[SS01] Assault and Pepper

by Leslie Budewitz

  Let ’em.

  The Market is tucked smack into one of Seattle’s hills, with Western Ave on—go figure—the west side. First Ave lies uphill to the east, with Pike Place, a curious L-shaped street, and Post Alley sandwiched between. From Western to First is a steep vertical rise. Happily, my loft is on Western and my shop is in the middle, on Pike Place. So I rarely have to trek the whole thing at once.

  Right now, I made my way up Stewart to First, a good climb, carrying a special order for a restaurant customer and test bags of today’s blends.

  Thinking of Alex Howard, proprietor and chef of the First Avenue Café, brought a smile. Proverbially tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention successful, intense, and almost flamboyant. A media darling. We’d been out a few promising times.

  No, I didn’t mind delivery duty one bit.

  At the corner, a woman stepped into view and started across the street. Tory. Two or three feet behind her came a man in an olive green raincoat. He appeared to be talking to her, reaching out his hands.

  It was Doc. She shook him off, glancing over her shoulder, and kept walking.

  You don’t beg with both hands. You plead with both hands.

  What did he want from her?

  I hurried up the hill. She reached the corner just as a Metro bus screeched to a halt, and was gone before I could catch her.

  Doc stood, hat pulled low, staring as the bus zoomed away.

  “What do you want with T—with her?” I stopped myself from blurting out her name. Over the years, I’d had to intervene several times when downtown denizens hassled my young female employees. Bad enough that he knew where she worked and what bus she rode.

  Doc did not reply.

  “Leave her alone,” I said. “If you’ve got a problem with Sam, or with the arrangement about the corners, you talk to me, not my staff.”

  He ducked his head till it almost disappeared between his shoulder blades. Without a word, he trudged down the hill.

  I was breathless, not from exercise but from anger and protectiveness. From not knowing whether Doc posed a threat to Tory—or to any of us. He didn’t look like much, but that was no guarantee.

  When Doc reached Pike Place, he headed back toward the heart of the Market, to my surprise. Most of the street men—homeless or not—hang out at Victor Steinbrueck Park, a grassy lawn on the Market’s north edge punctuated by a pair of fifty-foot cedar totem poles. The park is named for the visionary architect who saved the Market from destruction by progress. But now that I thought about it, Doc didn’t seem the type to join that crowd—he was more of a loner. Plus, Sam and Arf usually spend the sunset hours there.

  I shook off my apprehension. No point worrying without facts.

  Several nights a week, Alex Howard presides over the kitchen at his flagship restaurant, the First Avenue Café. He owns the whole building, keeping his corporate offices on the second floor and his apartment on the penthouse level. We met when he grew frustrated with an inconsistent supply of Grenadian nutmeg for his jerk chicken and asked me for help. His charms were undeniable, but I resisted. After thirteen years of marriage to Tag, I’d seen the light: Charm is overrated.

  But Alex had kept calling, and now I stood at the Cafe’s side door, delivery bag in hand and hope in my heart.

  A prep cook answered my knock. “Hey, Pepper.” He took the bag and yelled, “Alex!”

  I’d arrived in that brief twilight between prep and service. I peered into the dining room, fully set but unoccupied—except for the hostess, passing slowly between the tables, adjusting a chair, realigning an errant napkin. Each wooden surface—tables, chairs, floor—gleamed.

  Even a glimpse of its casual elegance made me feel underdressed. I’d taken off my apron but still wore my retail uniform: black yoga pants, black T-shirt with the shop logo, black T-strap climbing shoes perfect for Seattle’s hills and the Market’s wobbly streets.

  The kitchen’s stainless steel pots and surfaces shone. The mise-en-place was all in place—mounds of chopped shallots, parsley, and other ingredients exactly where each cook needed them. The scene hummed with invisible energy, something like how I imagined a high-wire act would be. Or a high-voltage electrical wire. I’ve never worked in a restaurant kitchen, and frankly, the idea terrifies me. The precision, the juggling, the unpredictability—amid all those knives and all that heat. And all that testosterone. No, thanks. Supply and delivery are close enough for me.

  “Pepper Reese!” Alex bounded into view and bussed my cheek. “Family meal’s just wrapping up. Curried clams with chickpeas and spinach over rice. A variation of one of tonight’s specials.”

  I followed Alex downstairs to the prep kitchen, humid and fragrant. “A bowl for my friend,” Alex called to a line cook. He pulled out two wooden folding chairs and reached for a basket of grilled naan.

  I dug spice samples out of my jute carryall. “We’d love your impressions of the flavor balance, recipes, anything you want to suggest.”

  “We’ll try them out and I’ll give you a call.”

  A woman in white slid a bowl in front of me and I inhaled the sweet-sharp fragrance of a perfectly balanced curry. Remembering what Reed had said this morning about the geography of spice, I closed my eyes and conjured up the map. Hot, saucy. Southern India, with a Pacific Northwest accent.

  Scuttle says some chefs begrudge every bite their crew takes and offer barely edible fare below stairs. Not Alex. “How can I expect a waiter to rave about my Dungeness crab cakes if she’s hungry?” he’d told me. “If she’s never eaten them, or she’s ticked off that I fed her watered-down gruel? My cooks need good hearty fuel if I expect them to work their tails off.”

  His chair angled toward me, Alex rested his elbows on his knees and watched me eat. In the restaurant, he was all energy. Dark curls glistened on top of his head, the sides well trimmed but not too short. His brown eyes sparkled. He was like a long, sleek cat, pulsing with energy, ready to pounce into action.

  Fascinating, and a little bit unnerving.

  He rattled off the night’s specials—they made me envy the paying customers—then stood. “Gotta run. Eat all you want. See you Sunday?”

  I nodded, mouth full of curry. Chefs sweat over hot stoves all weekend. No Friday nights at the movies or Saturday dinner dates. I swallowed, and he swooped in for a kiss. A long, warm, luscious kiss.

  Oh, I thought as he dashed up the stairs to take the reins of his domain. Is this what fall tastes like?

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, the last sunlight set the peaks of the Olympic Mountains aglow in orange and pink, trimmed in deep purple. I felt the same glow inside. From the curry or the kiss?

  Who cares?

  I’ll be the first to admit, downtown living isn’t for everyone. But I adore it. Tag and I had shared a sweet bungalow in Greenwood, a few miles north of downtown. When we split, it had been time for a serious change. I hadn’t known, of course, that a year later, the law firm where I worked would implode in scandal.

  And I hadn’t known I’d find solace—and employment—in bay leaves.

  Best. Thing. Ever.

  No chill in the air, despite the twilight. Sandra might be sweating and Kristen freezing, but as far as I’m concerned, fall takes all the prizes.

  A few last office workers shuffled past me to their bus stops or the light rail station. I strolled down Virginia to Pike Place. The totem poles in the park stood as silhouettes in the fading light.

  A couple stood at the railing, arms around each other, watching the sun set over the water and the mountains beyond. Nearby, half a dozen teenagers laughed and joked.

  “Miz Pepper.”

  The sound of my name took me by surprise. Sam, Arf beside him, broke away from a group of men huddled by the fountain and the Tree of Life sculpture.

  “How you doin’, Sam? Sorry, boy.” I held out a
hand for Arf to sniff. “No treats this time.”

  “Oh, he gets plenty. Market folks is good to him. You need a escort? Gettin’ on to dark.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I’m fine.” His offer reminded me of the encounter I’d seen earlier. “But I do have a question for you. The man you tussled with this morning, the one they call Doc.”

  His brows furrowed but he nodded to me to go on.

  “He’s fairly new around here, isn’t he?” Another nod. “Causing any trouble? Other than wanting your spot.”

  “Why you be askin’ that, Miz Pepper?”

  “I know some of the men”—I gestured toward the group by the totem pole—“take an interest in protecting the women who work in the Market, like you do, and I wondered if you’ve seen Doc helping anyone that way.”

  He shook his big head slowly. “No, can’t say as I have. He ain’t here every day. And he don’t stay down evenings. Don’t know where he goes. I ain’t seen him around, at the shelters or getting a meal. You want me to keep an eye on him?”

  “Thanks, Sam, but no. It’s nothing.” I rubbed Arf’s head with my cupped hand. “You two have a good night, now.”

  Despite refusing Sam’s offer, I had a hunch he’d be watching Doc anyway. Poking around. Some of us are like that.

  Three

  Fueled by Alaskan gold, Seattle’s population quintupled between 1889, the year of statehood and the Great Fire, and 1907, when the Public Market opened. Takes a lot of food to feed 200,000 people.

  The builder who helped me flesh out the loft’s bones called the mezzanine above the bedroom “retreat space, for yoga or meditation.” Apparently some people exercise in their yoga pants. The cold steel steps zing my bare feet in the morning, but it’s the only place in the loft that lets me peek over the Viaduct to the Sound. If I think tall. This stretch of the Viaduct is scheduled to come down soon, with all that traffic moving to a tunnel. They say it’s for earthquake safety, but the changes would revamp the waterfront and give us downtown dwellers killer views.

  Plus higher taxes and, no doubt, pressure from developers. My next-door neighbor, a city council member, has his finger on that pulse and keeps us all informed. I settled into a canvas director’s chair, hand-painted by a Market artisan, to meditate on caffeine and morning mist.

  The weather was clearly changing. Well, “clearly” wasn’t the right word. Not today. Vapor from the Seattle Steam plant collided with cool air rolling in off the Sound to create a bewitching white cloud.

  A fog horn blared and an outbound ferry glided into view. I grabbed the binoculars, but the air was too dense for me to make out the name.

  As a child, I’d lie in bed and strain my ears to hear the fog horns, usually falling asleep first. One of my earliest memories is standing at a ferry rail clutching my grandfather’s hand on one of his visits from St. Louis. I might have been destined for my business, but I was not, as most people assume, named for it. Grandpa nicknamed me after the legendary Cardinals third baseman Pepper Martin, known as a ball of fire.

  I like to think I’ve mellowed since then.

  I sipped my coffee, an Ethiopian Longberry Harrar, and ran through what we needed to accomplish that day at the shop. First, repeat the taste tests and settle on our descriptive subtitles so we could get the info to our brilliant graphic designer. Then choose the recipes. Plus the usual daily business of working with our walk-in traffic and commercial accounts.

  Would yesterday’s clash between Sam and Doc be a one-time thing? I hoped so.

  But why had Doc been pestering Tory? Slim chance that I could get her to spill any details, even with careful questioning. She’d shift her shoulders slightly, set her chin, and tell me—without a word—that she could take her of herself.

  I watched another huge green-and-white ferry chug into view—coming from Bainbridge Island, judging from the angle. They truly are iconic.

  Enough in-home sightseeing. Time to get spicy.

  • • •

  I crossed Western, bypassed the elevator entrance, and trudged up the Market Hillclimb—my version of a cardio workout—to the Main Arcade. Emerged near City Fish—home of the famous flying fish—and exchanged greetings with the fishmongers. (And yes, that’s what they call themselves.) Passed Rachel the brass pig, Market mascot and piggy bank for the Foundation, which funds housing and social services. Waved hello to the couple who run the Oriental Mart in the Corner Market. Bought a strawberry-banana smoothie at the Creamery and a blueberry bran muffin at Three Girls Bakery, one of the oldest Market tenants. Most retail shops were still closed, although I spotted a few merchants bustling around inside.

  A half-dozen delivery trucks idled on Pike Place, men with hand trucks unloading cartons and crates. The aromas of fish, fruit, and fresh bread mingled with the sharp but mouthwatering smell of cheese making.

  Have I mentioned I love this place?

  I crossed Pine, my attention on the mess inside my tote as I dug for my keys. My feet slowed as I neared our door, on autopilot. “Eureka!” My fingers closed around the keys and I reached for the lock.

  And froze. A truck clattered by on the cobbles. Up on First, commuter buses offloaded passengers, and out on the Sound, ferries blew their whistles.

  While I stared at the man known as Doc, crumpled in my doorway, a paper cup stamped with our logo beside his open hand.

  Four

  Seattle’s Public Market houses a year-round farmers’ market, bakeries, meat and fish markets, produce stands, and specialty food stores. Two hundred plus craftspeople rent daystalls, operating alongside more than 200 owner-operated shops and services and nearly one hundred restaurants. The Market is also home to more than 350 residents—all in nine acres.

  —Market website

  My shout brought people running, people whose phones weren’t buried at the bottom of their tote bags or knapsacks, like mine. “Help is on the way,” someone assured me as I knelt beside Doc, holding my breath and his wrist, praying for a pulse. A nurse on her way to the Market clinic nudged me aside but, when she got no better result, turned her kind face to me.

  “He’s gone,” she said, her voice almost too soft to hear amid the chit and chat and scrape and squawk around us. In the distance, a siren screamed, but whether bound for here or some other unlucky locale, no telling.

  I nodded. Years ago, at the law firm, a client stumbled into my office in search of the restroom, keeled over, and died. The image of his red face matching his red tie, contrasting sharply with his white shirt and hair and his classic navy blue suit, had stuck with me.

  In contrast, Doc wore his usual olive green raincoat and scarred brown shoes. His eyes had lost their sheen, the dull, sandy skin around them pooched and pocketed like a Shar Pei’s after an all-nighter. And yet, despite the world of difference from that long-ago client, he was just as dead.

  The nurse pushed herself up, fingers pressing lightly into my upper arm. I shook her off. It seemed indecent to leave him, to stand back and join the small crowd staring at this odd, dead man. The merchants, farmers, and craftspeople of the Market call themselves a family, and family doesn’t make one of their own into a curiosity, even a newcomer.

  I’m a newcomer, too.

  His hand lay half open, fingers gently curved, as if still holding the cup. The fingers were pale, nails well trimmed and scrubbed clean.

  Amazing what goes through the mind at moments like this. My family was never traditionally religious, though both my parents were active in peace and justice causes during my childhood. My mother helped found a soup kitchen in the basement of St. James Cathedral but rarely attended Mass, entering the nave only to hear chamber music. Once I went with her to hear the Tallis Scholars sing and wondered, as I stared up at the gold-and-white-trimmed vaults, how their voices could climb so high and who was up there listening.

  My father had chosen to study Zen Buddhism. W
hether because of or in spite of his experiences in Vietnam, he never said. If asked, no doubt he’d smile and ask me quietly what I thought. Friends had wafted through the big house on Capitol Hill, day and night, to sit in meditation in the third-floor ballroom. Where Kristen’s great-grandparents had held formal dances and her grandmother learned swing and defied convention by inviting a black jazz band to entertain soldiers during the war, we heard rhythmic breathing, mantras being chanted, and the rolling tones of a Tibetan bell. Kristen and I had helped our mothers melt the used candle ends and remold them, adding sandalwood or lavender oil. A mere whiff of Nag Champa Incense takes me back.

  Later, when Kristen’s mother discovered yoga, we heard the soft gummy sounds of sticky mats being rolled onto the maple floors, punctuated by groans as stiff joints responded to gentle coaxing from the teachers who came and went.

  All my life, the medieval harmonies my mother loves have slipped into my consciousness when I least expect them. When my heart’s been ripped open, when the stakes are highest. They swirled around me now as I tried to summon the sacred peace of the Cathedral and the ballroom studio, and wrap it around the man we knew as Doc.

  I stayed there until another hand touched me. “Pepper,” Tag said. “Let the EMTs take over.”

  He led me down the sidewalk, out of the way. Just yesterday, Doc and Sam had argued on this spot and Tag’s partner carved ruts in the road dust with the fat tires of his mountain bike. Now navy-blue-clad EMTs tumbled out of the red Medic One ambulance that had clambered down Pine and idled noisily beside my shop. I hoped the parking brake held. The crew, two men and a woman, fell into a routine, tasks so well defined that they barely needed to speak to communicate.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally thought to ask. “And where’s your partner?”

  Tag jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and I turned to see Olerud, off the bike, notebook in hand, surrounded by half a dozen Market folks. “You know we work First Watch.”