by Nan Lyons
Alec nodded. “The large, round Camus of Brittany.”
“The small violet poivrade of Provence,” she said.
He whispered into her ear. “Artichauts à la Diable.”
“Garlic, capers, olive oil, and bread crumbs! Alec, stop!”
“Artichauts Braisés Farcis au Gras.”
“Oh, yes! Stuffed with sausage and wrapped in bacon. I warn you, Alec. The floodgates are open.”
He took both her hands in his. “Did you really cry?”
“You must never tell anyone.”
“Of course not.”
“Instead of feeling vindicated, all I could think was, Poor Achille.”
Alec hesitated. “I’m surprised you didn’t go to the funeral.”
Natasha drew back. “Are you crazy? He tried to kill me!”
“I mean, I was surprised so few people showed up.”
“You were there?”
“No. But Beauchamp went. She told me all about it.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, she was the only one present.”
“Quel surprise.”
“No one even sent flowers.”
“Alec, get real.”
The waiter brought two plates, silverware, and napkins. Alec waited for him to leave. “Well, he was a rather extraordinary man. I mean, give the Devil his due. He had the keenest palate in England, perhaps in all of Europe. He was an astute observer of the arts, a brilliant conversationalist, and a shrewd businessman. Frankly, I have never met anyone with his unique range of expertise.”
“You obviously found him quite a role model.”
There was a noticeable change in the tone of her voice. Alec realized he had said too much.
“You know, Alec, let me be absolutely honest. From what I’ve seen, you could have taken over Lucullus and done it as well as Achille. Why didn’t you?”
He took a deep breath. “Because I am not Achille van Golk. I despise the wretched excesses that ruined his life. I wanted the magazine, and the appetites it supported, to die, just as he did.”
The waiter brought a silver tureen filled with hot blini. He put down a steaming pitcher of melted butter and a crystal bowl of salmon caviar.
Alec suddenly felt weak, nauseated, as though he hadn’t eaten for a long time. He watched anxiously as she put blini onto their plates. His breathing grew labored as she poured melted butter over them, allowing each small pancake to absorb as much as it could. She took the crystal spoon from the bowl and topped them each with a large dollop of caviar.
Natasha nudged him as she opened her napkin. “A little wretched excess, in moderation, never hurt anyone.”
He picked up his fork. “Well, perhaps just a taste.”
THE DINING ROOM at 21 had a ceiling littered with the toys of the rich and famous: baseball bats, ballet slippers, model planes, trucks, boats, and football helmets. The bar ran nearly the length of the entire room.
“No, you may not have Joan Crawford’s Dom Perignon ’59,” owner Ken Aretsky said smiling. He kissed Natasha’s cheeks lightly. “Nor the ’62 Pommard left by Onassis.” He was referring to bottles stored for good customers in 21’s legendary wine cellar.
“But they’re not coming back for them,” she pleaded.
“Probably not Onassis, but I wouldn’t put it past Crawford.” As he spoke, his eyes scanned the U-shaped all-star dining area that ended at “Bogie’s Corner,” the table at which it was said Bogart and Bacall had fallen in love. “Are you two interested in being alone?”
“No,” Natasha said.
“Yes,” Alec added quickly.
Natasha hesitated. “What about the bar?”
“Two stools coming up!”
“We’ll stand. This is my seventh-inning stretch. Alec, do you mind?” she asked, without waiting for an answer.
“Yes, I do mind,” he said, following her to the bar, “I’d like us to be alone. Most of all, I’d like you to say whatever it is you’ve been afraid to say all night.”
She turned to look at him. “It’s all over my face, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That damn mouth of mine!”
He reached out and took her chin in the palm of his hand. “That damn mouth of yours.”
Alec leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Natasha gasped for air. With any luck at all, she’d have a massive cerebral hemorrhage and slip to the floor. However, while waiting, she put her arms around his neck. “You’re fired.”
“Good. Then there’s nothing to stop me from kissing you again.”
The moment he embraced her, Natasha whispered, “You’re hired.”
“Make up your mind.”
Still not letting go, she looked up at him, wondering why she didn’t just tell herself to say “Goodnight, Grade” and start running. She couldn’t. She was playing straight man to her emotions.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he asked.
“Believe me, it’s nothing personal. But if Roy didn’t kill them and I didn’t kill them and Millie didn’t kill them, there’s only one person left.”
His voice was taut. “You think I killed Parker and Neal?”
Before she could answer, the bartender poured two glasses of champagne. “How about a little chicken hash or a burger?”
Natasha was starving. Alec had already eaten everything in sight.
“I’m not very hungry,” Alec said.
“You weren’t hungry during the marrow or the scallops or the blini, either.” Natasha looked at the bartender and shrugged. “Sounds to me like a double order of chicken hash.” She waited for him to leave and then turned to Alec. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me say that.”
It must have been the champagne talking. No, it was the kiss. The fault, Dom Perignon ’59, lies not in tasting stars but in ourselves. She picked up her glass and emptied it in a single gulp. “This stuff is worse than truth serum.” It was no use. Who was she kidding? As much as she wanted to believe it, as much as she wanted to tie things up neatly, Alec was no killer. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Detective Davis said we were looking for a copycat killer, and all I know about you is that you worked for Achille.”
“So did you.”
“Well, yes, but — ”
“If we’re talking about copycats,” he said angrily, “you’re the one who started your own food magazine.”
“Alec, what the hell are you getting at?”
“People who live in glace houses . . .”
Natasha was stunned. “Are you accusing me of killing Parker and Neal?”
“Nothing personal.”
“Thank you.” Natasha wondered whether to laugh or cry or tear him apart limb from limb. Suddenly she was horrified. “I’m sorry, Alec. I meant to say ‘thank you,’ not ‘fuck you.’ ”
“You didn’t say ‘fuck you.’ You said ‘thank you.’ ”
“Well, that’s what I meant to say.” She banged her glass on the bar. “Artenderbay, oremay ampagnechay!” Impatient, she reached for Alec’s glass. “You know, you’re right. I did kill Parker and Neal.”
“What are you saying?”
“If it weren’t for me, they’d be alive today.” She emptied his glass. “I don’t know how I did it, but I know it had something to do with me. Alec, let’s get the hell out of here. I’m beginning to feel the champagne.”
He reached out for her arm. “Does this mean we’re finally getting past the hors d’oeuvres?”
“It means we’re finally getting to The Four Seasons. My kingdom for a slice of Chocolate Velvet!”
AS THEY WALKED up the flight of stairs to the reception desk, all Alec could think about was their leaving. Going back to Natasha’s apartment. He imagined himself standing at the door as she pulled him toward her.
Natasha stumbled and pulled him toward her. “I told you I was a classy drunk. I only trip in the best places.”
Paul Kovi, co-owner of The Four Seasons, had a worried expression on his face as they walked toward him. He looked like a character from a
n old Lubitsch film — the man from whom Dietrich had stolen the diamonds. He embraced Natasha. “I just gave away your favorite table.”
“Darling, as long as you didn’t give away my favorite cake,” she said, holding tight to Alec’s arm. “We’ve been doing hors d’oeuvres all night and it’s time to ‘dessert’ the ship. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Achille van . . .”
Alec’s heart began to race. He extended his hand quickly. “Alec Gordon. I imagine you can find space for us at the bar?”
“Give me one moment,” Kovi said, heading across the room.
As soon as they were alone, she whispered, “I don’t know what I could have been thinking of.”
Having Natasha suspect him of being a murderer was bad enough, but her calling him Achille, no matter how much champagne she’d had, was unbearable. He grabbed Natasha’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “Can you feel my heart beating? That’s my heart, not Achille’s.” Alec felt a sharp pain in his chest, just beneath her hand. “I’ve gone to lengths beyond anyone’s wildest imagination to avoid comparisons with Achille. I’m nothing like him!” The spasm constricted his lungs. “I hated him, most of all, for what he did to you.” Alec’s throat tightened. He spoke in breathless gasps. “He tried to kill you.”
Natasha took his hand. “Alec, you’d better sit down.”
The Richard Lippold metal sculpture over the bar was an elegant shower of brass rods made all the more attractive by a hint of danger: it moved. Not the sensuous ripple of the brass swags in the windows — the Lippold was tense. The rods jumped nervously against the air current.
Kovi pulled out two stools as they approached. “I’ll make a platter for you. A little bit of everything.”
“My hero.” As he hurried off, Natasha turned quickly to Alec. “Perhaps you should have something to drink.”
Alec nodded at the bartender. “Roederer Crystal.” Another mistake. It was Achille’s favorite.
“You know, I always said that when I died, I wanted to be chocolate-covered. Maybe I shouldn’t wait. It would shut me up.”
“I can think of other ways to shut you up.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “So I’ve noticed.”
“I thought you said no more kisses.”
“I’m the boss. I can kiss you. It’s just that you can’t kiss me.”
“Sounds like sexual harassment.”
“Oh, I don’t mean never.”
“When?”
“When the first issue is on the stands. When the U.S. team wins at the Olympics in Paris.”
“Paris?”
She smiled. “That’s what this whole evening was supposed to be about. Alec, I’m going to need help on the article.”
It hadn’t occurred to Alec that he’d be going with her. His mind began racing in all directions. The first time he had met her was in Paris. And now, to return as lovers . . .
“We’ll have a wonderful time,” she said.
They both jumped as the bartender popped the cork. “Sorry,” he said, pouring the champagne.
“Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking?” he asked.
“I’m not very good at that game.” She forced a smile. “Millie and I were never more in love than in Paris, at the height of Achille’s madness.”
“Murder makes strange bedfellows. Perhaps that’s why . . .”
“Why what?”
“Perhaps that’s why you want me to go to Paris.”
She emptied her glass as though drinking water.
The waiter brought two enormous platters with slices of cakes and tarts, scoops of mousse and sorbet, small pastries, chocolates, and cookies. Alec stared at them. His eyes began to water. As though from strain.
“Stop!” Natasha held out her hand. “Don’t even put them down,” she told the waiter. “Alec, I don’t feel well. Please take me home.”
Alec began to tremble. He winced at the sharp stabbing pains in his head. “Perhaps you need something sweet.” He looked around. It was as though his voice had come from somewhere else.
“No!” Natasha grabbed his sleeve. “No Chocolate Velvet! No Roederer! No nothing! Just take me home.”
Alec looked at the bartender. “Check, please.” His head began to pound so loudly that he couldn’t hear the bartender’s reply. He couldn’t hear what Natasha was saying as she tugged on his arm. All Alec could hear was Achille’s voice bellowing inside him, “Are you crazy? I have just begun to eat!”
NATASHA SAID NOTHING the entire ride home. She stared out the window, her thoughts racing ahead faster than Solares could drive. What if Alec was right? What if? What if? What if for once in her life she stopped trying to answer the riddle of the sphinx before crossing the road?
Alec caught her as Solares made a sharp turn and she lurched forward. She accepted his arms and his hand brushing the hair from her face. Natasha sank back against his chest. It wasn’t as though she were still married to Millie. It wasn’t as though she were cheating on him. The only person she was cheating on was herself.
“O great sphinx, the answer is, to get to the other side.”
“What did you say?” Alec asked.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh.”
“O great sphinx . . .” She glanced guiltily at Alec. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Alec, when we get to my apartment, are you going to take advantage of me?”
“Yes.”
She leaned her head back against his chest and sighed deeply. “Good.”
He took her key in the elevator, he took her shoes in the foyer, he took her clothes in the living room. Then he took Natasha in his arms and carried her upstairs as she wondered when the hell he was going to start taking advantage of her.
“Alec. . .”
“Yes?” he asked, putting her down on the bed.
“You do know that I’m looped.”
“Yes.”
“I thought men had rules about such things,” she said, watching him unbutton his shirt.
“What things?”
“Drunks and bosses.” She leaned over and looked closely as he took off his trousers. He was hard. “I guess not.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Oh, no! About what?”
Alec sat on the edge of the bed. “My total lack of morals.”
She reached for his nipples and drew him close. “All you think about is yourself.”
“All I think about is you!”
“But you don’t even know me. Not the real me. We’re like two shits passing in the night.”
“Ships,” he said.
“Whatever. Did I tell you that Millie and I always fall in love when there’s a murder?”
Alec kissed her stomach. “Yes. But I think you’re making too much of it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m making nearly enough of it. I feel as though I’m becoming a different person. I don’t know how much of me is me anymore.”
“It’s easy,” he said, kissing her nose. “That’s you.” He kissed her eyes, one at a time. “That’s you.” He kissed her lips. “And that’s definitely you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Natasha, my darling.” He whispered as he bit her on the shoulder, “I can tell you with my eyes closed whether I’m eating a piece of chocolate by Godiva, Teuscher, or Lenotre.” He kissed each nipple. “I can taste the difference between Château Lafite-Rothschild and Château Mouton-Rothschild.” He buried his face in her breasts. “I can inhale the difference between petit-suisse and mascarpone.” He circled his arms around her. “I can see the difference between cognac aged in casks made from Tronçais or Limousin oak.” He pressed his knee between her legs and pushed them apart as he entered slowly. “What makes you think I can’t tell the real you?”
“Just asking.”
She held tight to Alec as tea
rs streamed out the corners of her eyes. Please, O great sphinx, let service be compris.
AMERICAN CUISINE
MEMO FROM: Natasha O’Brien, Editor in Chief
TO: Alec Gordon, Executive Editor
I’m afraid we have a problem. I spent a great deal of time this morning going through your suggestions for upcoming articles, only to find they simply don’t work. You’ve taken too much for granted in trying to second-guess my intended thrust for the magazine. This is particularly upsetting since only yesterday I agreed with absolutely everything you wanted to do. What can have happened between yesterday and today?
Let’s see if we can’t get back on the right track.
For starters, there’s a world of difference between comfort food in the last issue and your proposed piece on Greek diners. As far as I’m concerned, the only Greek diners worth writing about are Aeschylus and Euripides.
“No, No Nouvelle” is a clever title, but I don’t want to throw out the baby with the tomato water. Why don’t you see if you can come up with something that 1) isn’t French; 2) respects American chefs; and 3) starts a trend. Can you have it by tomorrow?
The cross-fertilization of ethnic recipes into a cross-cultural cuisine is an interesting concept, but it’s far too cerebral for me. It’s one thing to have an idea, but it has to be fleshed out. I guess that’s the pattern I’m really objecting to: when you come up with an idea, you can’t run away from it and expect someone else (me) to connect the dots. We both have enough experience to know there’s many a slip between what seemed like a good idea at the time and one that doesn’t work when push comes to shove.
I’ve come to shove. I run this magazine the way I run my life. That’s why I need more than promises.
Chapter 7
ROY ARRIVED AT THE WHITE CHIC promptly at ten the next morning as though nothing had happened. As though Natasha had not canceled the article. He had an appointment with Whitey that he was determined to keep. Article or no, Roy Drake had his own agenda.
All the lights were on in the restaurant as the busboys set tables and the bartenders removed traces of yellow rind from the lemon slices. Without his beard and wig from the day before, Roy was immediately recognizable to Isidore, the maître d’. “Oh, look, everyone. It’s the Wicked Witch of the West!”