“I’m going to get it done on the box, too. Want to see the inside?”
“Um, sure.”
Owen was about to open the back door to the truck when a raspy voice rang out. “Hey, guys! What’s up?”
I turned around to see Snacker at the top of Simmer’s back steps. He was propping open a heavy steel door. “Hi, Snack,” I called. I could tell Snacker was as tired as Josh, but even severe fatigue couldn’t change his olive skin, dreamy brown eyes, and chestnut hair: the perfect example of tall, dark, and handsome. On the one hand, I felt as though Snacker was the brother I’d never had. On the other hand, it was impossible not to drool a bit every time I saw him. I wiped my chin. “Owen left his truck here last night, so I drove him in to get it.”
“Come on in. I’ll make you some breakfast. And Owen? I’ve got an order for you, if you’ve got a minute.”
“Yeah, no problem, man.”
These two were forcing cordiality for my sake, and the result was totally unpleasant. The Adrianna incidents that had taken place in the winter still created plenty of tension between Owen and Snacker. The bad feeling was especially unfortunate because, if Snacker had never hooked up with Ade, these two might have been friends.
Owen followed me up the stairs. Snacker released his hold on the door as I passed through Simmer’s back entrance. Since Snacker was trailing right behind me, Owen was forced to grab the heavy door himself. Owen muttered “Asshole” under his breath.
“You’re here early, huh, Snack?” I asked. “I thought you chef types didn’t have to come in until later?”
“Too much to do, too little time,” Snacker said as we passed the doors to Simmer’s storage rooms. “And we’ve got an early delivery today, so I wanted to be here. Our produce guy keeps trying to drop off rotten shit all the time, so Josh and I have been keeping an eye on him and going through everything before we sign for it. Last time, I refused the brown cabbage, and I had to run out myself to a supermarket. But I don’t mind opening, because I usually get a few minutes to myself before other people come in. Anyhow, I’m glad you guys came around the back, because the front is locked, and we’ve got the music cranked.”
Did they ever. We entered Simmer’s main dining area, and Stevie Wonder’s “Superstitious” echoed throughout the room. The doors to the kitchen were propped open, and even this early, delicious smells poured out. With all the lights on, the restaurant didn’t have its usual atmospheric illumination. The floors showed their dirt. Stray napkins were piled on tables, and half-filled glasses sat on the bar. I knew that Wade and Kevin had closed last night and wondered whether they had cut out early and whether they were going to catch some heat from Josh and Snacker for some of this mess.
“Hola!” A warm voice rang out, and a Hispanic woman in her sixties appeared with a vacuum in hand.
“Hola, Belita,” said Snacker with a smile. “This is Chloe and Owen. Belita is one of our cleaning people. We couldn’t open without her. Come give me a sweet kiss, señora.” Snacker held his arms out and grinned.
“Oh, Jason. I always have kiss for you,” Belita said happily. I always forgot that Snacker’s real name was Jason. It seemed that half of Josh’s friends went by names other than those on their birth certificates. Clearly not needing a second invitation, Belita wrapped her arms around Snacker and planted a big smooch on his cheek. “Okay. Now I work.”
Snacker turned back to Owen and me. “You want that order now?” he asked Owen.
Owen nodded. “Yeah. I have to get going soon if I’m going to make all my deliveries on time.”
“Come on back to the office with me. I’ve got it written down there.”
I wasn’t crazy about leaving Snacker and Owen alone together for even a second, but the coffee had run through me, and I needed to hit the bathroom. I left the two feuding boys on their own and went to the ladies’ room. Simmer’s restrooms had been totally remodeled when Gavin took over, and I wished that my own bathroom at home were half as luxurious as they were. The entire ladies’ room was tiled with hand-painted ceramic squares in rich earth colors, and the three sinks were made of copper and had coordinating faucets and knobs.
Belita and a young Hispanic woman were busy cleaning up leftover lines of cocaine that had been neatly set up and then abandoned. When Belita looked at me, she seemed embarrassed. “Is Newbury Street sometimes.” She shrugged.
I don’t know which I was more surprised to see: cocaine or leftover cocaine.
When I returned to the kitchen, Owen and Snacker, to my relief, were not beating the crap out of each other. Each had, however, adopted a masculine-looking pose. Snacker was feigning casualness by leaning against a wall with both arms crossed, his chef’s coat unbuttoned halfway, and a pen tucked behind one ear. Owen stood square in front of his rival, both hands on his hips, his chin raised a bit, and his expression falsely calm. Owen was one of the most unaggressive people I knew. He looked ridiculous.
“Have Josh call me when he gets in if you think of anything else you need,” Owen said. “I’ll probably leave the warehouse by nine, but I can always run back if you’ve forgotten something.”
“Nope. We should be good with the list I gave you,” Snacker responded. “Hey, Santos. Can you start the stock for me? And Javier, start cleaning the walk-in when you get a chance, please.”
Owen shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you mind if I use your fax machine quickly? Mine was down this morning. I’ve got a few more price sheets to get out to my restaurants. Hopefully that will get me a few more orders in for today.”
“Yeah. Help yourself,” Snacker said without looking at Owen.
Owen refrained from snarling and went to the office.
A man’s voice rang loudly through the kitchen. “Linens! Got your fresh linens! Any takers?” A round, middle-aged man clomped his heavy boots across the floor. He carried a tall stack of what I knew were aprons, napkins, kitchen shirts, and bar towels, all cleaned, pressed, and wrapped up in plastic. “Mornin’! Got your dirties for me?”
“Hello, my friend,” Snacker said. “Just drop those in the front and help yourself to the bags. I think they’re by the bar.”
Once before, I’d been to Simmer early enough to see Josh open. He’d lured me there with the promise of a hot breakfast. Now, the thought of food made my stomach give an embarrassing growl. “Sorry.”
Snacker laughed. “Hungry? I’ll make you something to eat. How about an omelet?”
I wasn’t about to protest, so I followed Snacker over to one of the flattop grills and happily watched him beat eggs and fill my omelet with goat cheese, diced red pear tomatoes, prosciutto, and julienne of fresh basil. I grabbed a seat on a stool and scooted out of the way so that Santos and Javier could move back and forth across the kitchen as they carried pots of liquid and sharp knives. I was struck with the amount of work that went into opening the restaurant each day. The cleaning, the scheduling, the food preparation and cooking, the need to take inventory…The work seemed endless!
Isabelle entered the kitchen, her dark curls pulled back from her face, her cheeks glowing with a hint of pink blush. “Good morning, Chef,” she said softly. Isabelle had quickly learned to address both Josh and Snacker as Chef. In all other respects, the kitchen was informal; in that one, it definitely was not.
“Miss Izzy Belle! How are you, darling? Ready for a big day? We’ve got that party later, so when you get settled, would you start the prep work on the salads?”
“Of course, Chef.” She hung her bag on a hook by the office.
“But go get yourself a cup of coffee first if you’d like. Might as well enjoy the calm before the storm.”
I was pleased to see that Snacker, as well as Josh, was taking good care of Isabelle. Chefs were notorious for their brash, demanding, and even manic personalities. Consequently, it was wonderful that Josh and Snacker hadn’t yet scared off my young friend. Josh and Snacker were both devoted to the kitchen. They were demanding leaders and true perfectionists.
Still, thank goodness, neither of them resembled Hell’s Kitchen’s Gordon Ramsay!
My omelet was beginning to smell so delectable that I had to put my hand on my stomach to try to quiet the rumbling. I adjusted myself on the stool, looked around the room, and realized that the kitchen crew needed more room to work. Despite all the renovations that had been done before Simmer’s opening last New Year’s Eve, the kitchen was not especially spacious. Although all the appliances and work surfaces were new, Gavin hadn’t expanded the original kitchen area, which occupied the same space as the kitchen of the restaurant that had previously been at this location. According to Josh, the kitchen was a tight fit when he had his entire staff working. There certainly wasn’t any extra space on the stainless shelving units, all of which were filled with pots and pans and with a variety of small appliances, including some that I couldn’t even identify. Even the walls were covered in papers and notices. I glanced up and discovered that pictures of food had been taped to the ceiling.
“Snack? What’s up with the photos on the ceiling?” I asked.
“Oh, Christ. That’s Gavin’s stupid idea.” He sighed and shook his head.
“You mean another stupid idea,” added Santos, who deposited a tray of pork loin on a nearby counter and then headed off toward the walk-in refrigerator.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Snacker as he served me my delicious-smelling omelet. I dug in and took a bite of the cheesy, overstuffed egg dish. “See, Gavin decided that not only should we have all the recipes for every dish up,” he said, pointing to the papers affixed to the concrete walls, “but we needed pictures of how they should be plated, too. Josh and I tried to explain that with all the recipes, and the health and safety certificates, and the employee notices that have to be up, we didn’t have room for more shit on the walls. Plus, Josh trains everyone to plate and serve the dishes, so it’s needless to have pictures up as well.”
Odd. Extremely odd. “So, Gavin expects you guys to be cooking and then periodically peer up at the ceiling to see a photograph of a dish? Good thing the ceilings aren’t too high here!”
“It’s pretty asinine, I agree. But it’s his restaurant. We just work here, right?” He tossed his arms up in the air. Josh had never said anything to me about being unhappy with Gavin. Quite the opposite! Josh was thrilled to be able to control the menu, choose his staff, and run the kitchen as he chose. But pictures of food on the ceiling? Pretty weird.
“Snacker?” Owen called from the office. “Can I see you for a minute? I need to talk to you about your order for today.”
“Sure thing.”
While the feuding men talked, I finished my omelet and then decided to go check out Owen’s truck on my own. I didn’t feel like hanging around while Owen and Snacker talked about fish deliveries, and I especially didn’t want to be present if Adrianna’s name came up. Besides, I knew that Owen wouldn’t rest until I’d admired his delivery truck. Mainly, I left on the grounds that if you can’t take the heat, get out of the…
Anyway, once I was out in the alley, I was less interested in looking at Owen’s truck than I was in finding out what it would be like to sit behind the wheel. Not that Owen’s vehicle was some eighteen-wheeler, but I’d never driven anything bigger than a standard-size four-door sedan, and I was curious to discover what it would be like to sit behind the wheel of a big truck. So, hoping for a little thrill, I opened the driver’s side door, took a tall step up, settled myself in the seat, and refrained from making revving noises as I placed my hands on the wheel. I didn’t envy Owen having to drive this beast through little alleys like this one and, worse, having to fight with crazed, speeding Boston drivers, but I could see that it would be fun to be up so high. I hopped out and slammed the door, which was significantly heavier than the doors on my car. I walked around to the back and tried to compose glowing comments to make to Owen about his beloved truck. With its square refrigeration unit, the truck had a funny shape that reminded me a bit of old-fashioned paddy wagons. Instead of having two doors that swung open to allow prisoners to move in and out, Owen’s truck, however, had one garage-style door that slid up and down. A thin metal cord ran from top to bottom on each side of the door, and a heavy cloth strap hung from the bottom, both presumably parts of a pulley system to raise and lower the door. A rectangular metal handle with a keyhole stuck out.
I stared at the door and tried to think of some interesting comments I could make to Owen. I rubbed my nose in an attempt to wipe away the mild, but distinctly present, stench that emanated from the back of the truck. I’m a big fan of seafood, but the stink coming from Owen’s delivery truck was more than unappetizing. What did I expect of a fish truck? Well, cleanliness, at least. Had Owen been foolish enough to leave fish to rot in the back of the truck overnight? Even I knew that the refrigeration unit ran only when the truck was on, so anything left inside was at the mercy of the weather. Maybe in the winter Owen could get away with this carelessness, but not in early spring! The smell wasn’t even all that fishy. It was just plain gross. So far, my observations didn’t exactly convey the enthusiasm that Owen was hoping for.
Eager to avoid disappointing Owen, I decided to check out the interior of the unit. For all I knew, the source of the foul odor was some large, rotting object—a rat?—on the pavement beneath the truck, whereas the refrigeration unit held gigantic lobsters kept fresh on ice or clever, attractive storage boxes or something else, in fact, anything at all, that would assure Owen that I loved the truck as much as he did. Owen had said last night that the lock was broken. Braving the stench, I grabbed the handle. To make the door budge, I had to use both hands. A high-pitched squeak suggested that the sliders could’ve used a shot of WD-40. Once I’d managed to raise the door halfway up its tracks, I climbed onto the step under the door, gave the door a good shove, and sent it fully up.
On the floor of the truck, surrounded by empty plastic crates, a metal dolly for moving heavy objects, shallow pools of water, and low piles of melting ice, lay the body of Leandra, our server from last night.
FOUR
LEANDRA was on her back with her feet toward the door. She wore the same outfit I’d seen her in when she’d waited on our table. The white lettering on her trendy black Simmer apron almost shone in the daylight. Her dead eyes were open, and her skin was pale and slightly blue. Her head had rolled to the side. I could clearly see red marks on her neck. Staring at Leandra wouldn’t bring her back to life. I jumped backward off the truck, bent over, gagged violently, and emptied my stomach.
“Chloe! What’re you doing? I thought I was going to get to show you everything!” Owen’s scolding voice came from the direction of Simmer. “What’s wrong? Oh, my God, why are you throwing up? Snacker’s cooking that bad?” He started to laugh and then looked at what must have been my ashen face. “Chloe?”
I pointed to the open door of his truck. “Owen, Leandra is in there. She’s dead.”
“What?” Owen paused. “Who’s Leandra?” After another pause, he said, “You mean our waitress?” He rushed past me and flew up the step to the back of his delivery truck. He braced himself with one hand by gripping the side of the door frame. His other hand flew to his forehead. The gesture belonged in a silent movie. “Holy shit! Holy shit! This cannot have happened!” Owen dropped to the pavement. Then, repeatedly, almost compulsively, he ran both hands through his hair as he paced back and forth behind his truck. “This cannot be happening. I can’t have her in my truck! Why is she there? What the hell is she doing there?” He stopped moving. “Chloe. You have to help me get her out of there. We have to move her onto the ground. Then we’ll call nine one one, okay? She can’t be in my truck! Do you know what kind of trouble I’m going to be in?”
I stared in horror at Owen. “Are you crazy? We can’t move her!” Owen stepped back to his truck, and I managed to stand upright without fainting. Then I grabbed his arm tightly, as if I meant to squeeze some sense into him. “No, you are not moving her, Owen! She must have, I don’t
know, locked herself in there somehow and died from lack of oxygen, right? Don’t do anything stupid. This must be some freak accident, and you’ll only make things worse if you move her around.”
“I’ve got deliveries to make. I’ve got this job now! I can’t…” Owen faltered. He looked at me in desperation. “What am I gonna do?”
I knew Owen felt like the whole world was crashing in on him, and I realized that he was more tightly strung than I’d thought. He had everything riding on this new job, but even for his sake, I wasn’t about to help him move poor Leandra’s body to a more convenient place. As an explanation to his boss and his clients of why he was failing to make his deliveries, the discovery of a dead body in his truck would be more than sufficient; it wasn’t some dog-ate-my-homework excuse. “Owen, it’s going to be all right.” Turning to face Simmer’s back door, I was happy to find it still propped open. I needed help from someone other than the panicked Owen. “Snacker! Snacker!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
The cleaning woman, Belita, appeared. Instead of hollering that there was a dead body in the back of a truck, I tried to use my social work tact to convey the information in a calm and appropriate manner. “Belita, there’s been an unfortunate accident. Someone has passed away. Could you get Snacker for me? And please call the authorities.” Unfortunate accident was such a stupid phrase; fortunate accidents don’t leave people dead. And why had I said passed away and authorities?
Belita shook her head at me, not understanding what I was saying. Tossing aside my incomprehensible social workese, I tried again. “Belita, Leandra is dead. Call the police. Get Snacker.” If my online Spanish course had covered forensic terms, I’d forgotten them.
But plain English worked.
“Dios mio!” Belita vanished, I hoped, to go get Snacker.
Turn Up the Heat Page 4