Too Many Cooks

by Joanne Pence

  “I was more like family than any of them! Besides, none of them cook.”

  “So it doesn’t matter, then.”

  “Look, Angie, I need these recipes to turn this restaurant around.”

  “Probably so.”

  “These gems will give me—and Henry—a chance to make something of ourselves. Something big. Okay?” Passion blazed in his eyes.

  It wasn’t her business to get into this. Particularly since she could sympathize with his ardor. To a chef, recipes were creations, works of art, and Karl was a great artist, whose work might have been lost if it weren’t for Mark. “I’m just glad you’re keeping Karl’s work alive.”

  He shut his eyes a moment, then turned around and gave the vegetables he’d just bought to a kitchen aide to wash.

  Angie stood outside the plain glass door on Telegraph Avenue, the number she’d found in Wielund’s notebook clasped in her hand. She looked at it one more time, memorizing it. Surely, she needn’t worry about going inside again. There hadn’t been anything frightening about the place. Not really. It was a legitimate business establishment, a type she’d never dealt with before but legitimate nonetheless. There was nothing for her to be frightened about. Why then was her stomach jumping maniacally?

  Whiskbroom Head sat at the counter again. She shivered but kept walking toward him.

  He pushed his thick glasses higher on his nose, following her every step. “Well, I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  “I realized the last time I was here that I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was supposed to ask for. I talked to my friend some more, and now I do know.”

  “You know what?”

  “Do you rent movies?”

  “Rent them? Does this look like a Captain Video store?”

  She placed her hands on the counter and gave him a heartfelt look. “My friend just loves all this stuff, you know, and he told me I should look at some films you folks have put together to learn everything I need to know.”

  “Where’d you say this friend found out about us?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me too much.” She gave him a vacant grin.

  The expression on the guy’s face told Angie he wasn’t surprised.

  “You know, I was thinking,” Angie continued, “maybe we can watch some of these films together.”

  “Together?”

  She gave him what she hoped was a sly, knowing look. “Do you have someplace we could go?”

  It worked, because a grin slowly spread over his bearded face. “Sure I do.”

  “I’d like to pick out the film, though. I’ve got some idea of the kind my friend wants me to see.”

  “So do I, baby.”

  “Do you have a catalog?”

  “No.”

  “No? You just keep canisters of film lying around without knowing what’s in them?”

  “We’ve got some write-ups. And outtake photos.”

  “That sounds fine. I’ll look at those.”

  “Great. Let’s hang your coat here. I want you to be comfortable.”

  Angie quickly unbuttoned it herself this time, remembering how creepy it felt when he did it. She handed it to him and stayed far back.

  He led her to a dusty back room filled with boxes of films. File boxes on a table were labeled with folders. “Here you go.”

  “Great.” She started to look through them. They were sort of in numerical order, though someone had done a pretty sloppy filing job. She flipped through them until she found the one labeled 911,394, the number in Karl’s cooking notes. She couldn’t go to that one first, so she started elsewhere, randomly picking out files, opening one file after the other, all showing men and women having sex in a variety of combinations. After the initial shock, much to her surprise, the vacant emotionlessness of the photos quickly grew strangely boring.

  Finally, she decided enough time had passed and picked up folder 911,394. She opened it, stared, then quickly shut the folder. Her mind refused to accept the face, the body, she’d just seen. Trying to control the sudden shaking of her hands, she pulled out one photo, turned it face down, then shoved the folder back into its spot in the file. “Thank you. I believe I’d simply like to buy this one shot. Before we watch a whole movie, I’d like to show my boyfriend and see if this is what he wants.”

  She left the room and started down the hall toward the desk.

  “Wait a minute. We were going to watch some films together.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind.”

  He stood in front of her, blocking her path. “You don’t get to just waltz in here and look at all this for free, you know. You got to pay, one way or another.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “I will. For this one photo. How much?”

  Whiskbroom Head glanced at her clothes and her shoes as he stroked his beard. “Two hundred bucks.”

  “Two hundred! That’s outrageous!”

  “It’s a bargain. Less than a pair of shoes, even.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at her feet. “Well, if you put it that way. Do you take plastic?”

  “A personal check will be fine. I trust you.” He smiled wide, the green on his teeth turning Angie’s stomach.

  As she filled out the check he said, “Make it out to Dwayne Cartwright.”

  “Wrong, Dwayne,” a deep booming voice said.

  Angie spun around to see a flashy-looking character: medium height, trim but muscular, somewhere in his forties. The first thing Angie noticed was his short bleached-blond hair, worn forward, Napoleon style, framing a darkly tanned face. With his scarcely buttoned shirt, turquoise and silver rings, and Indian necklace and bracelets, he looked like someone who should be on the beach in Los Angeles, not a studio in Berkeley. But then, Berkeley attracted all types.

  As he approached, Angie thought he had some kind of a bug on the side of his face. When he came closer, she saw it was a large black mole.

  The man smiled at Angie. “Cross off his name and make the check out to Axel Klaw, with a K.”

  “Oh?” She looked back at Dwayne. When she saw how pale he was and how rapidly he nodded his head, she didn’t hesitate. She completed the check and handed it to Klaw, then turned to leave.

  “Not so fast.” Powerful fingers gripped her wrist firmly as he glanced at the name and address on her check. “Tell me, Angelina, whatever makes a sweet young thing like you interested in these eight millimeters?”

  “My boyfriend—”

  He released her wrist but slowly shook his head as she spoke. “Uh-uh. You aren’t the type for boyfriends like that.”

  She blanched. “Bad taste in men, I guess.” Her laugh was hollow. She stepped back from him. “I’ve got to go. Thank you for your help.”

  Klaw grabbed the picture from her.

  “Hey!” she cried.

  He turned it over, his eyes narrowing as he glanced from the picture to Angie. “Why this one?”

  “I don’t know. We looked at a bunch. I took one.”

  “You know her, don’t you?”

  The world seemed to shift. “Me? No. Should I?”

  Klaw chuckled. “As a matter of fact, yes. She’s become somebody now. The wife of a hotshot restaurant owner. Her name’s Lacy LaTour.”

  Angie kept her face immobile. “Oh? Well, I never heard of her. I don’t have to take that photo. Any one will do, as long as it’s old. ‘Oldies but Goodies,’ that’s what my boyfriend says. But then, he’s sixty-five, so that’s probably why he feels that way. I don’t care myself. Any age is—”

  “Shut up!” Klaw turned to Dwayne. “This the first time you’ve seen this broad?”

  “No. She was here once before, saying she wanted to be in a movie.”

  “Be in a movie?” He looked her up and down, then burst out laughing. “Don’t that beat all?”

  “On second thought, I don’t want to anymore. My boyfriend’s a big fan of these movies, that’s all.”

  “That so? And what’s th
is boyfriend’s name?”

  Her mind went blank. Some big writer. Started with an S. Shakespeare? Shaw? Shelley? Sartre? What the hell had she said? “Steve,” she answered.

  Dwayne looked puzzled. “Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound right.”

  Angie could have sunk through the floor. Who’d have thought a porno counterman had nothing better to do than remember her tall tales?

  “You’re lying,” Klaw said. “All this boyfriend jazz is nothing but an excuse.”

  “An excuse?” Her voice was tiny. Klaw couldn’t possibly know about Paavo or her restaurant background, could he?

  He folded his arms. With his tan, muscular upper body and short fair hair, he looked like Mr. Clean. “You’re just some rich bitch who wants a little fun. A thrill. You want to make one of these movies, but you don’t have the nerve to come right out and say it. I’ve seen your type before. Plenty of times. And I can be very accommodating.”

  She felt herself pale. “It’s not true.”

  Klaw laughed, then wrapped his arm around her waist and led her down the long hallway. “I know women get cold feet all the time. But looking at you, I know you got what it takes to be a star. You got class, something lacking in lots of these films. Let’s see how you do on camera.”

  Angie couldn’t even believe this man was touching her, let alone taking her anywhere. She dug in her heels. “Let go! I’ve changed my mind.”

  “So you want to get rough? I can oblige you in that, too.”

  She was shocked. “This is no game.”

  “You’re good. I like the tone. You’ll be great on camera. The equipment is ready and waiting for us. Freddie will take you to a set. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Angie paid no attention to the mountain of a man who stepped her way but did get the fleeting impression of a Vegas casino bouncer. “You can’t do this to me!” she yelled at Klaw.

  Klaw yanked her in front of him so hard and so fast she nearly fell over. He gripped her neck with his long, hard fingers. She froze as they began to tighten.

  Panic filled her as she stared into eyes as flat and devoid of feeling as those of a dead fish. She pushed hard against him, but it was like hitting a steel door. Suddenly, laughing, he relaxed his grip. She drew in deep, gasping breaths, unable to think but only to feel complete disbelief and panic.

  He waited only a few seconds before he shoved his thumb under her chin and roughly lifted it, forcing her head back, her face upward. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching hers.

  “I’m the director. That’s like God around here. Life and death are in my hands.” His fingers ran along her neck again, then dipped lower to stroke her collarbone. “So remember, I can do anything to you I damn well please.”

  19

  Paavo knew a waste of time when it kicked him in the face, and this was a waste of time. The accounting books from Italian Seasons were spread over his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. Clearly, Chick Marcuccio hadn’t been cooking his books, and from the profits he saw coming in, Chick hadn’t needed to.

  His gaze moved from the accounting books to a stack of folders from files about cases that had been closed out, plus a few magazine articles. His review of the Sheila Danning case had led him into general reading about the world of pornography from both sides of the camera as well as a number of case studies from Vice, Homicide, and Missing Persons.

  The women in these stories were universally so incredibly naïve he had trouble believing they were real, until he remembered that a certain miss he was close to also surprised him with her naïveté. Even the hard ones, though, the ones who grew up with abuse and drugs and sold their bodies from the time they learned they were salable, still seemed to have some hope that acting in these films could offer a way out, a way to riches or an escape to the kind of life they could only dream of. They were in it for the money, only to find that the money was hardly enough to buy the escape offered by drugs.

  The male actors in these films, on the other hand, Paavo found to be a complete enigma. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what kind of sickness might lead a man to perform on camera like that.

  His telephone rang.

  “Smith here.”

  “Officer McGifford, Berkeley. We just spotted aforementioned female going into building on Dwight Way. Reporting as instructed, sir.”

  “The woman with the Ferrari?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s there now?”

  “She just walked in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Paavo hung up the phone. I’ll kill her! he thought. He’d told her not to go back to that place. Did she listen to him? Did she ever listen to him?

  He looked at the files he’d been reading and a shudder went down his back.

  “She’s all yours, Freddie.” Klaw pushed her into the bearlike arms. She tilted her head back to see a man about her age, curly brown hair, dark eyes, wearing a white sports jacket and a red shirt open at the neck, showing off a thick gold chain. A scar across his top lip caused it to pucker at one side, as if in a perpetual sneer.

  “I want to leave,” she said.

  Freddie really did sneer as Klaw smirked and waved his hand, telling Freddie to take her away. The big man began to lead her, but when she pulled back, he took her arm and dragged her along as if she weighed no more than a rag doll. She yelled at him to let her go, but he paid no attention.

  He pushed her into the cubicle where they’d been filming the last time she’d been there and flipped on the light switch. Angie could hear the expected sounds from the other cubicles as she faced Freddie. An eight-millimeter camera stood in the center of the room, while tall spotlights pointed down at the big brass double bed.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Angie said.

  “Mr. Klaw never jokes,” Freddie answered.

  She was impressed he could say so many words at once without drooling. “I hate to tell you, but I get stage fright. I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t go until Mr. Klaw says.”

  “Watch me.”

  She started toward the door.

  Freddie stepped in front of her, his arms folded.

  She took a side step.

  So did he.

  Quickly, she glanced around and saw that the back wall also had a door. She spun around and bolted toward it. Freddie ran after her.

  She grabbed the doorknob just as Freddie’s hands took hold of her waist. She turned the knob, but the door didn’t open. Freddie tried to drag her away. Putting both hands on the knob, she pulled harder. So did Freddie. Clutching the knob, she tugged at the door with all her might. Freddie wrapped his arms around her waist, trying to haul her away. Her feet lifted right off the floor. But she wasn’t called stubborn for nothing.

  Their footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs as Paavo and Yosh hurried up to the porno studio. A dark-haired man stood behind the counter talking to a blond man whose back was to them. Then the blond man turned around.

  Paavo felt as if someone had plunged him into ice. For an instant, time stood still and he was fourteen years old again: afraid, grieving, filled with cold black hate.

  It had been too many years, Paavo told himself. His eyes were playing tricks on him. Or his imagination was.

  His memory had to have faded from the time he first searched for this man. No, not this man, but someone who resembled him. The flat gray eyes weren’t really the same, were they? Nor was the big mole on the man’s cheek. This couldn’t be the man he’d searched for, for so long.

  He was stockier than Paavo remembered, and his hair was a little thinner, a little shorter, a lot blonder, but that was all. The protruding lower lip, the heavy-lidded, darting eyes, the mole—they were the same.

  “Axel Klaw,” the man said, holding out his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  Paavo tried to shake off the feeling, but it was as if he were looking at the man through a microscope and all his features were enlarged and overwhelming. Paavo could b
arely stand to touch the offered hand. “Paavo Smith, Homicide, SFPD. This is Inspector Yoshiwara.”

  Klaw shook hands with both. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Suddenly the past vanished, and blood rushed to Paavo’s head, throbbing and pounding its way through him. Angie! She was here, with this man! Klaw stepped back from the icy force of the blue eyes focused on him.

  “A young woman was seen entering these offices. We’re here to pick her up,” Paavo said. The chilled, unemotional voice seemed to come from someone else, not himself.

  “Many young women come in here.”

  “She’s little—”

  “Most of my women are short. They aren’t your typical models, you see.”

  “Dark hair—”

  “More common than blond.”

  There were more questions, lots more questions that he wanted to ask, that he would ask. Someday. Soon.

  “Her name’s Angie.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell, Inspector.”

  The same smirk. Years ago, he hadn’t been able to stop his sister from going off with this man. The coincidence was almost too much, yet he’d known every minute of his life that someday their paths would cross again. He just never bargained on Angie being in the middle when it did. It was like being caught in a nightmare.

  “You damn well better get some bells ringing.” Each word was spoken with chilling exactness even as Paavo took the front of Klaw’s shirt and jerked his face nearer.

  “Hey, there, copper. I ain’t done nothing. You’ve got no right—”

  “I got every right, Klaw. She came in here. I want her now.”

  “Look, inspector, these broads, they all change their names anyway. I mean, none of them who come here tell the truth, so I don’t pay attention to what they say. If a young woman wants to work for me”—he smiled—“with me, I got to be a most obliging fellow.”

  A muscle in Paavo’s face twitched at Klaw’s words. “Her anonymity won’t protect you, Klaw. You get her now or you won’t be able to jaywalk without doing time. Is that clear? You want to be shut down? It’s the easiest thing in the world.”