Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  “Fuck you.”

  “The very thought sends chills up and down my spine.”

  “You have no spine. You work on tips.”

  “Moyles work on tips. I work on gratuities.” Isidore pulled out a chair for Roy. “Why don’t you rest your brains and I’ll tell him you’re here. Oh, Carlos,” he shouted to the busboy. “A roll of toilet paper and a pencil for table six. The critic!”

  Roy shook his head, wondering what the hell he had ever seen in Isidore. Or why Whitey had ever married him. It didn’t matter. That was all in the past. He saw a future filled with sweaty young messenger boys and smooth-skinned Oriental chauffeurs as he took off for his own private Planet Hollywood. There was no critic at table 6. There was a screenwriter. A screenwriter about to become hotter than bistro food.

  Whitey appeared in his chef’s whites, holding a white cellular phone and rolling his pink eyes as he waved hello to Roy. A true albino, he had milky skin and white hair. He looked like the White Rabbit without long ears. “Oh, puh-leez, don’t be brown,” he said into the receiver. Then, putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said “Hi, sweetie” and kissed Roy before flopping down into the chair next to him. “Arnold and Maria’s lawyer,” he whispered before taking his hand away. “Listen, you tell them Bruce and Demi never said anything about ketchup.” Whitey put his hand on Roy’s while continuing the conversation. “I don’t care who grossed more, and frankly, I didn’t think Hudson Hawk was all that bad. Talk to me when the overseas video figures are in. Oops, gotta go. Goldie’s on the other line.” Smiling, he put the phone down.

  Roy shook his head. “My ass, she is.”

  “Your ass, she is what?” Whitey began to giggle as he patted Roy’s hand. “Poor baby, miss the hard times, don’t you? But enough about you. Here’s a joke Bobby De Niro told me, and I just don’t understand it. What’s the difference between bad food and bad sex?”

  It was all too much for Roy. Arnold and Maria. Bruce and Demi. Goldie. Bobby. Never mind what the difference was between bad food and bad sex, what was the difference between what Whitey was selling and what he was selling?

  Isidore appeared and smiled at Roy. “Your throat must be parched with envy. Can I get you a nice glass of iced pee?”

  Whitey tugged at Isidore’s sleeve and pouted. “Bring me something.”

  “What would Mommy like?” Isidore asked.

  “Surprise me.”

  “And for King Cobra?”

  “Black coffee,” Roy said.

  “We don’t serve black coffee.”

  “Then send out for it.”

  “It’s all right. Daddy. Let him have it.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  Roy looked at Whitey. “The difference between bad food and bad sex is . . . ?”

  “Now this is supposed to be a joke. But I don’t know what’s funny about it.” Whitey cleared his throat. “The difference between bad food and bad sex is that bad food sucks.” A giant shrug of puzzlement.

  Carlos rushed over to the table. “It’s Liza. A table for eight at lunch?”

  Whitey picked up the cellular phone. “Hi, sweetie. Tell me first what you’re going to wear.” He began to giggle.

  Something was very wrong with the world as far as Roy was concerned. Basic American values had certainly gone to hell if Liza Minnelli, who was perfect for the woman in his screenplay but was virtually unreachable, was talking to someone who cooked dead animals for a living.

  “You know,” Whitey said, hanging up the phone with a sigh, “I’ve heard of two more Judy sightings in the past month alone. It’s like a Menotti opera. God forbid Liza should find out. But enough about her.” Whitey rapped his knuckles on the tablecloth. “Guess what I’ve decided to do?”

  Die, Roy thought.

  “I’ve decided to really push the envelope this time. I’m going to call in Adam Tihany or Milton Glaser and redo the whole fucking place. Something really new and fun. Spark up the room with some vanilla and ivory trim.”

  “Wow!”

  Isidore reappeared. “A glass of coconut milk for Mommy, and a buh-lack coffee for the Prince of Darkness.”

  Roy took a sip from the steaming cup. “Mmmm. This is great coffee!” Wringing the last drop from his damnation with faint praise, Roy continued. “You really know how to make a good cup of coffee.”

  Isidore groaned and left.

  Whitey sipped his coconut drink. “So. What kind of spin are you planning for the article? I should tell you, in all fairness, that Architectural Digest and Elle Decor have already been here.”

  “And what did they think of the coffee?”

  “Oh, puh-leez! This isn’t going to be one of those boring food things?”

  “Heaven forbid. Give me credit for a little imagination. We both know no one comes here for the food. Especially not after Gael and Bryan spread the word about your new vanilla and ivory trim. No way,” Roy said, sitting back. “I’m talking an in-depth profile, a real character study. A day in the life of — ”

  Isidore called from across the room. “Godzilla on two.”

  Whitey raised his eyebrows. “My book agent.” He picked up the phone. “So what have you done for me lately? Uh-huh. Great. Sure I can get quotes from everyone, but I want final jacket approval. What about the tour?” Whitey winked at Roy. “I don’t want their publicist! Some Ivy League bimbo in a Peter Pan collar. Have them call Howard. He knows where I like to stay. And tell them to add one more city. I read somewhere that Dean Fearing had fifteen cities. I want twenty. And we keep foreign rights and first serial. ‘Bye.”

  “That’s the spin!” Roy said. “Arnold and Maria. Liza. The photo shoots. The book deal. Working with the lawyer, the agent, the publicist, the architect, and the designers. The chef of the nineties coming out of the kitchen!” Roy leaned forward almost threateningly. “I’m going to capture the real you!”

  Whitey smiled and brushed back his hair. “Oh dear. You may have to kill me first.”

  MAXFAX

  FROM: Ogden-san

  TO: Hiram Heartburn

  Damn it, I’m in love! Fourteen hours in a plane going from right to left, with nothing more to look forward to than a relapse of chronic Fuji syndrome, I close my copy of Huckleberry Finn. I am only on page 5 when I suddenly realize that the twain has been met.

  I am the twain. I am not a camera or a teenage werewolf. I am the east that is east and the west that is west. Me! Think about it. What I have always had trouble meeting is myself. This is deep stuff. Better put away your autographed picture of Ross Perot.

  Have you ever looked out the window from 35,000 feet? The earth is not round. The horizon is not endless. The world begins and ends with my shoe size. One small step for man. The world is what I can hold in my arms, and Hiram, I have been embracing the wrong stuff. I guess I always knew. Down deep, in that teeny tiny part of me that has no preservatives or artificial flavoring, I knew she was right when she said I was wrong.

  To explain. I get on board a plane that will take me all the way from New York to Tokyo, which is about as far as you can go without having to move your bowels. But when I get off United’s Nina II, there is no land for me to claim for Spain. Testosterone shrugged. I am met at Customs by a nearsighted driver who holds the card with my name upside down. I step into the limo and pick up the phone. DNA propels the male forefinger toward a dial. The Y chromosome has been imprinted with an inexorable desire to claim this land for Spain. Arigato and gomen nasal, get me Queen Isabella!

  Hiram Hockfleisch, let me tell you something: Like the earthquakes in California, the fault lies within ourselves. Beware of flying homonyms. Priorities pervert. The discoverer discovers himself.

  In comparison to me, Columbus was an armchair traveler, Magellan was an agoraphobic, and Cortez had nothing but ants in his pantaloons. Add up my frequent-flier miles. Recalculate the cost of the Lady of Spain’s money in terms of today’s dollars. Amortize my expenses versus theirs. Price the returns on their discoveri
es versus mine. Nolo contendere, buddy. Tomatoes, potatoes, chocolate, and corn versus Natasha. I just met a girl named Natasha.

  All of which is a roundabout way of saying that she loved me once, she loves me twice, and I’m not going to screw it up again. We don’t often get the chance to rewrite our lives, and this time, goddamn it, it’s going to have a happy ending.

  NATASHA HAD KEPT the answering machine on all weekend. She had put herself under house arrest as she wondered how she was going to face Alec on Monday morning. He had called dozens of times. Even Millie had phoned twice from Tokyo. She let their messages pile up just as she did the newspapers outside her door. She didn’t know what to do. It was going to be another Monday morning without her homework.

  She needn’t have worried.

  Her confrontation with Alec took place at the police station. They caught sight of one another through the glass partitions while each was questioned in the death of Whitey Harris.

  The torment in Natasha’s mind had shifted from not knowing what to say to Alec after she slept with him to the horror of Whitey’s murder. All during her session with Davis, she answered his questions with a shake of the head or a nod. Natasha finally spoke as she was ready to leave.

  “Stuffed with what?” she asked, gripping the doorknob.

  Davis consulted his notes. “A mousse of scallops, white truffles, beaten egg whites, and heavy cream.”

  “And then he was . . .”

  “Poached,” Davis said. “In a fish stock.”

  “White turnips?” she asked.

  “And celery hearts.”

  “No amateur,” Natasha said.

  “I think not.”

  “Any clues?”

  “We had you under surveillance all weekend, but you never left your apartment. And Mr. Ogden is in Tokyo.”

  “That leaves . . .”

  “Mr. Gordon and Mr. Drake?”

  “It can’t be Alec,” she whispered.

  “Because he spent the night with you on Friday?”

  Natasha had forgotten all about Solares. Of course. He had driven them to her apartment. He didn’t see Alec leave until Saturday morning. “Because I know what makes people tick. I understand them as well as I understand myself.” She turned back to Davis and shouted, “I could never have slept with a killer!”

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  “Then I was right. It is Roy!”

  “No. We can’t put him at the scene of the crime.”

  “Why? Because he gave you some flimsy alibi? Can’t you see through that?”

  “Not really, Miss O’Brien. His alibi is Mr. Gordon.”

  NATASHA SAT UP FRONT as the detective du jour drove her up-town to the office. She stared out the window. “What makes someone kill people?” she asked.

  The driver put his foot down on the brakes. “Given the circumstances, I don’t think I’m supposed to discuss company business.”

  “Why can’t you tell just by looking at someone?”

  “Because it’s nothing you can see. People kill for money or power or love. I remember somebody telling me, ‘You want to find a killer, first find someone who’s hungry.’ ”

  A POSSE HAD GATHERED outside Natasha’s office. Bermuda, Christine, Bud, and Arnold snapped to attention as she stepped off the elevator.

  “I’ve got to see you!”

  “We have to talk!”

  “There’s a real problem here!”

  “This can’t wait!”

  Natasha walked past them without a word and quickly closed the door behind her. She barely had enough time to mutter “Vultures!” before Ester came in with the mail.

  Important letters were put in the middle of Natasha’s desk, near the jelly donut Ester had brought from Brooklyn. Phone messages to the side. Ester held up the rest of the mail. “You don’t have any money to buy stocks this month, you’re too busy to subscribe to the Met, I’ve decided to go to most of the press dinners myself— except there are some you should consider — and I’ve already said no to all the free trips for the next two months, although believe me, I could use a few days at Sundance, God forbid I should meet someone named Robert Redford.” She waved the mail. “Garbage?”

  “Garbage.” Natasha looked down at the donut. “Ester, I can’t eat this.”

  “Eat half. Then technically it becomes a leftover and I can feed it to Pushkin with a clear conscience.”

  “I wish I had one of those.”

  “No you don’t. He pees on everything.”

  “I meant a clear conscience.”

  Hesitating, Ester asked, “How bad was it?”

  Natasha held out her hands. She had chipped off the polish and bitten her nails to the quick.

  “So this time you really did it.”

  The tears began to stream from Natasha’s eyes. Yes, this time she felt as though she had really done it.

  AFTER A GOOD CRY and a manicure, Natasha was ready for the next round. Ester opened the door and everyone started talking at the same time.

  “I can’t believe there’s been another murder.”

  “We’re going to run out of chefs.”

  “The American Beef Council is getting nervous.”

  “I’ve got to tell you about Grenouille!”

  Natasha looked at Arnold. “About where?”

  “Me and Ester went for lunch. After she helped me move on Saturday. It was like the Botanical Gardens. I never saw so many flowers.”

  Natasha sensed danger. “What else?”

  “The dishes. The service. Those funky little lamps on the tables.”

  “And what did you eat?” she asked ominously.

  “Who remembers?”

  Natasha banged her fist on the desk. “What the hell is going on here? I turn my back, get arrested for ten minutes, and you, Mr. Noo Joisey, you forget why I hired you.”

  Bermuda shook her head at Arnold. “You should have said the fish was overcooked. You’d have been a hero.”

  So much for Natasha’s unfailing instinct about people. She had hired Arnold the same day she hired Alec. “Next!”

  Bud took a deep breath. “The American Dairy Council is getting nervous about their twelve pages.”

  “You look like you’re nervous about their twelve pages.”

  “Let’s face it. These murders aren’t doing us any good. The advertisers keep reading your name in the tabloids.”

  “What the hell is happening to you people?” Natasha asked. “You’re folding faster than warm egg whites.”

  Christine interrupted. “I’ve got to replace those profiles with something.”

  “What about ‘Mom Cuisine’?” Natasha asked.

  Bermuda made a gagging sound. “Why do we have to jump on the bandwagon just because every cook in America has developed an Oedipus complex?”

  “Kill me, but I didn’t graduate from the Columbia School of Journalism to write about meat loaf with gloppy brown gravy and lumpy mashed potatoes,” Christine said.

  Natasha should never have hired Christine. How could she have made such a mistake? “What about the piece on Barbra Streisand’s seder?”

  Bermuda waved the recipes. “May my Bubbie rest in peace. Latkes with truffles? Tsimis with caviar? That little brucha is going to cost more than Terminator 2!”

  “Listen,” Bud said, “I sold pages based on great American chefs, not dead American chefs! They’re beginning to connect you to the murders. What do I tell them? I’ve had calls from Publishers Clearinghouse.”

  Natasha stood up. “You tell them I’m leaving for Paris on Wednesday. You tell them I’m coming back with an entire issue dedicated to American culinary excellence as recognized around the world. You tell them we have lip-smacking recipes from the most innovative cooks in America. You tell them this is going to be the best damn food magazine in the country. And no half-baked lunatic is going to get in my way!”

  The door was flung open. Everyone turned as Alec stood there, pale as a ghost. “Excuse me.” His
voice was tense. “Natasha, I must see you. Alone.”

  She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Not now.”

  “Now!”

  Bermuda rattled her papers, pretending to be frightened. With great exaggeration, she tiptoed out. The others followed. Natasha and Alec stared silently at one another.

  Where was Emily Brontë when you needed her? Natasha stood there as though she were alone on the moors. The wind was chill, night was falling, and she was lost.

  Alec locked the door. “Sit down.”

  “Not another chef.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  She sat down, praying that something would pop into her head. A sentence, a word, anything that would explain to Alec, and to herself, what had really happened on Friday night. But he didn’t seem interested in what she had to say.

  Alec’s voice was flat. Devoid of emotion. “I met Roy at the police station this morning. He came back to the office with me. He wanted to speak to you.”

  “Roy is here?” she asked.

  “No. He had to make a plane.” Alec handed her a contract. “He came to return this.”

  “His Olympics contract? That bastard! I won this fair and square! What the hell do I do now?”

  Alec ignored her question. “I sent him over to accounting to get his kill fee. While he was gone, I looked through his briefcase.”

  “You did what?”

  “I found these.” Alec offered her some papers. “I made a copy.”

  Natasha didn’t want to take them. “What are they?”

  “Pages from Roy’s screenplay. That’s why he couldn’t go to the Olympics. He said he had to finish it.” Alec paused. “There’s a scene in which a chef is stuffed with scallops, white truffles, egg whites, and heavy cream.”

  “He must have heard it on the news. He writes fast.”

  “Too fast for his own good.” He handed her the pages. “Read this.”

  “I don’t want to read it. I don’t even want to touch it.”

  “He wrote more than one scene. He wrote the next murder.”