Roux the Day

by Peter King

  It was an awkward time for restaurants, right in between standard mealtimes. But New Orleans was clearly a go-go kind of town and several of the places were open.

  “He’s turned in after us,” my driver called. He accelerated as much as the cramped street permitted, putting as much distance as possible between us and our pursuer. He stopped in front of a store that boasted OVER 100,000 VINTAGE LP’S; I crammed the bills into his hand and scrambled out.

  “Watch out for those husbands, man!” was his final warning. “They can be murder!” Little did he know.

  Some of those vintage LP’s were competing for airspace, booming out from stereo speakers. I identified one number as Herman’s Hermits, issuing their love for their “Ferry Cross the Mersey” while other blasts from the past tried to sink the ferry.

  Smells of spicy food wafted along the alley. They were coming from the adjacent café. The door was open and I peered in. The tables were Formica-covered and the floor needed sweeping. My situation might be desperate but I had limits.

  I glanced back; there were too many people to see clearly but I saw a smallish man in a dark suit among them. I hurried on. A man stood in a doorway singing “Amazing Grace.” His voice was tired and strained but he obviously loved to sing. A bunch of college students stopped to listen to him. In the next building was the “Doorway to the New Age.” The doorway itself was open and the “New Age” consisted of a very large lady in a purple dress sitting at a table shuffling cards. She looked up and saw what must look like an easy mark.

  “Come on in, sweetheart!” she invited. “The Tarot tells all. Let me lead you into the future!”

  Another time I would have accepted her offer, but if I didn’t shake off the man following me, my future might arrive all too soon. A good-sized restaurant was next, a wooden front with mullioned windows. It looked enticing and was surely big enough that I could find a back way out. I turned the doorknob—only to notice a sign saying, CLOSED.

  Before my frustration could boil to the surface, I saw another sign near it: CHEF INTERVIEWS TODAY, FIRST DOOR IN ALLEY. The alley referred to was almost invisible, a right turn into a pedestrian thoroughfare narrow enough to touch the wall on both sides without needing much of a reach.

  I dived into the alley, found the door and went in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS DARK AND cramped when I closed the door behind me. Bolts were at the top and bottom and I took the liberty of pushing both of them. Maybe that would slow down the pursuit.

  Pungent aromas of hot pepper sauces and cooking tomatoes brought with them more than a hint of garlic. I turned in that direction and a voice called out, “In here!” I went that way, passing a door into the kitchen and into a tiny office that had never been sullied with anything remotely resembling order or organization. Papers, files, letters, bills, books were everywhere. Shelves were stacked to overflowing and so was the table where a man sat.

  He needed a shave and he had not spent a lot of time combing his hair. He was broad-shouldered and heavy. His face was jowly and he had bushy eyebrows. When he looked up at me, his eyes were bright but hard.

  “I’m Jasper,” he said. I said nothing though he seemed to expect some word from me. “What d’you expect? You’re in Jasper’s Restaurant.”

  “I came in by the side door, down the alley.”

  “Have to,” he grunted, “front door’s locked.” He motioned to a chair. It was the only other one in the small room. I sat in it, by the door. He pushed some papers away and faced me.

  “You’re here for the chef interview.”

  “I am.”

  He gave me a look that suggested I had lost the job already but he said abruptly, “Suppose a customer, a big man locally, wants a banquet—something special, something really different. What would you offer him?”

  “Soft-shell crabs with crawfish sauce—”

  “He doesn’t want seafood.”

  “Leg of lamb with okra—”

  “Not many people like lamb.”

  I moved into another gear. “Stewed tripe with pig’s feet and—”

  His eyes betrayed a flicker of interest but he said, “Offal’s not that popular.”

  “Pork chops smothered in onions with—”

  “Guy’s got a thing about trichinosis.”

  “He’s hard to please, isn’t he?” I said conversationally.

  “He’s a customer.”

  “And they are always right. Even when they’re wrong. What about beef tongue with brown gravy and—”

  “Never been able to persuade people here to eat tongue. Few of ’em think of it as food.”

  “Venison, roasted, with juniper berries—”

  “His wife’s favorite movie is Bambi.”

  He was trying to get my goat but I knew better than to suggest that alternate meat, delicious as it may be as long as it is no more than ten weeks old.

  “Wild goose with apricot-and-rice dressing,” I said.

  “Where can you get wild goose here?”

  “Go on a wild-goose chase—through the markets, that is.” I was getting a little annoyed with him but I didn’t want to be tossed into the dangerous world outside just yet. It might still be populated with pursuers. I smiled amiably. “You can get anything in this city.”

  “What would you serve with it?”

  “Roasted potatoes and yams.”

  He leaned back a little farther. “You talk kinda funny.”

  “Always have. Think I picked it up from my mother.”

  “You’re not from these parts.” It sounded accusing, the way he said it.

  “I’ve been around.”

  “Yeah, but folks around here have got their own special likes. Know how to cook N’Awlins red beans and rice?”

  “There are more recipes for that than there are Krewes at the Carnival,” I said. “What I’d do, I’d soak the beans overnight. I’d cook some country-smoked sausage and a hamhock in olive oil, then toss in garlic, onion, celery and parsley. I’d drain the beans and put them in, cook for a few minutes. I’d add seasonings—”

  “What seasonings?” he demanded.

  “Bay leaves, thyme, basil and Louisiana Hot Sauce with water and salt. I’d bring it to the boil, simmer about two hours at low temperature. Some people like it thick and creamy—if I knew they did, I’d take out about a quarter of the beans, mash them and put them back.”

  I couldn’t tell from his expression how close my method came to whatever he considered as the ideal but he didn’t comment. I took the opportunity of the momentary break to listen for sounds of a door opening or anyone else in the restaurant, but I could hear nothing.

  Jasper said, “Lots of folk like the traditional New Orleans way of serving red beans. Know what that is?”

  “Opinions vary widely,” I said. “How about over fluffy steamed rice with buttered French bread and a tossed green salad? French dressing, of course.”

  He was a tough interviewer. He gave me no clue from his reactions because he didn’t have any. Not a nod or even a grunt. As I wasn’t really looking for a job, I thought of tossing a few smart-aleck remarks his way but, in a way, I was enjoying this. He wasn’t finished, though, and he came at me again.

  “Still get a lot of calls for fried chicken but all this talk about fat and cholesterol and such has made a lot of people leery of deep-frying. What do you say to that?”

  “I’d put the chicken pieces in a marinade of eggs, milk, onions and hot sauce, leave it overnight. I’d crush a mixture of potato chips and corn flakes, season them with a blend of garlic, thyme, basil and oregano. I’d drain off the marinade, roll the chicken pieces in the mix and bake. They should be nicely golden brown in thirty to forty minutes.”

  “What would you serve with it?”

  “Creamed potatoes go great—I’d use yogurt in place of cream. A side dish of green peas would go well, too.”

  I used his temporary silence to see if any other sounds were intruding on it but all
was quiet. I began to feel a little guilty about pretending to be a candidate for the job when I had no intention of taking it but he didn’t look that busy anyway.

  He solved the problem for me. “Got another guy coming in later. He’s had local experience.”

  I felt better. A local man would know more than I did about Cajun and Creole cooking, white and black beans, bluefish and crawfish and pecan pie.

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “Got a phone number where I can reach you?”

  “I’ll call you.” I didn’t preface it with Don’t call me.

  He nodded. I felt a slight disappointment that he hadn’t offered me a fabulous salary and insisted that I start that afternoon but, after all, a minute ago I had felt ashamed of myself for taking up his time. I was grateful for the shelter from my pursuer and made my own way to the door. I opened it cautiously and looked out. No one was near and the tiny alley went in the other direction as well. The street there looked just as busy so I went that way and caught a cruising cab. The ride back to the Hotel Monteleone was uneventful and frequent backward views were reassuring.

  My first action upon being back in the room was to call Lieutenant Delancey. I was put through to his cell phone at once.

  “What’s up?” he wanted to know.

  “Somebody’s following me.”

  “Yeah, it’s Larry Mortensen.”

  “You know?”

  “Sure.”

  “How? … Oh, are you having me followed?”

  “For your own protection. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you while you’re in our fair city. Scotland Yard would never forgive us.”

  “They do tend to be a nonforgiving organization,” I agreed. “Are you learning anything?”

  “Not much about you. You don’t go to many exciting places, do you? As for Mortensen, well, he’s getting more attention from me every day. He may have been in with his brother on this all along.”

  “So he may lead me to the book? And you to the killer? I take it you’re assuming he didn’t kill his own brother?”

  “For the moment. I did have a couple cases in New York with sisters, though … So what’s new your end?”

  “While you’re having me watched, are you aware that Mortensen isn’t the only one following me?”

  That got his attention. There was a brief pause. “You must have spotted one of my men. They’ll get hell from me if you have. They’re the best.”

  “Under medium height, dark hair, small mustache, dark suit.”

  “That’s not either of my men.” His voice had tightened. “I’ll have them watch out for this character you’re talking about. Has he made any moves on you?”

  “No, just followed me.”

  “If this book of yours is really that important, he may be following you to try and find out where the book is.”

  “I hope you’re saying I’m not in danger of being assassinated.”

  “I don’t think so.” He sounded serious. “The pattern here says that if he was going to knock you off, he would have done it by now. No, it’s the whereabouts of that book—that’s what they’re after.”

  “Lieutenant, if you want to reassure me, you’re doing it—and I appreciate it. But don’t kid me, if I’m really in danger—you can tell me.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, based on experience. New York experience—and when it comes to killing, that’s the best.”

  “Okay, I can breathe again.”

  “Be my guest. I’ll talk to the guys watching you. Keep ’em a bit closer, just in case. And I’ll tell ’em to keep an eye out for this other character.”

  “What did you mean when you said you were getting more interested in Larry Mortensen?”

  “Well, when we first checked him out, he looked clean. No convictions. Now we’ve looked a little deeper. We have files which show only suspicion, involvement, associates and lots of other things I’m not going to tell you about. Mortensen shows up on ‘the Yellow List,’ as we call it, quite a few times.”

  “So he’s probably been lucky in keeping out of jail so far.”

  “Could be.”

  “So he might have been in partnership with his brother and Whelan as far as the book scam was concerned,” I said.

  “Possible. We’re still digging, Incidentally, that forger of yours, Harburg, is no lily-white. He’s been investigated—not by us but by private outfits. You didn’t tell me how valuable some books are.”

  “They are. They don’t have to be first editions, either. Agatha Christies bring over twenty thousand dollars. So do Graham Greenes—”

  “Which ones?” he asked quickly. “I’ve got a few of his—A Gun for Sale, Brighton Rock …”

  “I think both of those bring that kind of money, yes.”

  “John LeCarré?”

  “His too, definitely. Ian Fleming, Tolkien … lots of others.”

  “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Anyway, we’ve talked to him—Harburg, I mean, not Fleming or Tolkien. Got nothing.”

  “He’s alerted, though—”

  “No, he isn’t. We started out by asking him about break-ins in the neighborhood; sort of led into other areas.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  His assurances that I was not in mortal danger helped although I wondered about this new light on Larry Mortensen. If he had been involved with his brother in the book theft then he might be more dangerous than I’d thought. This other man following me was still a worry. Who on earth could he be? And what was his interest?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I WAS THINKING ABOUT Lieutenant Delancey’s words. When I had told him that I was still being followed, he had said that it was Larry Mortensen before I had informed him that I was attracting the attention of another follower. I had assumed that Mortensen’s earlier intention of shooting me in revenge for the death of his brother had been diverted. I had also assumed that he was not deadly serious—very appropriate, I thought—in that intention, as he had threatened Elsa Goddard similarly.

  But if I had persuaded him of my innocence, why was he still following me? Well, if he no longer believed I had killed his brother, the only answer was that he was after the book and was now hopeful that I would lead him to it. Lieutenant Delancey’s further comment engaged my interest, too, when he had said that Mortensen was getting more attention from the police every day. What were they finding out? That Mortensen had been in with his brother in the plot to steal the Belvedere chef’s book? I wished I had asked the lieutenant to be more explicit on that point but perhaps I was expecting too much. I could hardly hope to be fully in his confidence.

  I decided to follow up on that lead but in the meantime, I had one more meal to eat at one of the restaurants of the five Witches who comprised the kidnapping squad. It was about that time a restaurant would be seeing action in the kitchen: chopping, blending, cutting, preparing, mixing and doing the dozens of operations that the diner never thinks about when the sees the final creation on the table.

  I called Jenny Kirkpatrick at the General’s Tavern, reasoning that she was sure to be there supervising and directing—and she was. Not only that but she would be delighted to see me that evening for dinner. After a long and contemplative bath with its serene therapy, I dressed and went to the Carousel Bar where the “experienced” drinkers—like me—were watching the inexperienced newcomers discover that the bar was rotating. By the time I had consumed a Ramos gin fizz, I was ready for Jenny Kirkpatrick, the last of the inner circle of the five Witches.

  Jenny looked resplendent in a purple, ankle-length gown with a delicious décolletage and an ample bustline. She was a bigger-than-average woman and certainly came through as a bigger-than-usual hostess. Everything about her was bigger, including her smile and her welcome. We spent the first few minutes discussing the decor as I mentioned the unusual exterior.

  “The building was brick originally, I had to re-face it
but I have kept to the original appearance as closely as possible,” she told me. “The wooden beams inset among the brick are the originals from the late 1700s.”

  “Was it a tavern then?”

  “Yes, but it’s had different names. The general it’s named after is Andrew Jackson, of course—”

  “Later to be president?”

  “That’s the one. It was renamed for him after he ate here just before the Battle of New Orleans. When we defeated you wicked English,” she added with a roguish smile.

  “We didn’t win them all,” I conceded. “Now, my knowledge of the history of the period is only patchy but isn’t that the battle that was fought long after the war was over?”

  “That’s the one,” Jenny said as she led me to a table. The brick-walled interior had low wooden beams and copper lamp fixtures. A few swords and a couple of plowshares on the walls suggested a transition in the right direction while the sparkling white tablecloths gleamed as oases in the pleasantly dimmed room. A tattered flag no longer fluttered bravely but hung alongside a portrait of the general himself.

  He was tall and gaunt, almost cadaverous, very erect in carriage.

  His face was full of decision and energy. He had iron-gray hair and hawklike gray eyes. He wore full dress uniform—a blue frock coat with buff facings, a spotless white waistcoat and skintight yellow buckskin breeches. A blue plumed hat was under one arm.

  Jenny saw me looking at the portrait. “Painted from life,” she said, “although when he was here, he didn’t look like that. For one thing, his left arm dangled uselessly from a bullet fired at him during a duel, which lodged too near his heart to be removed.”

  “A duel over a woman, no doubt,” I commented.

  “No,” said Jenny. “Over a horse race. Besides that, his eyes were deep in his head and his complexion pale as death.”

  A waiter brought a complimentary glass full of a sparkling liquid. “Our new house special,” said Jenny. “Our version of the gin fizz but with a healthy side to it. We leave out the sugar and the heavy cream and substitute sorbitol and extra egg white. Several customers asked for a cocktail they could feel justified in drinking, avoiding sugar and fat. This is it. What do you think?”