He put down the menu and finally managed to catch a waiter’s eye. He requested bread but, much to his surprise, the waiter refused to bring it. “We serve the bread after you order your food. Do you have a bottle of wine you’d like me to open? I can do that right away.”
Out of luck. Bruno’d forgotten that Killingswood was dry, too. All he could do was sit and wait for Peaches. He thought about how uncomfortable the chairs were. This reminded him of his advertising days. Every meeting was mano-a-mano competition. Who called whom? Who chose the restaurant? The ordering protocol? Did you dare order for the other person? Eat more, drink more than they did? Who shows up first? Who grabs the check? Sure, he could go ahead and order something, even just a salad. But if he did that, he’d lose any leverage he might have had. Might as well take the Chief’s advice and not even meet Peaches in the first place.
Then it struck him. Did Peaches call ahead and instruct the waiters not to serve him any food until she arrived? Let him drink all he wanted, but nothing to eat … She said she was a regular here. He wouldn’t put it past her. He had to stay focused. The goal was to locate Alison, without alerting her—or the real murderer—that they were looking for her. To do that, they needed Peaches to understand how people were using the information she was printing. Surely once she understood the impact, she’d be eager to cooperate.
When Peaches finally made her entrance, a crowd of waiters swarmed around her, taking her jacket and her hat; producing bread, mineral water. Addressing her every need. “She thinks she’ll have me groveling before we even say hello,” Bruno fumed. “Well she’s in for a big surprise.”
As usual, Peaches looked fabulous. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, rather severely, which only set off her white skin, ferociously dark eyes, and scarlet lips. It took several moments for Bruno to realize she was dressed in riding attire. Her off-white blouse had a frilly front, framed by the leather trim of her short, oatmeal tweed jacket. The trousers were skin-tight fawn-colored riding breeches with reinforced thighs.
Very erotic, those reinforcements, Bruno couldn’t help thinking.
The outfit was completed by black lace-up riding boots and matching leather chaps. Bruno was busy checking her boots for manure—there wasn’t any—and he noticed that she was carrying a riding crop, which she did not surrender to the wait staff. The only discordant element in this Victorian dominatrix getup was a twist of red yarn tied around her left wrist.
“Isn’t this fantastic?” she greeted him warmly. “Have you ordered? No? Come on, I’ll get Jacob to explain the menu …”
Peaches grabbed Bruno by the arm and led him to the kitchen. They burst through the swinging doors to find Chef Creutzfeldt and his sous-chef inspecting the catch of the day. They appeared to be arguing about something and Bruno could have sworn he heard snatches that sounded like “feh!” and then “farbissiner,” followed by something indistinguishable and then “feygele.” Was Chef Creutzfeldt criticizing his sous-chef’s selection of fish and calling him a “stubborn fairy?” Or was he just misunderstanding German spoken with an Austrian accent?
Peaches was still holding Bruno’s arm and she gave it a warm little squeeze as she trilled, “Bonjour, Jacob.”
“Bonjour, mad’m’selle,” Chef Creutzfeldt replied somewhat thickly. Bruno was getting the impression that she pulled this stunt every time she came here, and the Chef did not particularly appreciate it. Nevertheless, he was willing to play along for his best customer. “Ve got in der shad roe because ve knew you vas comink.” He displayed the glistening strand of eggs for Peaches to inspect. Was it this that had provoked the Chef’s derisive “feh”? If so, Peaches didn’t notice anything wrong with it. “That looks wonderful,” she chirped.
The chef explained that the choices for soup were either snapper (Do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else) or Brooklyn Ferry Chowder. The main course was grilled fish or meat, using the Chef’s signature Singe-the-Body-Electric technique, or the other house specialty, Mullica Tawny Stew, featuring a selection of the freshest catch from the nearby Mullica River.
During the recitation, Peaches squeezed her eyes tightly shut and breathed deeply with obvious pleasure. When she gave Bruno’s bicep another squeeze, he decided to respond in kind. He freed his arm from Peaches’ grasp and tried to slip it around her waist. She tolerated this only for a moment or two. She stepped forward out of his grasp and was about to ask a question but Chef Creutzfeldt cut her off: “Da choice for salad is Leaves of Wheat Grass mit Thousand Island Dressing.” He was all business and clearly wanted to get back to work. “Da meal concludes vit Open Road Dessert Loafe, coffee, tea. Bill vill take your order, enjoy da meal.” He gestured grandly toward the dining room and turned his back on his guests.
Peaches opted for the Grilled Delaware River Shad Roe. She urged Bruno to do the same but, with the memory of the overheard “feh!” still lingering, he decided he’d rather take a chance on something else. The menu listed Carpe et Brochet Farcie avec Crudités with the description “local pondfish” in parentheses. That sounded safe enough, so he ordered it.
Now they could get down to business. Peaches seemed to be in a good mood. Bruno felt confident that his strategy would work. And her opening remark seemed to confirm it. “You really look beat up,” Peaches commented sympathetically. “I didn’t realize …”
“It’s a dangerous occupation,” the psychic replied with what he thought was appropriate modesty.
Peaches frowned. “You just need a thick skin.”
“True. True.” Bruno was trying to keep his tone light and agreeable. “But you don’t need such a thick skin,” he added, “if they don’t hit you in the first place.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorted.
“If the bad guys don’t know what we’re up to, if they don’t know where to find us …”
“Bad guys,” Peaches scoffed. “I can’t believe you said that. It’s like, they’re the bad guys. What does that make you … the good guys?”
“Of course it does,” Bruno stumbled on. “They’re out there murdering people, we’re trying to stop them …”
“That’s so simplistic! It’s completely normative, and so typical … In reality, things are much more complicated than that.”
Bruno couldn’t figure it out. Things had started out so well, but in less than two minutes the whole tenor of the conversation had changed. “OK. Forget I called them bad guys. I’ll use a neutral term like ‘murder suspects.’ Does that work for you?”
Peaches looked noncommittal.
“Persons of interest?”
She stared at the saltshaker and drummed her fingers rhythmically.
“Let me spell it out,” Bruno said, his voice rising with frustration. “Can I talk to you off the record?”
“Off the record doesn’t work for me. It’s a waste of my time.”
That did it. Trying to be nice to Peaches was getting him nowhere. “On the record gets people hurt,” Bruno spat back. “Let’s review the facts, one by one, shall we? First, you write that I’m working on the case … then Gussie gets killed.”
“So you think I’m working with the murderer?”
“No. Here’s my point: I made up that stuff about the Quaker connection on the spur of the moment. You wrote about it and the next thing that happens is a kid from the Quaker school gets killed. What if the murderer read your article, saw we were up a blind alley, and decided to do something to keep us going in the wrong direction?”
“That’s just a hypothesis,” she pouted. “You’re still just making things up.”
Bruno ignored her. “Then, you write about my fight with McRae and the next day—the very next day—my dog gets mutilated and they’re threatening my niece.”
“Your niece? What are you talking about? I don’t even know who your niece is.”
“McRae is my ex-brother-in-law; his daughter is still my niece. She’s the one that found Ginnie Doe’s body. The police
refused to release her name, but they—the bad guys—figured it out because you had to write about the fight. Why else would the psychic detective be mixing it up with McRae? Now they’re threatening her. She’s eight years old.”
Peaches turned beet-colored. “You can’t say that’s because of what I wrote. That’s ridiculous. How insulting.”
“How else could they have found out?”
“Any number of possibilities. Maybe one of the cops is an informer. Or they picked it up off the radio with a scanner. Maybe they’re tailing you. It’s so unfair of you to accuse me. I’m just doing my job.”
“Oh come off it. Why does the public need to know that I had a fight with my ex-brother-in-law? He’s a jerk who’s always had it in for me. So we had a fight. It’s just family gossip. Where’s the news value in that?”
Peaches reply was clinically perfect. “He’s the city attorney. As a public servant, he needs to know how to behave himself in public. If he doesn’t, then the public needs to be aware he may not be qualified for his job.”
“But he was in his home! I can’t believe I’m defending this shmuck, but doesn’t he have a right to privacy in his own home?”
“Not if he breaks the law.”
For a fleeting moment they almost connected. To Bruno, Peaches seemed like a journalistic automaton. He was getting desperate. What if he took a chance and told her about Alison? The tender moment he’d observed when she shared her iPod with Icky. Just before they blew him up. Now Alison, too, was in danger. Maybe that would penetrate her professional armor?
Instead, he heard himself asking, “But … but … couldn’t you do it … out of friendship?”
The look on Peaches’ face was one of total outrage. It was as if he had suggested they perform an obscene act right there on the white tablecloth.
“What kind of friend have you ever been to me?” she spat. “The very first time we met you were making fun of me in front of Buddy Black with all that stuff about the Catskills. OK, I’m not Jewish. I never went there. So why is it so funny that I don’t know Yiddish or unfunny comedy routines from the ’60s?”
Unfunny? At that moment, the light went on for Bruno: Peaches had no sense of humor. No wonder she was impossible. He decided a new strategy was in order. “I see you’re wearing red yarn on your wrist …”
But before Peaches could respond, the waiter appeared with their dishes: “Delaware shad roe pour ma’moi’zel et le pondfish pour le m’zieur.”
The presentation was truly a surprise. At a time when people were accustomed to tiny portions on pretentiously large plates, it was a revelation to be served a meal of Whitman-esque proportions, with food literally spilling over the edges of the plates. Peaches’ dish consisted of the entire egg sack that they’d seen in the kitchen. It was seared on the outside and raw within. Wrapped around it were thick slabs of bacon and next to the fish rose a small mountain of scrambled eggs.
Peaches was in heaven. She tucked into the food with a ravenous appetite, from time to time grunting with approval. “This is exceptionally good! Do you want to try some?”
Bruno shook his head. On his plate were three pieces of something that looked like the inside of a bratwurst, each about the size of … a turd. There was also a gob of horseradish, several hard-boiled eggs, slices of cooked carrots and celery in a delicate gelatin, and a sprig of parsley for decoration.
Bruno started to remark that it looked like a seder plate, then remembered Peaches’ sensitivity to Jewish references. Better be nice. “I couldn’t help noticing the red yarn …” he resumed.
“I got it from that Kabbalah place in L.A.” She showed her wrist as if to display a diamond bracelet. “It’s incredible. They have an 800 number. I spoke with a Rabbi and he said he’d prepare this just for me.”
“Really? How’d he do that?”
“I don’t know exactly. The yarn comes from Israel. From the tomb of Rachel the Matriarch …”
“Hmpf,” Bruno grunted, trying not to say anything critical. “I thought you said you weren’t, er, familiar with Jewish traditions.”
“C’mon, Bruno. You know yourself you were making fun of me. This is different.” For a moment Peaches appeared to let down her guard as she smiled at him. “I have to admit it’s ironic. After I interviewed you, I did that research and I found myself getting interested in Kabbalah. So I called them up—and it really wasn’t anything like the things you were talking about. They were really nice. They said you don’t have to be Jewish: Anyone can benefit, and they had a sensible attitude about the whole Magdalena-Tiffany-Pupik-celebrity thing, I thought.”
Bruno reached across the table to touch the red string. “It’s funny. Do you know what this means in my world? It’s for warding off the evil eye. Grandmothers in the shtetl used to hide a small piece out of sight, pinned to their underwear …”
Peaches pulled her wrist away. “I believe in coming prepared. I brought this, too.” She flourished her riding crop and flashed a shark-like row of teeth. “So you see, I’m like a Jewish grandmother and a Protestant bitch from the burbs, both at the same time. Even though I’m actually Catholic—not a practicing one, of course. Now eat your lunch.” She pointed at his plate with the tip of her crop: “You haven’t touched a thing. Don’t you like it?”
Automatically, Bruno began eating. After a few bites, he realized he had a nagging sense of déjà vu. He took another small bite, paying close attention this time. “Interesting,” he commented, munching on a carrot.
“Faint praise,” said Peaches. “I love this place. In fact, Jacob, the Chef, is one of my dearest friends.”
“I could see that,” Bruno lied. He was preoccupied with the food. He was weak with hunger, and the bite of fish had piqued his appetite. Yet there was something funny here and he was starting to feel suspicious. He took a bigger bite this time, chasing it with a large helping of horseradish.
That did it. Now he knew. He could see the whole picture. This was the genuine article: Manischewitz gefilte fish. Not “brochet farcie,” or “pondfish” or whatever they called it on the menu.
He took another large piece and put it on his fork with the rest of the horseradish. “This is so good, you really have to try it,” he cooed at Peaches.
“Oh no,” she demurred. “I really couldn’t. I’ve had so much to eat already.”
“Really, I insist.” He waved the fork closer to her face. “There’s an incredible similarity to something my mother used to serve.”
“Oh I doubt it. Jacob is a genius. And totally original.”
“So why don’t you try it? I bet Rachel the Matriarch would’ve liked it …”
“Bruno, please! Stop! What are you getting at? Please take your fork out of my face, right now!”
“You were setting me up, weren’t you?” Bruno’s voice was low and menacing. “You had your friend put together a seder plate to see if I would recognize it—didn’t you? You were going to write that I went out to lunch with you, ate a huge plate of gefilte fish from a jar and didn’t even know it wasn’t some fancy preparation your friend made up. Local-shmocal. You wanted to get even by making me look like some moron who’s happy to pay $35 for a few lousy bites of Manischewitz. That’s really low.”
“What are you saying? You’re insane.”
“This meeting is over!” he snapped and stalked toward the door.
Peaches’ anger reduced her to tears. “You horrible man,” she snarled. “I hate you!”
And with good reason. Not only did she miss out on dessert, but Bruno’s abrupt departure meant she was stuck with the check.
Chapter 53
Lousy luck, thought Bruno, as he drove back toward Gardenfield a few minutes later. There were a few moments there when she and I were starting to hit it off. He’d have to admit the Chief was right. And then there was the red string. “I can’t believe it’s authentic; I’m sure it was acrylic, not wool.”
Just then Bruno realized how hungry he was. That reminded him.
He’d forgotten that Chris, the guy at Tano’s, wanted to see him. What better way to turn his day around than with a cheesesteak? It seemed like a lifetime had passed already since the morning he got out of jail. He hoped Chris would still be there since the lunch rush was probably over.
He needn’t have worried. “Hey, Bruno, where you been, you loser?” shouted Chris as he walked in the door. This was more like it: an island of sanity in a demented universe.
“Hey, Chris, make it the usual, with everything on it.”
Instantly he could smell the onions frying on the grill. “I been waiting for you to come by,” Chris called out over the roar of his exhaust fan. “You know those security guards that are all over town?”
“Sure. How could you miss them?”
“Right. Well. They keep coming by for lunch. You ever talk to any of them? No? Well, take it from me, they don’t spikka-de English too good. And they’re not Italian, because I told them to va … a … fare … in … culo, y’know, real slow and distinct, but they just smiled. Anyway, I think my steaks remind ’em of their home cooking.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yeah, I asked one of them for a patch for my collection. Since they work in security and all, they must have a shoulder patch. But I couldn’t get through to him. I thought maybe you could explain it.”
“Why me? I don’t speak French,” said Bruno. Knowing the parent company for NewGarden Biosciences was French, he assumed the security detail was probably French-speaking.
“Hmm,” mused Chris. “I wondered if they might be Israeli or something. They kept making this sound like they were clearing their throats. You know, cha-kha-rissa.” He made a series of horrible gagging noises deep in his throat. “So I figured it was Hebrew or something.”
Bruno laughed. “That’s not Hebrew. It sounds like they were saying harissa with a Middle Eastern pronunciation. Harissa’s hot sauce. Your steaks must remind them of couscous, which they usually eat with harissa. So that’s French, not Hebrew.”
The Violet Crow Page 20