. Amazing, even for James. He was quiet for a moment, and my heart was racing. I had no idea where the conversation was going.
“Has something happened? It has, right?”
“I hate to ask this, Skip.”
“Damn you, tell me what you need.”
“A dishwasher.”
I shook my head. “A what?”
“Dishwasher.”
“And how can I help you with that? I don’t know any—”
“You, Skip.”
I was taken aback. Stunned. Taking my eyes off the road for two seconds, I about slammed into the back of a BMW. “Me?”
“Dishwasher didn’t show up. With two of us back here, we can talk to a lot more people, put together a lot more scenarios.”
“Oh, no. No. No. No.”
It was a pattern. James would sucker punch me if it meant getting him out of a jam. “You volunteer to wash the dishes. Em and I have stuff to do. Research, doing background checks. You need someone on the outside. You know that and we’ve already discussed—”
