Killer Takeout

by Lucy Burdette

  Although the Garbo’s food truck was a new addition to the Grunts patio, its food made quite a splash when previously parked on Greene Street. Over the past couple of years, the chefs had crawled to the top of several online review sites and even made an appearance on the TV show Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. More recently, they had been invited to compete with Bobby Flay at the South Beach Wine and Food Festival. How could it be that I’d never tried their mango dog or their mahi-mahi taco or their ginger habanero glazed shrimp? This needed to be remedied. Sam, my mother’s fiancé, would be my happy apprentice. He announced last night before they left for their hotel that he’d take on the onerous duties of my first assistant, rather than choose wedding flower arrangements. Or even babysit.

  Because there’d be two of us eating, I’d also planned to take a few dishes out from Paradise Pub, a local bar and restaurant that had recently promised extensive revitalization of their menu and dining room under new management. Some rumors had it that a report of cockroaches and illegal workers contributed to the necessity of this change. On the other hand, the chef and new owner, Grant Monsarrat, was extremely popular with the locals. A second stop for lunch would stress our stomach’s capacities, but hey, a food critic’s work is not always glamorous.

  Once I had the tools of my trade in my backpack (pad, pen, phone, camera, plastic containers for unusually good leftovers) I buzzed over to the brand-new Mile Zero Marker resort on the harbor. Sam had insisted on splurging for the week leading up to their marriage, which I was certain stocked points in his already bursting account with my mother.

  A text from him came in as I parked. Getting coffee next door.

  I found him comfortably settled on the porch of the Coffee Plantation a block away from the Marker, watching the world go by while sipping a caffe latte. He waved when he saw me and trotted down the steps to the scooter.

  “I’m afraid Danielle was right,” he said, holding up the Citizen so I could see the headline and its accompanying photo of the two women fighting in front of The Bull and Whistle. “She made the front page. And it’s not her best angle.”

  The photographer had managed to snap a photo of the two women tangled together, fierce-angry expressions on both faces. My stomach dropped—Danielle would be sick over the bad publicity.

  “Anyway, I didn’t eat any breakfast,” he said, “so I’m starving. Absolutely ready for your excellent adventure.”

  He popped onto the back of my scooter, with no sign of the painful limp that had preceded his hip replacement last fall. I drove up bumpy Caroline Street to our first stop, Garbo’s Grill. An eating buddy has become almost mandatory on my biweekly excursions. Having a second body allows me to sample more menu choices and avoid pointed comments about the accumulation of avoirdupois from my trainer at the gym.

  We entered through the gate, filed into the open-air patio lined with palm trees, and walked back along the Grunts Bar to the food truck at the rear of the property. At the window, I ordered a glazed habanero ginger shrimp burrito, mahi-mahi fish tacos, and a mango hot dog that came wrapped in bacon.

  “Don’t eat everything,” I warned Sam, “even if it’s amazing. I learned the hard way that indigestion spoils a review. And besides, my mother will kill me if you can’t fit into your wedding suit.” We sat at a metal table near the truck and watched the chef bang around in the small kitchen space, frying and chopping. His wife took orders, delivered food, and fetched ingredients from a storage area steps away from the truck as he needed them.

  “These folks are professionals,” Sam said, as the scent of grilled meat warmed the air. He leaned back in his chair and tipped his face to the sun. “And this is heaven, pure and simple.” Then he cleared his throat and quirked one eyebrow. “I should warn you, your mother’s worried about your relationship.”

  I clapped both hands to my head. “What else is new in the universe? It’s going fine. He’s not as sweet as you, but who could be? And Wally was sweet like the icing on a grocery store cake, but that didn’t amount to dried beans in the end.”

  “No sign of the detective’s ex?” Sam asked.

  I imagined he had to doggedly tick through my mother’s questions. Unfortunately, this one bore right to the painful heart of past problems—I was sure my mother had planted it in Sam’s mind. Detective Nathan Bransford and I had had one date the first year I moved to Key West, but any fire between us had been quickly extinguished by the arrival of his ex-wife. She’d wanted to give the relationship one last chance before they moved on, and he’d agreed that was the fair and honorable thing to do.

  “Is this on the record or off?”

  Sam grinned. “You know your mother well enough to understand that she’ll worm it out of me no matter what I tell you.”

  “Nate has his strengths and his weaknesses,” I said, covering my eyes with my hand and peeking through the fingers. “The strengths, well, I can’t necessarily describe all of them in mixed company, if you get my drift.” I knew my face was flushing and my freckles popping, tan against the pink. “He still hears from his ex, even though she finally left town, but he tells me there’s nothing left between them. He just feels sorry for her. She’s having trouble finding herself.”

  I made air quotes with my fingers as I said the last two words. I was sure my voice would convey exactly what I really thought about her neediness and his ongoing urge to protect her from everything, even her own silliness.

  The buzzer that we’d been given to notify us when our order was ready began to skid across the table, flashing red lights and vibrating. Saved by the bell. Not that I was permanently saved because Sam would have to report what I’d said to my mother and she would use these scanty facts to investigate further. Big sigh. It wasn’t that she was nosy; she simply wanted the best for her only daughter.

  Sam and I went over to the cart to collect our food, as three big plastic baskets would be too much for one person to juggle. I’d added the mango dog to our order at the last minute, thinking it would be more Sam’s speed than mine. But the combination of the fragrant grilled all-beef hot dog, wrapped in crispy bacon and slathered with slices of bright yellow mango, red onion, and jalapeño pepper, and topped with some kind of pink sauce, looked irresistible. Once we took our seats again, I cut the sandwich in two pieces and we began to eat.

  “Oh my god,” said Sam, “this thing is amazing.” He wiped a dab of Caribbean sauce off his lips with a paper napkin. “This is a takeout article, right? Aren’t we supposed to be taking these off-site?”

  I laughed. “I believe you’d fight me if I tried to take that hot dog away from you.” He laughed too, and then growled like a slavering beast.

  I licked my fingers and took a slug of water to put out the jalapeño fire in my mouth and clear my palate for the next dish, the glazed shrimp burrito. A flock of browned and glistening shrimp with a slick of hot sauce had been tucked inside the skin of the burrito, nestled onto a bed of thinly sliced cabbage and carrot slaw. I skewered one shrimp with a white plastic fork and chewed.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said. “This is even better than that hot dog.”

  I cut the burrito in half and moved the larger piece into Sam’s yellow basket. Five minutes later, the only thing remaining of the sandwich was the burrito skin that I’d abandoned to save room in my stomach. We moved on to taking a few dainty bites of the fish taco. I made notes on my iPhone about the spicy sauce, fresh fish, crunchy coleslaw, and then more notes on the incredible shiny glazing on those Key West pinks. I wondered, could I could wheedle the recipe out of the chef at some point?

  “I hoped we could fit in the burger and the Korean short rib burrito as well,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

  “Not if we’re going someplace else too,” said Sam.

  We gathered up our trash and bottles of water and headed out to the scooter. The second restaurant, Paradise Pub, was located closer to the harbor, a few blocks away from Edel Waugh’s successful restaurant, the Bistro
on the Bight, and the old standbys Turtle Kraals and the Conch Republic. I parked the scooter in an alley near the restaurant and we went inside.

  At first blush, the so-called refurbished decor was not so new—a combination of Dade County pine walls, nautical barstools, and old photographs of fishermen and their catches. The bar was made of wood layered with shiny lacquer and dinged with years of use.

  After almost ten minutes, a waitress appeared behind the bar.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a frazzled voice.

  “We called in a takeout order,” I said. “A burger and a Key West Cobb salad and your fish sandwich?”

  “I’ll check on it,” she said, and swished off to the kitchen.

  Sam and I perched on the high stools in front of the bar and looked around the restaurant. The previous longtime owners had gone with a heavy Key West theme, including just about every icon that had anything to do with our island. Hemingway was there, but so was Jimmy Buffett, singing on a beach in shorts and bare feet. There were girls in bikinis sipping cocktails, and enormous dolphins kissing the adorable faces of tiny key deer. The dining chairs were upholstered in pink tropical fabric that had probably looked bright and pretty when they first arrived in the restaurant—shopworn now. Maybe the new owner hadn’t yet begun the renovation. Down a ways at the bar, two men were drinking beer and watching the TV while downing enormous plates of curly fries and hamburgers glistening with grease and blood.

  I checked my watch. One o’clock. In an hour I would need to be getting my face painted. An hour after that, I’d be riding in the zombie bike parade. I drummed my fingers on the bar, willing the waitress to emerge from the kitchen.

  “I wonder how your friend Danielle is doing this morning,” Sam said. “She was so sad about her campaign yesterday.”

  “A couple of hours in the Key West police station will take the starch out of you,” I said. “Chances are, she’ll have perked up overnight. All of the candidates were exhausted from those parties. A good night’s sleep will put things in perspective. And hopefully today they’ll keep that nasty woman away from her.”

  The doors from the kitchen swung open, followed by a string of curses. This time a woman with a deep tan and a dark braid down her back and wearing pencil slim pants and high heels hurried out. She stuck out her hand and shook each of ours. “I’m Catfish Kohls. We’re so very sorry. Chef Grant doesn’t have any record of an order for takeout,” she said, her voice quite definite. “The waitress claims she took the order and put the ticket in the queue.” Her raised eyebrows showed us what she thought of that. “I swear I don’t know what she’s been smoking. But I promise we can turn it around fast if you’d like me to put it in now.”

  She pasted a pained smile on her face. “And how about a free drink for your trouble? Shot of tequila? Or a beer? The bartender’s not in yet or I’d offer you a fancy drink.”

  I ran through the possibilities in my mind. Neither one of us was hungry, as the food had been too good at Garbo’s Grill. We had not paced ourselves as we should have. And who ever really needed a shot of tequila, especially in the early afternoon with a long day ahead?

  “We’ll come another day,” I said, “and we’ll take a rain check on that drink too. Thanks anyway.”

  “We so appreciate your business. Please do come back,” she said, scribbling a note on an order pad. “We’re closing the lunch service early today, so things have gotten a little turned around.” She ripped the sheet off and handed it to me. “Drinks on the house!” it read, decorated with a smiley face.

  5

  With her barrel shape and red and white dress, she looked like an oversized can of Campbell’s soup. (Chicken noodle maybe or minestrone. I could tell I was getting hungry.)

  —Roberta Isleib, Preaching to the Corpse

  After dropping Sam off at the Marker, I zipped up to the houseboat, where I checked in with the cats, unloaded the dishwasher, put on my zombie costume, and stuffed the accessories into my backpack. This time on my pink Conch Cruiser bicycle, I headed down island to the Truman Annex. I had a three p.m. appointment with Jennifer Montgomery, a woman from Philadelphia who enhanced her living as an artist by painting faces for parties and special events.

  I locked the bike at a rack in back of the Shipyard condominium complex, and found my way through a warren of small apartments and tropical foliage to Jennifer’s place. She looked exactly like her Facebook photo, with a mane of curly blond hair, a wide smile, and a lace top that showed off her tan. After a minute of small talk, she settled me in a chair in her kitchen next to a side table covered with paints and brushes.

  “Are you looking for a beautiful zombie or a scary zombie?” she asked, a grin on her face.

  “Scary zombie, definitely,” I said. “Aren’t zombies scary by definition?”

  “But I like to keep my customers happy,” she said with a laugh.

  I closed my eyes and she sprayed my face with a base coat of white. It felt cool to the touch, and slightly heavy, like too much spray-on sunscreen. Or more like the time I accidentally sprayed my face with gold paint when my mother and I were decorating candy dishes for my eighth birthday party. As Jennifer worked, applying white, black, and red touches with her brushes, she told me about her history.

  “I was going to work for one of the businesses on Duval Street. You’ll see some of the painters working in little booths on the main drag. But the guy did not market my service as he promised, so I figured I could do it here in my apartment and not give half the money to him. I’m pretty good at screening out weirdos on the phone,” she said, anticipating my next question. “And I’ve got a guy friend here”—she cocked her head at a well-muscled man who was drinking a beer in the living room—“in case one slips through.”

  When she was satisfied with her work, she stepped away and handed me a mirror.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said, sucking in a breath of air. “When you said scary, you meant scary.” Over the white base, my nose was painted black, as were my eyelids. Droplets of red trickled down from the corners of my eyes, melding with shooting red and black fiery lines radiating from my lips that resembled the licking flames on a custom-painted hot rod.

  “Do you paint people for Fantasy Fest, too?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Some people would prefer not to have that done in public—though they don’t seem to mind showing off the final product on the streets,” she added with an impish grin. “Different strokes.”

  I thanked her again as her next customer arrived, a flustered woman with a wicked sunburn. How uncomfortable would she feel once the paint was applied to her raw skin?

  I retrieved my bike and peddled over to the Atlantic side of the island, and then up the bike path toward Fort East Martello, next to the Key West airport. As I rode, more zombies on bikes filled in the empty spaces ahead and behind me. There were Santa zombies and retiree zombies and wicked witch zombies, and zombies of uncertain lineage heavy on dripping blood. I had to believe that my paint job ranked high in the ranks of realistic zombies. By the time I’d pedaled all the way to the fort, the crowd of zombies had mushroomed, their colorful cruiser bikes a strange contrast to their pasty, bloody faces.

  I left my props—an enormous vaccination syringe, bottles of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, and packages of gauze bandages—in the basket, locked my bike to the rack, and wandered into the party that throbbed on the grounds, looking for Connie and Ray. Zombies with giant brains made of pink Styrofoam peanuts attached to their helmets, zombies in bloody scrubs, and a pug zombie in a small, blood-spattered white coat all wandered by. I snapped photos of everything—I could sort out what would be useful for Key Zest later.

  Across the courtyard, I recognized Danielle, who looked beautiful, even in full zombie garb—a white dress strung with streamers of black and gray. She was wearing a different crown with ZOMBIE QUEEN written on the front in rhinestone script. Her white and black makeup disguised any obvious consequences from yesterday’s tro
ubles. The local TV news station was interviewing her on camera, along with her newly elected king. The royal court was clustered behind them. She appeared to be enjoying her celebrity status—I decided not to try to approach her now. I’d give her a call tonight.

  A rock band in tattered and bloodied shirts played in the roped-off street behind the fort, and long lines formed at the booths selling beer and soda. And a zombie waitress offered samples of spiked fruit punch in tiny paper cups. One of the bloodied Mrs. Santa zombies stumbled and fell, spilling her plastic cup of beer across the grass and dirt.

  “Zombie down!” shouted two of her friends, and then dissolved in squeals of laughter. I felt the cell phone buzz in my pocket—a message from Connie that they were running late, settling the baby in with my mother.

  I wished I had asked to use the bathroom at Jennifer’s condo. Since it would be a long, slow truck down the island to Duval Street with ten thousand zombies wobbling on bikes, I went into the museum section of the fort. After using their facilities, I ducked down the cool redbrick hallway to pay homage to Robert the doll.

  Robert, a life-size stuffed doll with a creepy face who was dressed in a sailor suit, had been enclosed in a big glass case. On the wall, letters were displayed from visitors who had not taken the proper precautions of asking his permission before taking his photo. Or worse still, made fun of his evil powers. He was famous for cursing tourists who didn’t treat him with respect. He would make, I thought, an excellent feature for the Halloween/Fantasy Fest issue of Key Zest. If I asked for his blessing first. I felt a little silly talking aloud to a vintage doll, but the evidence was there on the wall: People who hadn’t believed in Robert suffered with unexplained illness or loss of fortune or jobs. Many were now begging for release from his curse.

  Another text message came in from Connie. We’re here. A zoo!