Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

by William Bebb

  Why am I still here? The detective asked if I'd mind staying in case he had any questions, but that was over an hour ago. What's he up to? Does he suspect me? The chef wondered and took a sip of lukewarm coffee from his cup.

  The inspector vaguely reminded him of some television character he'd seen sometime in the past. He was a short man with unruly brown curly hair, wearing a somewhat stained and rumpled light khaki colored trench coat which covered most of his beige dress shirt and narrow somewhat crooked narrow black tie.

  Setting the empty coffee cup down, he watched the detective walk heel to toe across the tiled floor near the sink and then scratch the back of his head while mumbling too softly for the chef to understand the words. From one of his trench coat pockets he produced a small notebook and flipped through several pages before stopping to read something. He reached back into the same pocket and then the other before patting his pants pockets.

  The chef finished his coffee, stood up from the stool, and cleared his throat. “Um, Inspector, if there's nothing further I can do for you. I'd very like to leave now. It's been a most disturbing evening.”

  The little man turned looking up suddenly and smiled before gently smacking himself on the brow with one of his open palms. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot you were still here. You are the head chef here at Ramone's, um...” he paused to look at his notepad before continuing, “Mr. Murry LeBeouf, is that right?”

  “No sir, what I mean to say is yes I am the head chef but my name is Maurice LeBeouf. However if it makes things simpler you may call me Maury if you prefer. But I told that to the other officers and you yourself when you first arrived, quite some time ago. Am I free to go?”

  “Free to go?” The inspector repeated the words as if unsure what they meant then appeared to understand and smiled. “Oh, yes sir. I beg your pardon. I sometimes get so wrapped up and involved with things when working on a case I get a bit confused.”

  “So, may I go home now?”

  “Yes sir, of course, by all means. I must apologize, but I entirely forgot that you were still here.”

  The chef turned without another word, crossed the large deserted kitchen and went to a wall lined with lockers that employees used to store their personal items. He opened his locker, removed the tall white hat from his head and placed it neatly on a shelf inside.

  “Oh, there is one more thing.” The inspector's voice came from directly behind him.

  It was so unexpected and close by that LeBeouf jumped a little and bumped his rather large stomach into the locker, before spinning around and glaring down at the man.

  “Jeez, I'm sorry. Did I startle you? I certainly didn't mean to do that. I just remembered something that I wanted to ask you.” The detective was looking intently at the chef's black and white checkered pants.

  “What is it?”

  “Where do you buy slacks like that?” The little man asked looking up once more at the chef's face. “I only ask because they look very comfortable and they must be easy to get stains out of. What with all the food you deal with here every night, I'd think your clothes would be covered in old stains.

  You know my wife, she's always trying everything to get stains out of my clothes but some things just don't come out very easily... like blood for example.”

  “There is a restaurant supply store on the corner of Lexington and Third Street. They have a wide variety of clothing there for those who work in food preparation.”

  “Oh yes, I've driven past there many times. It's the place with the very large cooking pan hanging on the side of the building that's decorated with those bright tubes of light called... uh, neon, I think. I just had no idea they sold clothing there. I always assumed it was a store full of pots, pans, plates, cutlery... you know, restaurant supplies.”

  The chef continued to stare down at the inspector for several seconds and didn't speak.

  The inspector nodded, smiled and glanced back at his notebook.

  When no further questions followed, the chef slipped off his apron and threw it in the laundry hamper next to the wall. As he lifted his foot and untied his shoes, the inspector cleared his throat again. The chef turned and saw the little man bending over, staring intently at his shoes.

  “Those look very comfortable. I imagine what with standing all evening cooking food, shoes like that must be very supportive and well padded. Do you happen to know if they come in brown? I like brown shoes. I don't think white ones, like the kind you're wearing, would go over very well with my boss down at the station house. He can be quite a stickler when it comes to things like footwear.”

  “They come in a wide variety of colors, and if they don't have brown in stock I'm certain they can order a pair for you,” Chef LeBeouf said while removing his shoes and placing them inside the locker. He then retrieved a pair of somewhat scuffed looking loafers and set them aside, before removing his pants.

  The inspector looked away, lifted his hand to help block the view, and waited until the chef slid on a pair of typical looking gray slacks and finished zipping them up.

  The chef pulled on his loafers and then a long dark colored overcoat while humming softly and ignoring the detective. He shut the locker and walked over to the time clock thinking, Is he playing games with me or is the little man just incredibly odd?

  His was one of two time cards remaining on the right side of the clock. All the others had been placed on the left side when everyone left for the evening. He pulled his card out and slid it into the slot that would punch the time. After there was a fairly loud ka-chunk sound he placed his card on the left side along with all the others.

  “The manager didn't have a time card,” the detective noted as he leaned close to the last card remaining on the right side of the time clock with the name Paco Hernandez printed on it. “I would imagine he made his own hours.”

  The chef didn't respond to what he considered an incredibly stupid observation. Instead, he walked toward the exit and actually had his hand on the doorknob before he heard the detective ask, “Are you in a hurry, sir?”

  He managed to slap on a less pissed off expression before turning around and looking at the little man. “I am not in any particular hurry, no, but I am also not accustomed to watching someone being murdered less than a few feet away from me either.”

  The detective nodded and said, “Yes sir, Mr. LeBeouf, I can certainly believe that. I can understand how seeing something awful like that and not being able to do anything to stop it would be most upsetting. But I was wondering, if you don't mind terribly that is, if you could just spare me a few more minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, sir, frankly, I'm embarrassed to admit it… but I'm in a bit of a difficult situation; a real pickle, as my wife might say. You see, I've got to write up a report and there are just a few things that still confuse me.”

  The chef sighed loudly in unfeigned disgust before nodding and removing his overcoat. “I really fail to see what could possibly be confusing you, detective. The manager and I were having a discussion near the sinks and he spotted Paco goofing off. He then said something to me about how he should have known better than hiring an ex-convict let alone one that was a lazy Mexican.” The detective nodded slightly and glanced at his notepad as the chef continued. “Paco and the manager apparently already had some bad feelings toward each other, because the next thing I knew he had pulled a knife out of the wash water and murdered him.”

  “And then you, according to your statement from earlier, started toward Paco. But as he backed away from you he slipped, fell and banged his head on a pipe. Is that correct?” The detective asked while slipping his notebook back into one of his trench coat pockets.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, sir, I must say you certainly are one very brave man. I mean, here you just saw a man almost as tall as you killed right before your eyes and yet you didn't think twice about going after the murderer. Maybe you should have been a police officer with guts like that.”

&
nbsp; The chef shook his head and said, “No, detective, you don't understand. I believe I was in a state of shock at the time. Considering Paco's well known criminal record and everything, had I been in my right mind I most certainly wouldn't have confronted him.”

  The detective tilted his head and appeared to be considering what the chef just said, before saying, “One thing bothers me, well a couple actually. Paco is maybe five foot tall. The manager was almost six foot five, approximately your height in fact, and I was wondering how such a short man could possibly plunge such a big knife sideways all the way through his neck. Could you come over here and... I know this is a terrible inconvenience, but if you could pretend to be the manager for just a moment it would help me a great deal with my report.”

  The chef set his over coat on the stool and looked skeptical.

  “It won't take a minute, sir.”

  Crossing over to a clear spot in the kitchen LeBeouf sighed and said, “Very well. But after this I really do need to be going home. It's getting late and I'm still a bit upset.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, sir. Now then, the murder weapon was similar to this thing,” the detective said picking up a long butcher's knife. “And Paco is about my height, so what confuses me is how he could reach up and swing the blade with enough force to plunge it all the way through the manager's neck.”

  The chef looked momentarily stunned before he shook his head and said, “I'm afraid I forgot to mention, in my statement, that the manager was leaning down slightly when he was killed.”

  “Oh, well, that certainly explains it.” The detective gently whacked the side of his head and nodded before continuing. “So he was bent over talking to the dishwasher.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Of course, just a moment ago, I thought you had said Paco overheard the manager making an ugly ethnic slur and that's when he killed him.”

  The chef again appeared momentarily confused and then glanced at the knife and shuddered a little bit. His voice sounded as if he were on the verge of tears as he said, “It all happened quite fast. But, now that you mention it, I do believe Paco spun the manager around before he stabbed him. I think he might have even said, 'Hey,' or something before he killed him.”

  “Boy, for a little guy, that Paco sure must have been pretty strong to turn a man a foot taller and maybe a hundred pounds heavier around like that. It's certainly a lucky thing he got scared of you and backed away after he murdered the manager.”

  The chef nodded and slowly said, “Well, um... he had surprise going for him at first. But I suppose... with my witnessing what he'd just done and my being ready for him, he got scared.”

  “That certainly makes sense. Yes sir. I could imagine that.”

  “Alright then, if you'll excuse me I really do need to be going home now.”

  “Of course, and again thank you for being patient and helping me to understand what happened. I really do appreciate all your help.”

  Crossing back to his over coat, the chef said, “Think nothing of it.” Slipping the coat on, he glanced back at the detective, but the little man seemed to have lost all interest in him and was taking a chirping cell phone from his coat pocket.

  He got as far as the back door again before he heard, “Oh, there is one more thing.”

  Chef LeBeouf’s face was nearly crimson hued as he spun around and roared, “Merde! Merde! Merde! WHAT!? What is it now!? What else can you possibly want, you annoying little man!? I have been through a very horrific evening and now all I want to do is go home!”

  The detective stood with his mouth hanging open in apparent shock as he looked back at the chef with a hurt expression in his eyes. There was a long pause before the chef regained some of his composure, ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair, cleared his throat and said, “I... I must apologize. That was totally uncalled for.”

  “No sir. No apologies are needed. I know sometimes people tend to find me... I guess annoying might be the right word. I think it might be the way my mind tends to drift or something. Let me assure you, it's not intentional.”

  The chef smiled slightly and even bowed a little. “Still, it was unforgivably rude. Was there something further I can do for you?”

  “Only if you're sure it's no bother.”

  The chef gritted his teeth behind his forced grin before walking across the kitchen back, toward the short man in the rumpled trench coat, saying, “I promise, it is no bother.

  “Well you know Miss Cavanaugh, the owner of this restaurant? You see, she's just arrived and is in the manager's office. If you could spare us just a few more minutes, I'd sure appreciate it.”

  “Of course, detective, please, just follow me,” the chef said as cheerfully as he could manage, while his face continued to slowly morph back to its regular light pinkish hue, and crossed the kitchen.

  The short man followed him without another word.

  A uniformed officer was already waiting inside the rather cramped office. He stood silently against one wall and seemed relaxed as the chef lead the detective into the room.

  “Miss Cavanaugh, I'm so sorry you had to come in,” Chef LeBeouf said, before gesturing to the short man with the curly brown hair and rumpled trench coat who nodded to the lady sitting behind a rather cluttered looking desk. “This is um... uh a detective that is investigating what Paco did.”

  Miss Cavanaugh was wearing a sable fur coat. It was buttoned up nearly all the way to her neck and she had a bloodshot exhausted look around her eyes, as if someone had woken her up and insisted she come down to the restaurant at the ungodly hour of one in the morning. Covering her mouth with one hand, she yawned before asking, “What is your name, detective? I plan on contacting your superiors first thing in the morning. Whatever happened here earlier tonight, surely this meeting could have been postponed until later.”

  “My name is Lieutenant Frank Falkner. Please accept my humble apologies for having you brought here. As you know your manager was murdered here tonight.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told. I also heard Mr. LeBeouf was an eyewitness to the murder and that he somehow overpowered that Hernandez boy who killed him and prevented his escaping,” the owner said and turned to the chef before adding, “Well done, Maurice.”

  “Thank you Miss Cavanaugh.”

  “Yes ma’am. That’s certainly the way it seems, but um… my goodness, that’s a nice looking humidor,” the detective said, looking over at a dark stained wooden case with intricate swirling designs engraved on its top and sides that was setting on a bookshelf located next to desk. “It is a humidor, isn’t it?”

  She looked over at the wooden case and seemed very irritated as she answered, “Yes, it was a gift I gave to the manager last Christmas.”

  “Well, it’s a beauty. He must have been a great manager to receive something so beautiful and fine,” the detective said before turning to the uniformed officer. He looked at the police officer's small silver name tag on his shirt and asked, “Officer Daniel Corneaux, have you ever seen such a fine humidor?”

  The officer appeared confused. “Uh, gee, lieutenant, I don’t rightly even know what a humidor is exactly. But yonder box sure is real fine looking.”

  “Danny, Danny, Danny; what am I going to do with you?” The detective asked shaking his head, before turning back to the owner and chef; both of whom looked extremely annoyed.

  “Is there a point to our being here, or are you just wanting a souvenir? If it will get this over with any sooner then please just take the damn humidor so we can all go home,” Miss Cavanaugh said angrily.

  The detective appeared deeply offended and hurt by her words for several seconds. He then bowed his head and thumbed through his notepad while the chef and Miss Cavanaugh exchanged confused, tired, and angry looks.

  “Lieutenant?” The owner asked impatiently after almost thirty seconds had passed and the detective only continued to read his notes.

  Detective Falkner held up a hand in a 'just one momen
t' gesture and then nodded before looking up. “You certainly have a fine restaurant here. I even brought my wife here almost a year ago on our anniversary for dinner. I'd probably eat here more often, but your prices are kind of on the high end of the scale for someone earning a lowly detective's pay.”

  Miss Cavanaugh reached over, opened the humidor, and pulled out a cigar. She handed it to the detective saying, “Please, have one.”

  The detective smiled and accepted it. He looked it over and examined the tiny paper label wrapped around it. “Thank you, ma'am. It's a fine cigar, indeed. But, as I was saying, since my anniversary dinner I saw you'd done some remodeling to the dining room. It truly is very tasteful and elegant, but even before I came here tonight I knew you'd made some changes to the place.” He placed the tip of the cigar in his mouth and searched his coat pockets.

  Miss Cavanaugh slid a pack of matches, with the restaurant's name written in elegant gold colored script on its cover, across the desk.

  “Oh, thank you very much,” Detective Falkner said taking the matches and lighting his cigar. He took a few puffs and added, “That is a very fine cigar, thank you.”

  “Don't mention it. You we're saying something about the remodeling, although I fail to see what it has to do with the manager's death,” she said and leaned back in her chair.

  “Do you know how long I've been with the police, as a detective? Almost thirty years. Can you believe that? Sometimes it's hard for me to believe it myself, but it's true.”

  “Is there a point to any of this?” The chef asked sullenly while leaning against the wall behind the manager's desk.

  “I know it's late and we all want to go home. And sometimes fine people, such as yourselves, don't much appreciate the way I do my job. But, it's served me fairly well over the years. So, please just bear with me for a few more minutes,” Falkner said and tapped the ashes from the end of the cigar before smiling at the chef. His brown eyes seemed to twinkle as he continued.

  “When I started out as a detective, oh so very long ago, I'd need sometimes days to figure out some murders. People would occasionally work very hard to concoct intricate plans and schemes, usually including clever alibis to throw me off their trails. But, no matter how smart they were, the plans sometimes failed to account for this or that. Usually, it was something small; something most people would never notice.