Slow Burn

by G. M. Ford

  “You said that was their first conflict. I take it there’ve been others?”

  “A list far too voluminous for repetition,” Miles replied.

  “Ms. Meyerson has recently accused Mr. Del Fuego of vandalizing her restaurant signs. Mr. Del Fuego, for his part, is presently suing Ms. Meyerson on charges of industrial espionage. He claims that Ms. Meyerson has spies inside his organization who relay his expansion plans directly to the Meyerson Corporation. This infiltration, according to Mr. Del Fuego, is the sole reason for his recent spate of bad fortune.”

  Alomar sensed my next question. “They’re here.”

  “Who?”

  “All of them. Del Fuego, Meyerson, Reese.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Sir Geoffrey snapped, “they intend to use this golden opportunity to air their linen in full view of the world food community. They intend to use the glare of our culinary spotlight to continue their war of invective. They both have arranged to be opening restaurants here in Seattle this weekend. The timing is by no means coincidental, I assure you. These people have no shame.”

  “You said this Reese guy is here too?”

  “On the eighth floor. And for precisely the same reason. He seeks to lend an air of credibility to himself and his pathetic publication by making his pronouncement in the shadow of our organization.”

  “Any idea what Reese is going to say at his news conference?”

  “None.”

  “I know what I’d be doing,” I said.

  “What would that be?”

  “I’d be cutting myself a deal with one of them, long before the news conference. With that much at stake, it’s a good bet that either or both of them are willing to throw money at him.”

  “I had much the same thought myself,” Miles said.

  I made my words a statement. “And you want me to find out what they’re up to.”

  “Quite unfortunately,” said Alomar, “we know all too well what Mr. Del Fuego is up to.”

  Sir Geoffrey showed me his palm. “Please permit me one further digression, Mr. Waterman. I merely want to be certain you understand the depths of depravity to which these people have sunk.”

  Miles looked smug as he leaned to the left and plucked a photograph from the nightstand. After studying it, he again made that dismissive sound with his lips and stiff-armed the photo in my direction. I walked over to the side of the bed and took it from his fingers.

  I looked it over. “You don’t usually see that many cattle on a downtown city street,” I said finally.

  “Four hundred head,” said Señor Alomar.

  “I didn’t think there were that many long-horned cattle left.”

  “Some fool in Alabama was raising them as pets.”

  Among the glass-sheathed high-rises, Jack Del Fuego, wearing a straw hat the size of a hot-dog-stand umbrella, marched along in front of the herd, grinning wildly at the crowd from above the curved forest of horns, high-stepping it, brandishing his trademark cattle prod like a majorette’s baton.

  “Atlanta. Five months ago,” said Alomar.

  “You see that tall double garage door which is visible at the extreme left edge of the photograph?” Miles asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Engine company number three of the Atlanta Fire Department.” I waited. “At precisely the point where the herd was midway past the firehouse, an incoming fire alarm automatically threw open those massive doors.” I knew what was coming. “The attendant lights and sirens…” He massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “Stampede?” I asked.

  “Made Pamplona look like a petting zoo,” said Señor Alomar.

  “There were, of course, rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  Alomar looked pained. “Regarding Ms. Meyerson’s son, Spaulding. Initially, the investigation turned up two citizens who said they had observed Spaulding Meyerson pull the fire alarm directly across the street from the engine house.”

  Miles took over. “They later retracted their stories, however.”

  “And moved into better homes,” Alomar finished.

  “And now this,” Miles lamented.

  I did a Bud Abbott impression. “This what?”

  Alomar started to speak, but Miles shook him off. “A couple of facts. Ms. Meyerson has a daughter, Brie.”

  “Like the cheese?”

  “All too much, I fear, but that is neither here nor there. Ms. Meyerson also has considerable land holdings in rural Virginia, where she raises the bulk of the nearly fat-free Black Angus cattle which she so proudly trumpets in her TV advertisements. She is, I understand, considered to be one of the foremost experts in the husbandry of this new strain of Angus cattle.”

  I kept reminding myself that I’d been guaranteed a full day’s pay.

  Sir Geoffrey went on. “Young Miss Meyerson, whom I believe to be about eighteen years of age, in what is called a Four-H project, raised a grand-champion Angus bull of both prodigious size and superior lineage. The animal’s pet name was Bunky.”

  “Bunky, you say” was the best I could manage.

  “At the propitious moment,” Miles continued, “Miss Meyerson sent the beast for Four-H auction, which I understand is the custom in that organization. In this case, it was purely charity, of course. Miss Meyerson hardly needed the money. She was merely seeking to benefit the organization and the breed. She assumed, quite correctly, that, considering the incredible size of the animal and the perfection of his lineage, Bunky’s future would hold little more than a lifetime at stud. The beast was irreplaceable.”

  “Why didn’t she keep it, then?”

  “A matter of genetics, I’m afraid. Her bull was too closely inbred within Ms. Meyerson’s bloodline. As such, he could not be used for breeding and thus would have required alterations.”

  I’ve always hated that particular euphemism. The image somehow always seems just a tad cavalier to me. You can alter your plans. You can have alterations made on your trousers. But when it comes to gonads, as far as I’m concerned anyway, the only animal that ought to be subjected to a little snip here and there is a Chia Pet.

  Miles continued. “Young Miss Meyerson opted for what most certainly seemed to be best for her beloved Bunky.”

  I did Bud Abbott again. “But?”

  “Bunky was eventually purchased by a Mr. Hyram Henessey for the princely sum of three hundred sixty thousand American dollars. Mr. Henessey purported to be a cattle rancher from Juno, Texas; his stated intention was to further propagate Ms. Meyerson’s low-fat strain for the betterment of mankind.”

  “Purported?”

  “Mr. Henessey, it turned out, was actually a headwaiter in the employ of Mr. Del Fuego.”

  “Noooo…” I began.

  “Yesss,” Miles finished. “Which brings us to the unfortunate affair in Cleveland eight months ago.”

  Miles took a deep breath, while Alomar hid behind his hand. Sir Geoffrey continued. “Mr. Del Fuego’s first attempt to gain retribution took place in Cleveland eight months ago. The Cleveland operation, long one of the company’s most profitable outlets, had fallen upon hard times and was on the verge of receivership. In a mad attempt to save the operation, Mr. Del Fuego proposed to stage a free barbecue for the homeless. The city was, of course, only too willing to do its part.”

  “What politician could resist?” muttered Alomar.

  “Bunky?” I asked tentatively.

  “Indeed,” Miles said. “Mr. Del Fuego hit upon what he considered to be a novel manner in which he could gain both publicity and vengeance at a single throw. He engaged a meat-cutting firm whose dubious claim to fame was the possession of a mobile slaughtering unit of such facility as to allow the beast to be led live into one end of the unit and to then appear as packaged goods—ready for the grill, as it were—a mere ten minutes later at the other end of the lorry.”

  “The miracles of modern science,” I said. “What stopped him?”

  “Ms. Meyerson,�
� Alomar said quickly.

  “Yes,” said Sir Geoffrey. “In a particularly canny move, the Meyerson woman rallied the forces of animal rights to her banner. I am told they came from the width and breadth of the midwestern section of your country to support her cause.”

  “Four thousand Four-H members alone,” Alomar added.

  “As I understand it, the truck driver refused to jeopardize either the truck or his own well-being by forcing his way through the crowd and summarily attempted to leave.”

  “Attempted?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Geoffrey. “In a most unfortunate move, Mr. Del Fuego then tore the driver from his seat and attempted to flatten the crowd himself.”

  “The police intervened,” Alomar explained.

  “Mr. Del Fuego’s actions provoked a veritable riot among the demonstrators. Several businesses were set afire.”

  I was agape. “And he’s going to try it again here in Seattle.”

  Alomar was hiding behind his hand again.

  Sir Geoffrey took the lead.

  “Mr. Del Fuego has since changed his tactics somewhat. He has now sworn to roast the beast whole at the opening of his Seattle operation, five days hence. At nine o’clock this Friday evening.”

  “Whole?”

  “On a spit. In a pit,” he said.

  I stiffened my chin and stifled a grin. He went on.

  “We have been led to believe that you enjoy a rather close relationship with city government.”

  “I’m related to a whole bunch of people who work for the city, if that’s what you mean.”

  “We want you to use your contacts to ascertain whether or not Mr. Del Fuego has obtained the proper permits and such necessary for his planned debacle. Perhaps we can crimp his plans in that manner.”

  “That’s easy enough,” I said.

  Alomar and Miles now shared another glance. “We have also been given to understand that you are able to muster a fair number of field operatives to assist you,” Miles said.

  “You seem to have done your homework.”

  “We think it best that all parties be kept under surveillance.”

  “You want them followed?”

  “Yes, we do. We hope that by doing so we may garner some advance warning as to their plans.”

  “That’s going to get real expensive. I’m going to need somewhere between ten and a dozen people to work it. At a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses, it adds up in a big hurry.”

  “Money is no object,” offered Alomar.

  I liked these guys better already. I decided to level with them.

  “I should also tell you that following people around a city of this size is not an exact science. It’s not as easy as it looks on TV. If any of these people want to make sure they’re not being followed, it’s not rocket science to lose a tail.”

  Alomar took the lead. “Perhaps we can facilitate your task somewhat,” he said, reaching into his jacket. He came out with a short stack of laminated cards. I leaned over and took them in my hand. According to these documents, I, Leo P. Waterman, was the official security coordinator for Le Cuisine Internationale. Dude.

  “Not a very good picture of me,” I commented.

  Alomar gave me a small bow. “We were forced to act in haste. But I believe they will suffice for our purposes.”

  “Which are?”

  “We supposed that, in your capacity as security liaison, you would be likely to consult with Ms. Meyerson, Mr. Del Fuego, and Mr. Reese regarding any special security needs they might have. In the process, you would be likely to be privy to their schedules, et cetera, thus making the business of keeping them under surveillance considerably easier. I hope we were not mistaken.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “This will make it a whole lot easier.”

  “Not only that,” said Sir Geoffrey, “but we are prepared to offer a substantial bounty for certain other services. Clearly, the debacle cannot take place without the beast. Ergo, it then stands to reason that the animal must be stored somewhere locally.”

  “When you say stored, do you mean stored dead or alive?”

  “We have no idea. And, quite frankly, it matters little to us whether the beast is a-hoof or a-hook. What matters is that the animal be found and at least temporarily liberated.”

  “We are prepared to offer an additional five-thousand-dollar bonus for the rescue of the beast,” said Alomar.

  “A bovine bounty, eh?”

  “Quite,” Sir Geoffrey agreed.

  Alomar fished in the other side of his jacket and came out with a gray envelope. I took it and peeked in. Hundreds. A bunch of them.

  Sir Geoffrey Miles spoke. “We assumed that ten thousand American dollars would suffice to get the operation off the ground.”

  “It will,” I said, trying to appear calm.

  “Is there anything else we can do to facilitate your work?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I can think of a bunch of things.”

  He folded his arms across his chest as I spoke. When I’d finished with my list, he uttered a single word. “Done,” he said.

  Sir Geoffrey was dialing the reception desk as Alomar saw me to the door, locking my elbow like an undertaker, stepping halfway out into the hall with me. “When you meet with Ms. Meyerson, Mr. Waterman…” he whispered in the doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “If she shows you a videotape…” He checked the hall.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Whatever you do…do not laugh.”

  As the young woman in the red blazer whispered into the phone and smiled at me, I leaned back against the reception desk and surveyed the palatial lobby. A dozen separate conversation areas were scattered over the enormous Chinese carpet covering the center of the room. Around the perimeter, a wide mezzanine split the distance between the floor and the ceiling, its elegant marble rail lending an almost classical air to the room.

  “Mr. Waterman,” she said to my back. I turned. “Sorry about the delay. It turns out you were correct,” she cooed.

  “We have a lovely room for you on the ninth floor. Nine-ten.”

  The gold name tag read, Marie. She was about thirty, short and about a size smaller than the jacket she was wearing. Her brown hair was cut severely high at the nape of her neck, giving her head the appearance of moving forward through space. Despite the deep green contact lenses, her eyes showed the strain of one who had always struggled to see. She slid a pair of electronic keys across the desk at me.

  “Are those both room keys?”

  She said they were.

  “I’ll need about three more, please.”

  She gave me that smile again. “Certainly, sir.” From the drawer in front of her, she pulled out a half-dozen blank keys. Using an electronic keypad on the desk, she keyed in a code and ran three keys through the slot. Neat as can be, we make a new key.

  As she slid the keys across to me, a door behind the counter opened and a woman stepped into the registration area. She wore a deep blue silk suit and matching shoes. About five five or so and very solidly put together like a gymnast, she crossed the area behind the desk and made her way to Marie’s side. “Mr. Waterman,” she said.

  The sound of the voice startled Marie. Her narrow eyes stretched wide at the sight of the woman. “Oh, Ms. Ricci,” she blurted.

  “Thank you, Marie,” the woman said.

  Marie, who’d instinctively begun looking around for something useful to do, quickly translated the silence, realized that she’d missed her cue, and exited stage left in a flurry of paperwork.

  The woman extended her hand. “I’m Gloria Ricci.”

  Her hand was smooth and dry. The kind you wanted to hang on to. Up close, she was about my age. Somewhere between forty and fifty, with the wide oval face of a farm girl hiding the observant eyes of a red-tailed hawk. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Marie has taken care of your needs, I trust?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. I wanted to as
sure you that the resources of this hotel are completely at your disposal. Should you require anything further, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She stuck two fingers into her side pocket and pulled out a business card and a small gold key. Ms. Gloria Ricci, General Manager, Olympic Star Hotel. “I’ve added my home number to the back,” she said. “The key allows access to all floors. Regardless of the time of day, please don’t hesitate—ah, here he is,” she finished.

  Marty Conlan nearly tripped over his jaw when I turned to greet him. “Long time no see, Marty.”

  “Ah,” Ricci said from behind me. “I somehow expected that you two would already be acquainted.”

  Since Marty seemed disinclined, I jumped right in. “Yeah,” I said, “Marty and I go way back. You don’t know how lucky you are to have a guy like Marty on board.” What the hell. One good turn.

  As Ricci directed her attention his way, Marty held his face together pretty well. Other than the arrhythmic tic in the corner of his right eye, he seemed almost placid. “Mr. Waterman will be acting as security liaison for the convention. I trust you will provide him with whatever resources he might require.”

  “Depends on what he requires,” Conlan said.

  She fixed him with her gaze. “Should Mr. Waterman require any assistance whatsoever, I’m sure that you will be more than happy to assist in any way possible. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Conlan?” Her voice held an edge of authority. Apparently Marty thought so too.

  “Anything at all,” he said with a smile so tight it threatened his dentures. “Anything at all.”

  “Funny, Ms. Ricci,” I piped up, “but Marty and I were just discussing being a team player. Weren’t we, Marty?”

  The veins on Marty’s head looked like a relief map of Tibet. He nodded slightly and checked his watch.

  Gloria Ricci said, “I’ll leave you gentlemen to work out the details.” She turned on her heel and exited in a rustle, as Sir Geoffrey would say, from whence she came. Marty’s expression changed to that of a kid who’s been sent to his room without dessert.

  I started across the lobby toward the escalator. Marty yapped at my heels like a terrier. “You broke his goddamn thumb, you know that, don’t you, you big dumb jackass. You broke that kid’s thumb.”