Slow Burn

by G. M. Ford

  “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “Hey, hey,” Marty said. “Don’t get upset. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that you tend to act unilaterally.”

  “Unilaterally? I act unilaterally?”

  “You’re just not a good team player, Leo.”

  “Exactly what team would that be, Marty?”

  Conlon ignored the question. “Just keep me informed.

  Okay, Leo? No surprises. I’ve got all I can handle. Okay?”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” I lied.

  He stood, placing his hands flat on the desk in front of him.

  “I best get downstairs and see about Lance.”

  He was a mound. A kimono-clad Kilimanj aro rising rotundly from the surrounding plains of burgundy silk. Across his middle, a silver serving tray lent a flat working surface to what otherwise was all slippery slope.

  He worked his massive jaws slowly, his eyes closed, his brow knit as he chewed and finally swallowed the last morsel of sausage from the silver plate before him. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, looking around the room as if returning from a dream state. Satisfied as to his surroundings, he made a flicking motion with his fingers, seemingly shooing imaginary flies from the piled plates.

  From the far side of the bed, his manservant stepped forward and removed this morning’s repast, lifting it carefully over the mountainous middle and setting it on the rolling cart along the far wall.

  Finished, he turned back to his employer. “Well, sir?” Sir Geoffrey Miles pursed his small lips and wagged his head.

  “A reasonable effort at saucisse minuit, I suppose. Ambitious and agreeable, but lacking…” He wiggled his fingers again as he searched for a word. Unable to locate the proper reproach, he suddenly turned his attention to me instead.

  “Of course, I apologize for the delay, Mr. Waterman,” he began. “I had planned on your joining me for breakfast.”

  Propped up in the bed by a platoon of pillows, he now folded his well-manicured hands over his stomach and ran his clear blue eyes over the length of me.

  “My fault,” I offered. “I was late.”

  He wiggled his three lower chins in agreement.

  “I take great pride in the regularity of my indulgences. Breakfast at ten, lunch at two, dinner precisely at eight. Precision lends a certain substance to that which might otherwise be mundane.”

  When I didn’t disagree, he went on. “The playwright Luigi Pirandello once noted that while a man with consistent habits can be said to have character, a man with evershifting habits can merely be said to be a character. Do you agree, sir?”

  I reckoned how I did and waited for him to get to the point. His stock rose with me when he got right to it.

  “I have a delicate and demanding matter with which I believe you can be of service, Mr. Waterman.”

  “What matter is that?” I asked.

  “The matter of various people staying in this hotel, whose very lives I believe to be in mortal danger.”

  “I don’t do bodyguard work.”

  He pursed his rosebud lips. “Really? And, pray tell, why not?”

  “Because when you take on a bodyguard job, you’re saying you’re willing to get hurt in the client’s place. Which I’m not. I mean, I’ll take on physical risk as an occupational hazard, that’s part of the business, but not as an assignment.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It’s like saying the client’s life and well-being are somehow more important than my own. Could be I’m provincial, but I just don’t see it that way. The way I figure it, my life is every bit as valuable as anybody else’s.”

  “What a wonderfully American notion.”

  “Besides that,” I went on, “anybody who wants to kill anybody else bad enough can’t be stopped.”

  “You will be pleased, then, to know that guarding a body is not what I had in mind for you.”

  I waited. Before he could open his mouth again, someone knocked twice on the hall door. The manservant twitched an eyebrow at Sir Geoffrey, whose attention remained fastened on me. “Rowcliffe,” Miles intoned, “I believe that will be Mr. Alomar. If you would be so kind.”

  As Rowcliffe left the room, Sir Geoffrey said, “I had hoped to have our business concluded before his arrival but…”

  I got the impression that I was again supposed to apologize for being late. I hate a repeater, so I shut up.

  Alomar was a tall, distinguished gentleman of sixty or so, in a splendid cream-colored suit and a brown silk tie. Very smooth. His regal bearing and thick, layered hair reminded me of Ricardo Montalban. I had the urge to call, al castrado, “Hey, boss! De plane! De plane!” His sparkling presence also gave me the urge to check and see if my fingernails were clean. I resisted both urges.

  If Alomar was in the least surprised that our host was receiving us from bed, he certainly didn’t let on. Miles began introductions even before Alomar had eased across the room. “Señor Alomar,” he began. “Please allow me to introduce Mr. Leo Waterman, a local private investigator of considerable renown.”

  No way around it, the guy did have a knack for introductions.

  “Mr. Waterman… Señor Caesar Gustavus Alomar, president of Le Cuisine Internationale.”

  Alomar held out his hand; I took it. Rich Corinthian leather. He clapped his other mitt on top of mine and began stroking my hand like a pet ferret. I hate a two-handed shaker.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  “So gooood to make your acquaintance,” he said, suddenly releasing his grip. He had an accent the ethnic derivation of which I couldn’t begin to guess. Not Hispanic, something Central European, maybe. His courtly manner and exaggerated charm seemed to suggest that meeting me was the highlight of his otherwise tawdry day. I had some serious doubts.

  As Rowcliffe appeared in the doorway of the adjoining room, a padded wing chair held before him, Sir Geoffrey began to speak.

  “Mr. Alomar, if you will permit me, I was just about to acquaint Mr. Waterman with the nature of our problem and to solicit his assistance.”

  “Perhaps I can be of some help,” Alomar suggested.

  Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Alomar pinched the front seams of his trousers and sat precisely in the center of the chair, which at that moment had just been thrust into position. The movement seemed to confirm that here was a person for whom a chair would always be readily available.

  Rowcliffe was heading back toward the other room.

  “I’ll stand,” I said.

  He stopped and gazed quizzically back at his employer. Sir Geoffrey wagged an eyebrow and focused once more on me. Rowcliffe closed the door behind him.

  “As you wish, Mr. Waterman,” Sir Geoffrey said. “As I was saying, this is not a bodyguard job per se. I must, of course, concur with your assessment that anyone who is prepared to ignore any and all consequences of his act is capable of killing anyone else at any time. That much is certainly manifest.”

  Alomar was checking to see that his cuff links weren’t smudged.

  “As I am sure you are aware, Le Cuisine Internationale is having its annual convention here in Seattle. But what you may not be aware of, however, Mr. Waterman, is the degree of wrangling required for this event to be held outside of Europe.”

  “The paper said this is the first time,” I offered.

  A small sigh escaped from Señor Alomar. “And, quite possibly, the last,” he said quietly. Miles ignored him and continued.

  “Certain elements within the food community staunchly resist the notion that anything of consequence can take place outside the confines of the Continent. These are the type of myopic souls who, under the cloak of quality, actually stand in opposition to any and all but themselves. These people need only the slightest breach of etiquette to press their image of America as a wasteland of mediocrity and poor taste. They consider themselves to be here under duress.”

  “What kind of duress?” I asked.

  “The
threat of having their rating diminished.”

  “What rating?”

  Miles and Alomar shared a “poor soul” moment on my behalf.

  “You may be aware,” said Sir Geoffrey, “that I sponsor a publication which—”

  “The Register.” I interrupted.

  They seemed relieved. “Ah, yes,” Alomar said. “You have heard of the Register.”

  As I understood it, the Register was the final, worldwide authority on food. The publication rated restaurants on a scale of one to five stars. One star indicated that livestock would be joining you for dinner. Five stars was a ticket to legend. A paltry one hundred five-star designations were assigned each year and the competition was intense. Fortunes and careers hinged upon the annual publication of the Register Hundred.

  “You threatened to give them less stars if they boycotted?”

  Sir Geoffrey’s upper lip twitched. “Suppose we say I intimated that to be a possibility.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.

  “These rogues would, after all, be voluntarily distancing themselves from the very heart of the industry which has nurtured them. That type of unprofessional estrangement would most certainly be noted by a publication such as the Register. I do not believe it could be cogently argued that matters such as this were not well within the ken of such a publication.”

  “Certainly not,” I agreed.

  “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Waterman, the Register is nearly two hundred years in its existence. I am merely its present steward. Its founder, the Marquis de la Maine, fought three duels in defense of his ratings; surely I can be expected to do my small part.”

  “How’d he do?”

  “Who?”

  “The Marquis.”

  Miles pursed his lips and tilted his head. “A regrettable two out of three. His last opponent…” He searched his memory banks. “A Romanian saucier whose name escapes me at the moment put a musket ball through the Marquis’s right cheek. The poor sot survived but completely lost his sense of taste as a result of the scarring.”

  Alomar and Miles shared a moment of sensory lamentation.

  “So some of these people were coerced into coming to Seattle.”

  “No, no, no,” Alomar corrected quickly. “Coerced?” He wagged a stiff palm. “Certainly not! Persuaded, perhaps. Induced, indeed, might also be more accurate. I would prefer to think that they had been enlightened as to the importance of maintaining a global-village type of perspective.”

  “Sort of like, it takes a village to raise a soufflé.”

  Alomar eyed me. “Perhaps,” he reluctantly agreed.

  Sir Geoffrey retrieved the thread. “So, Mr. Waterman, it is within this quite contentious atmosphere that we begin this year’s conference. Señor Alomar and I believe we have put together an outstanding conference program. Superior to its predecessors in every way. I myself will be giving the keynote address on Friday evening and supervising the awards banquet,” he crowed.

  Alomar broke in. “Such an honor, Sir Geoffrey.” He turned to me. “Sir Geoffrey has never consented to our repeated pleas. This is a groundbreaking moment. This is—”

  He would have blubbered on, but Miles cut him short.

  “We are out on the proverbial limb here, Mr. Waterman. The last thing we can afford is any sort of embarrassing spectacle to lend any credence whatsoever to our detractors. Unfortunately…” He let it hang.

  At last we were at my area of expertise. Embarrassing Spectacles Are Us. “What is it I can do for you, Sir Geoffrey?” I prodded.

  He took a full breath. “Here it is, then. You have here in this country two rival chains of steak houses. One is called Del Fuego’s FeedLot.”

  “Sure,” I said. I knew Del Fuego’s. Less than a month ago, while visiting Portland, I’d wandered into one and put away a two-pound T-bone and a baked potato the size of an NFL football.

  “The operation is run by a pitiable creature who calls himself Jack Del Fuego.”

  “I’ve seen him on television.”

  “With that hat and the…what do you call it?”

  “A cattle prod.”

  He threw up his hands. “What else can possibly be said?”

  I was fairly certain I was about to find out. He went on.

  “His archrival is a woman named Abigail Meyerson.”

  “Abby’s Angus,” I said. “They’re all over the country.”

  “Forty-one locations,” Alomar added.

  “And Del Fuego?” Sir Geoffrey asked Alomar.

  “He’s down to six, if you count the new one.”

  “Down to?” I repeated.

  Alomar explained. “Mr. Del Fuego has, over the past two years, experienced a series of catastrophic setbacks and losses. A number of his establishments have ceased operations and had their equipment auctioned off. Several have actually been taken over by Ms. Meyerson and her corporation.”

  “Really,” I said. “I thought the FeedLot was a nationwide thing.”

  “At one time it was,” Alomar said.

  “Mr. Del Fuego is in ruins. He blamed early losses on his staff and subsequently sacked the lot of them, since which time his business decisions have become increasingly more bizarre.”

  “And…” Alomar let the word hang. “Worst of all…Mr. Del Fuego finds himself in direct competition with the Meyerson Corporation.”

  “Why’s that so bad?”

  He drew a long finger across his throat. “Assassins,” he hissed. “Other than your local Microsoft company, the Meyerson Corporation is perhaps the most avaricious company in the United States.”

  “These two”—Sir Geoffrey again searched for a word— “individuals,” he declared charitably, “have a long-standing enmity which goes far beyond the realm of commercial competition.”

  “Haven’t they been suing one another over something?” I asked.

  “Ad nauseum,” Miles said, holding up a finger. “Which is precisely where you come into it, Mr. Waterman.”

  I waited as he gathered his thoughts. “Their initial bone of contention was something called the Golden Fork Club.” He cocked his head at me.

  “Never heard of it,” I said.

  He wobbled the raised finger from side to side. “But perhaps, just perhaps, you have, Mr. Waterman,” he said. I tried to look open-minded.

  “The Golden Fork Club has only one function,” he continued, “which, purportedly, is to rate the quality of America’s steak houses.”

  “Okay,” I tried. “A simple enough proposition, I suppose, considering the complete lack of artistry required to burn meat.”

  Miles and Alomar shared another Maalox moment.

  “Absolutely aboriginal.” Alomar sighed.

  “This seemingly innocuous calling is, however, greatly exacerbated by the simple fact that the monthly Golden Fork Ratings appears in every airline magazine on every flight of every airline throughout the world and, as such, can be statistically demonstrated to have raised the gross sales of its appointees by as much as forty-five percent in any given rating period.”

  “That much?”

  “Indeed. To be counted among the Ten Best Steak Houses in America is to have one’s short-term future virtually assured.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I have seen that ad. The list is inside this ornate little black border, right? Looks like wrought iron.”

  “The same,” said Alomar.

  “Mr. Del Fuego’s establishments have appeared, ranked in the top three, in every list every month since its inception in nineteen ninety-one,” Sir Geoffrey said.

  Alomar jumped back in. “Ms. Meyerson has never made the list.”

  “I take it she’s miffed,” I said.

  Sir Geoffrey made a dismissive sound with his lips.

  “She’s taken it all the way to your Supreme Court, is where she’s taken it, from whence a decision is expected sometime late next year.”

  “Just because she hasn’t made the list?”<
br />
  “Because, apparently, Mr. Del Fuego owns the list,” he said.

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Independent investigation has shown the Golden Fork Club to be a one-man operation, run by a gentleman named Mason Reese. Not coincidentally, Ms. Meyerson alleges, the very same Mason Reese who, prior to the inception of the Golden Fork Club, served as public relations manager for the FeedLot chain for nearly twenty-five years.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Ms. Meyerson contends that the list constitutes fraud, false advertising, and an unfair commercial advantage.”

  “What does Del Fuego say?” I asked.

  “Mr. Del Fuego at first denied any involvement whatsoever in the list. He acknowledged that Mr. Reese used to work for him and thanked Mr. Reese for including him on his list.”

  “You said, ‘at first.’ ”

  “Yes. Del Fuego later recanted, saying that he had used his relationship with Mr. Reese to further his ends and had indeed provided the seed money for the project. He then took credit for what he claimed as a stroke of marketing genius.”

  I started to speak, but Sir Geoffrey raised his voice. “Oh, no,” he boomed. “That’s by no means the end of it, Mr. Waterman. No. No. That would be far too tidy for our Mr. Del Fuego. He then flip-flopped again. Claiming that his assumption of responsibility for the Golden Fork Club had merely been a self-sacrificing attempt to alleviate some of the pressure from his old friend Mr. Reese.”

  “And Reese, what does Reese say?”

  “Mr. Reese has, until now, remained completely mute on the subject.”

  “Until now?”

  “Mr. Reese has scheduled a press conference for ten o’clock Monday morning, at which he promises, for the first time, to address the issue to conclusion.”