Liquor

by Poppy Z. Brite

  De La Cerda called with the information the next afternoon, just after the health inspector left. Crescent had aced the inspection and Lenny was in a much better mood now. He hoped De La Cerda wasn’t about to ruin it. “What’s up?” he said, checking the red recording light of the tape machine attached to his office phone.

  “Well, your mystery pal was right—there is a warrant on Rickey. But it’s a ticky-tack thing—an open container violation.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. He’s clean otherwise. Not even a speeding ticket.”

  “He’s only had a car for about six months,” said Lenny. “Give him time.” He hung up, feeling both relieved and disgusted. What kind of person would go to the trouble of finding out about such a small, stupid thing, then use it to try to get a guy in trouble? It wasn’t just malicious; it had overtones of the psychotic.

  He made some more calls, helped his sous chef prep for the evening, then left to meet Rickey and G-man for an early dinner at Poivre. They needed to go over the licensing requirements they’d soon be required to deal with. Lenny arrived first and had a drink at the bar. Poivre was a beautiful little jewelbox of a restaurant, all gilded glass and dusty-rose walls, seating about forty. The chef was an affable young man as handsome as a movie star. There were small oil lamps and fresh flowers arranged in antique glass bottles on the tables. For a few minutes Lenny entertained the idea of having a tiny restaurant; he sat there developing a whole fantasy about how relaxing it would be. He knew he was kidding himself, but this was the kind of place that made you imagine owning a restaurant could be relaxing even if you knew better.

  He was so absorbed in his little fantasy that he didn’t know the boys had arrived until Rickey came up beside him and nudged his elbow. “You look like you just had a wet dream.”

  “I guess I did in a way,” said Lenny. “It’ll never happen, though.”

  They joined G-man in one of the booths. “How’d the inspection go?” Rickey asked.

  “Fine. We got a ninety-seven.”

  “Rickey and I once worked at a place that got a sixty-eight,” said G-man. “The manager hung it upside down, so from a distance it looked like an eighty-nine.”

  They ordered, and their appetizers came out quickly. Lenny waited until Rickey had taken his first bite of blue crab quenelles before he said, “So, Rickey, did you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “Huh?”

  Lenny repeated what he’d said, rather enjoying the look on Rickey’s face. It was a fairly mean thing to do, but he was irritated. Not because Rickey hadn’t told him about the warrant—he’d probably forgotten all about it—but because they needed to get out of the habit of doing such silly, careless shit. They weren’t slackers any more, and their habits had to change.

  “No there’s not,” said Rickey, then thought about it. “Oh, wait. Shit.”

  Lenny waggled his highball glass in the air. “Does this refresh your memory?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t a glass, it was a beer can. We were working at the Peychaud Grill and a bunch of us went drinking out on the golf course at Audubon Park … I think that’s what it was.”

  “You think, huh?”

  “There’s about a year of my life that I barely remember,” Rickey admitted. “I finally had to cut back on the booze a little.”

  “I remember that,” said G-man. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Oh, like you were the model of sobriety back then.”

  “I wasn’t sober. Nobody at the Peychaud was sober. I just wasn’t as drunk as you were.”

  “OK,” said Lenny. “So you got a piddlyshit open container citation. They even let you drink on the street here as long as you use a plastic cup, but I guess that was asking too much. So help me understand why you didn’t just pay the fine.”

  “I didn’t have any money, so I didn’t show up for my court date.”

  Lenny was starting to get a slight headache. He ate one of his fresh marinated sardines in rouille before he spoke again. Finally he said, “Did you know you can’t get a liquor license if there’s a warrant out on you?”

  “Uh—no. I mean—no.” Apparently seeing that his position was indefensible, Rickey switched tactics. “How’d you find out about this, anyway?”

  Lenny told him about the phone call and how he’d had De La Cerda check it out.

  “Fuck!” said Rickey. The maître d’ glanced over at him, and he lowered his voice. “It’s Mike. It’s gotta be. So he knows you’re working with us. How you think he found out about the warrant, though?”

  “It wouldn’t be hard. He could have put out the word for dirt on you, probably told people he’d owe them a favor if they found something. He’s too dumb to realize it, but he actually did you a favor—otherwise, this would have bitten us in the ass when you applied for the liquor license and they ran your background check. You’re lucky that’s the worst he could find. It is the worst he could find, right?”

  “I guess he could tell people we’re a couple of alcoholic stoner fags.”

  “Yeah, but that’d just be the truth,” said G-man.

  Lenny waved an impatient hand. “Nobody’s going to make a big deal over that kind of stuff. Is there anything else of a legal nature he could dig up?”

  Rickey thought about it. “No. I’ve done some embarrassing stuff, but that’s the only time I got caught.”

  “What about the Monkey Hill thing?” said G-man.

  “Dude, we were like sixteen. It doesn’t count if you’re under eighteen. Does it?”

  “No,” Lenny said hastily. He didn’t think he was up to hearing about the Monkey Hill thing.

  “Well, look. I’ll deal with this warrant tomorrow.” Rickey got a hopeful look. “Unless you already had De La Cerda take care of it?”

  “I did not have De La Cerda take care of it,” said Lenny, measuring his words carefully. “You need to learn to handle this kind of shit. Owning a restaurant isn’t just about having cool ideas and making cool food. You have to take care of business.”

  “Like Elvis,” said G-man. Lenny shot him a look, but he just smiled.

  “OK, sure, like Elvis if you say so. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you two start taking things seriously.”

  “I do take things seriously,” said Rickey. “I’m trying to be responsible. I never had to be responsible except on the line, and when you’re done there you can just fuck off the rest of the time. But I am trying.”

  “I know you are. But you won’t get your licenses by trying. This is real life. You have to do it—you can’t just try.”

  “Like Yoda,” said G-man.

  Lenny turned on him. “What the fuck is with you?”

  “I don’t know. Everything reminds me of something else today.” G-man shrugged. “We got some good weed. It does that to me sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I was just reminding myself why I don’t smoke that shit any more, you waste case.”

  “Thanks, you anal-retentive dickhead,” said G-man amiably.

  The entrées came then, and the sweet richness of Cole Parker’s pot-au-feu calmed Lenny’s jangled nerves until he felt just about normal again. Still, he was glad for the few minutes when everybody was too busy eating to talk. He remembered his wish of last night, that God would forbid him to speak to anyone for three weeks, and realized it wasn’t enough. He needed six weeks at least.

  chapter 20

  Perdido is the Spanish word for “lost,” and after spending thirty minutes circling the same two traffic-choked blocks in search of a parking space, Rickey found it appropriate that City Hall was on Perdido Street. He had never set foot in any of the downtown government buildings before, but he was already starting to nurture a deep and abiding hatred for them.

  “Why don’t we just park in one of the pay lots on Loyola?” said G-man. “It’s not far.”

  “I’m a citizen of New Orleans, goddammit. I’m on business. I want one of those meter spots.”

&nb
sp; “What for? So the meter can expire while we’re still in the courthouse, and we can get a twenty-dollar ticket? If you don’t like the pay lots, let’s park at the Superdome.”

  “I want one of those meter spots,” Rickey said stubbornly. As he turned onto Lasalle again, a Ford Escort pulled out, and Rickey wedged the Satellite into the tiny spot it had vacated.

  “You got quarters, even?” said G-man.

  “Course I got quarters.” Rickey plugged a handful of change into the meter and set off toward the city court building.

  They paid Rickey’s substantial fine without incident, then walked across Duncan Plaza to City Hall. The boxy blue-green building loomed over the plaza like some squat and malign tiki god. “Don’t make me go in there,” said Rickey.

  “I don’t think we got a choice.”

  Obtaining a liquor license was contingent on passing one’s health inspection, which couldn’t happen until the kitchen was completely set up. The inspectors had to check the coolers, the ice machine, the number of hand sinks, and a thousand other things large and small. Today Rickey and G-man were just picking up the forms they had to complete in order to apply for the liquor license and the occupational license that would allow them to do business. After submitting the paperwork, they’d both have to pass a background clearance and get fingerprinted. It was all fairly mind-boggling.

  The City Hall lobby had a lazy, half-deserted feel, rather like Rickey imagined a minor government office in some small Third World country. Two men sat at an information desk talking about baseball. A large U-shaped glass case monopolized the center of the lobby, containing nothing except a rather sparse arrangement of the New Orleans city flag, three puny-looking gold fleurs-de-lis on a white background. A stand card such as one might see advertising beer on a restaurant table announced that the flags were for sale in a variety of sizes.

  “De La Cerda said to go to the Department of Revenue,” said Rickey, scanning a board of listings. “Room 1W15.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I W15? It’s on this floor,” said a woman passing them on her way to the elevators. “Go down that hall right there. It’ll be the last open door on the left.”

  “Thanks,” said Rickey, surprised. He hadn’t been expecting any help.

  The room was easy to find. It looked a little scary—glassed-in windows on either side like the payment department of a Ninth Ward discount-furniture store—but there was no line at the central information desk, and the young woman in charge smiled as she handed them the forms. They didn’t even have to sign a clipboard. “That was too easy,” Rickey said. “There’s gotta be a catch.”

  “I think the catch comes later, when we actually send in the paperwork. These guys are just working stiffs like us.”

  “I guess,” said Rickey. He had been ready for interrogation at the very least.

  They still had a bunch of errands to run, so they bought sandwiches and sodas at the City Hall snack bar and went to eat in Duncan Plaza. With its trees and little gazebo, the plaza was actually kind of nice, though the same could not be said for the City Hall sandwiches. As Rickey and G-man ate, three women on a nearby bench talked animatedly among themselves, almost seeming to argue at times. Rickey tuned them out at first but began to listen as he realized they were talking about restaurants.

  “What I don’t like is the bad service there. That one lady, she always so sarcastic. She call you ma’am, like she supposed to, but the way she say it … ‘Can I help you, ma’am? Here go your drink, ma’am’ …”

  “They got that good hot sausage po-boy, though.”

  “Girl, I know it. Why you think I still go there?”

  “You know where I go? Mr. Pete’s by the Superdome. I like their chicken.”

  “Y’all been to that sushi place opened up on Poydras?”

  “Ooh, girl! I don’t eat no raw fish.”

  “It ain’t just raw fish—they got shrimp, crab, salad, them little beans in the pod—”

  “Where you like to get a steak?”

  “My husband took me to Gertie Greer’s for our anniversary. Expensive, but ummmm, ummmm …”

  “They got the potatoes au gratin on the side? I love me some potatoes au gratin.”

  “Yeah, they got five kinds of potatoes, grilled mushrooms, fresh asparagus …”

  Rickey and G-man looked at each other. Where else could you eavesdrop on office girls and hear them talking about potatoes au gratin and fresh asparagus?

  Plenty of restaurants failed in New Orleans. Rickey’s purple notebook was proof enough of that. But very seldom did a place close because diners hadn’t given it a chance. They would eat almost anything once, and if they liked it, they’d come back for more.

  Later that night, Rickey was lying in bed looking through the papers he’d collected. After lunch they had visited offices on Poydras and Loyola Streets to pick up their state forms. Oscar De La Cerda had offered to do all this for them, but Rickey figured it would cost Lenny about four hundred dollars for the lawyer or his assistant to park in a pay lot and walk around to the various offices. That was just ridiculous. Not counting lunch, it had only cost Rickey $20.75. He slid the blaze-orange parking ticket out of the stack of forms and laid it on the nightstand, where it would remind him to write a check to the city tomorrow.

  G-man came in from the kitchen and stood in front of the window air conditioner. His hair was damp and chaotic, and there was a V-shaped sweat stain down the front of his T-shirt. “I wish we would’ve known the A.C. in the kitchen was broken before we decided to make pizza,” he said. They had picked up some Vidalia onions and Creole tomatoes at a truck stand during the course of their errands. If you caramelized the onions, spread them over the crust, then sliced the tomatoes thinly and laid them on top so they would roast in the oven, you didn’t even need cheese.

  “We could’ve bought a new A.C. for what that goddamn open container fine cost me,” Rickey complained.

  “Yeah, but we gotta have that liquor license.”

  “How long till the pizza’s ready?”

  “About fifteen minutes.” G-man pulled the sweaty shirt over his head and leaned closer to the air conditioner. “Can you pull it out? I’m gonna get in the shower.”

  “Sure.” Rickey put away the forms and went into the kitchen. It felt like a hothouse and smelled like sweet onions. He checked to make sure the pizza crust wasn’t getting too brown, then opened a bottle of beer and sat down at the table. He’d been trying to put it out of his mind, but now Rickey began to think about the phone call Lenny had gotten from Mike. It wasn’t logical, the way he felt about this. He knew Mike was an idiot, and even sort of understood why Mike hated him. Rickey thought of a bumper sticker he’d seen once: It’s not my fault you suck. But if you sucked as bad as Mike did, blaming someone else for your suckiness must be preferable to realizing it was nobody’s fault but yours.

  Still the thing rankled. He’d done a pretty good job at Escargot’s, considering how badly the place was run and how demoralized most of the crew was. He’d worked well with Terrance and the others, helped the kitchen run—if not smoothly—then at least better than it had before he got there. When he had to quit, he’d given Mike two weeks’ notice and trained the new saucier. And how had Mike repaid him? By goading him into a stupid dustup on his last day, then talking shit behind his back, digging up old dirt, trying to make Lenny suspicious of him.

  But what could he do? He already knew he could kick Mike’s ass, but it would be assault. You couldn’t get a liquor license with assault on your record. He couldn’t spread any nasty rumors about Mike; restaurant people already knew the truth about the guy, which was worse than anything Rickey could make up. Anyway, underhandedness was not Rickey’s strong suit. He’d have no idea how to start a rumor and make people believe it.

  That left murder. He grabbed another beer and lost himself in an increasingly wild fantasy of how he could kill Mike with no trace. He knew a couple of places in the Lower Ninth W
ard where he could probably buy a stolen gun for a hundred dollars. He’d break into Mike’s car, lie in wait, and force him to drive out to St. Charles Parish—that part would be satisfying, with Mike apologizing and begging and all—then shoot him through the brain, dump his body in the swamp, maybe sink the car too. There were any number of people who might like to do all this to Mike. Rickey wouldn’t even be the primary suspect.

  How would he get home, though? He couldn’t let anyone see him walking back from the very area where Mike’s body might later be found. G-man would have to come pick him up. That was where the fantasy abruptly fell apart. G-man would never be a willing party to murder.

  The oven timer went off. Rickey pulled out the pizza and set it on a rack to cool. He’d been ravenous a few minutes ago. Now he just felt faintly sick. What he really wanted was another beer, but he saw that he had already finished two.

  He went back into the bedroom. Instead of taking a shower, G-man had turned the air conditioner as high as it would go and fallen asleep with the fan trained on him. There was no escaping it. All through May you could try to tell yourself it wasn’t that hot yet. By June, the 90-degree days, the 90 percent humidity, the thriving mosquitoes, the stinging caterpillars, and the shitty smell that rose from the baking asphalt all combined to make you admit that you were heading into the thick of another New Orleans summer.

  Life was damn depressing sometimes.

  Rickey turned off the light and lay down on the bed. G-man rolled over, propped himself up long enough to flip his pillow to the cool side, and said, “Mmmpizza ready yet?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not hungry any more.”

  “I am,” said G-man, and went back to sleep.

  Rickey lay awake in the dark. He wanted to go to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, his mind started racing. What else had Mike said about him? Would he find out that his phone call hadn’t turned Lenny against Rickey? If so, what would Mike do next? Was the giant cockroach that had run under the stove earlier still there? Would it come out and contaminate the pizza Rickey had left sitting on the counter?