by Alan Glynn
*
My mind is in knots as I walk home, and for good reason, but it’s only as I arrive at the door to our apartment that I understand why.
I’m going to end up lying to Kate – and hating myself for it.
Of course, what makes it a little easier – at first – is that she’s pissed at me. Did I go to the meeting? Why didn’t I answer her texts? What is the fucking point of having a cellphone?
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, ‘I just wanted to get it over with.’
She stands there, waiting for more, looking over her glasses at me. ‘Well?’
The version I give her is accurate as far as it goes, but I leave stuff out – like the fact that I have been, and presumably still am, under surveillance. I don’t tell her that my overall impression of the meeting is that Phil Coover pretty much played me like a fiddle. Which is another thing. I don’t actually mention Phil Coover by name. What I tell her is that Arthur Galansky was tied up and I spoke to some other guy. I try to focus on the positives. They’re going to release my last cheque. They might drop the GO-1C charge.
‘I’m confused,’ she says. ‘What changed their minds? How did you convince them?’
This is a reasonable question but what do I tell her? ‘I made a case, I guess. I told them it had nothing to do with me.’
‘As in—’
‘As in the thing. What happened over there.’ I clear my throat. ‘Look, I can barely remember what I said. It was a tense situation. I was nervous.’
I’m beginning to feel weird now, on the defensive, as if I’m being cross-examined.
Kate nods. It’s clear that her earlier ambivalence hasn’t gone away, but she seems to know not to push it.
My own ambivalence hasn’t gone away either. I manage to keep a lid on it while I’m awake, but in bed later – unexpected, unbidden – I get to see a human skull being cracked open, then smashed. It happens in a variety of locations – the lobby of the Wolper & Stone Building, my old prep station at Mouzon, our bedroom. I wake each time, the transition seamless, whatever chaotic setting of the previous moment giving way in an instant to the oppressive smallness of our actual bedroom.
*
In the morning I have a thumping headache. I drink lots of black coffee and eat a bowl of cereal. Kate has a coding assignment to finish today, and it’s going to require a lot of concentration, so I need to be out of the apartment pretty early. I don’t want to be a distraction to her, and, after yesterday, I know I would be. We don’t say much as we glide around each other, from bathroom to kitchen to living room, the familiar pas de deux of couples who live in small apartments. Sort of inconveniently too, and, in spite of my headache, I find myself actually wanting her. This is something I haven’t felt since that first night I got back. And call me obvious or stupid, but it happens as she’s emerging from the bathroom after her shower. She’s in a loose robe, her pale and lightly freckled skin glowing, her auburn hair wet and glistening. But that’s not what this is, not exactly – I see her like that every day. This is more a build-up over time of subtler tensions, of deeper needs, things which are now, suddenly and unexpectedly, uncoiling inside me. But then I realise that it’s always this way, that when it comes to Kate my arousal is unique and complex and layered, and that what I’m feeling in this moment is not just desire, it’s love.
It still is desire, though, and there’s empirical (if ephemeral) evidence for it. But there’ll be no happy resolution here – not at 8 a.m., not with the caffeine rush and Morning Edition on the radio and the screeching baby next door and the looming ones and zeros on Kate’s laptop all so determinedly ranged against it. I wish I could transmit something of what I’m feeling to her, but I know it would get too complicated too fast and end up derailing her morning. So I just decamp. I give her a kiss as I leave – a rushed one, little more than a peck – and tell her I hope her assignment goes well.
Outside it’s sunny, but there’s already a thickening in the air. I walk briskly along 10th Street for several blocks, heading west, and turn right onto Broadway. This isn’t anything different from what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks, but it feels different. It feels like something fundamental has shifted, and I’m now faced with a choice – either I slide further into the shit, or I wake the fuck up and start looking for a job. Because even if I get my last pay cheque from Gideon, that’s it, there’ll be no more money coming in. So it’s really quite simple. I have to get my act together. I have to start scouring job sites and sending out copies of my résumé.
And I have to put Afghanistan behind me.
I stop at a bench in Union Square and sit down, the city swirling all around me, noise, traffic, streaks of colour . . . honking horns, snippets of conversation, dogs, dog walkers, ringtones, skin tones. Some days you don’t even notice this stuff, it washes over you, and others it becomes so dense, so distracting, it’s all you see. I close my eyes for a few seconds, dreading the prospect of actually having to look for work. The first time I ever compiled a résumé was for the Gideon job. Any other jobs I’ve had I got through referrals. That was how I got Mouzon. That was how I got the three or four jobs I’d worked back in Asheville. Someone gives your name out, they vouch for you, you go meet a guy, you talk, next thing you know you’re wearing checked pants and dicing carrots.
Old school, which, I guess, is called that for a reason.
I take out my phone and start searching for listings. It’d be easier to do this at home using the laptop, but I’m not at home and I want to get a move on. In any case, I have an app here that can record whatever notes, numbers or links I might possibly need. Looking down, I try to focus, to shut out all the surrounding distractions, the white noise, but less than a minute in and the fucking phone itself rings.
I stare at it for a moment, annoyed, but also uncertain. It’s a blocked number.
I answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Danny? Hi, it’s Phil Coover.’
Union Square tilts a little on its axis.
‘Oh . . . Phil.’
‘Hey, glad I caught you, I’m just heading to the airport and I wanted to talk. So. I sat down with Artie, and that thing? It’s sorted, no problem. Last cheque, plus a little extra thrown in. Call it severance.’
‘Jesus, Phil . . .’
‘It’s only fair, am I right? At least, that’s how I look at it.’
My stomach is churning. I glance up and see a small Asian woman gliding by with a dog that’s nearly bigger than she is. Then, passing in the other direction, two middle-aged guys in suits.
‘Phil, I don’t—’
‘And something else, Danny. I made a couple of calls. There’s a place on 44th Street, Barcadero. Get over there this morning and ask for Stanley. He’ll fix you up with some work.’
I close my eyes. ‘Phil, how . . . I don’t . . . how do I—’
‘No need. It’s my job. Which I’ll lose if I miss this flight. Okay, so you got that? Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street. Best of luck, Danny. Best of luck with everything.’
And that’s it, he’s gone.
Fuck.
Opening my eyes, I lean back on the bench and gaze up at the sky, which is a hazy blue. What just happened? Another job referral? I’m excited about it, my heart is racing, but at the same time I feel uneasy. I sit forward again, and, as I look around, something occurs to me. Am I still under surveillance? There were those two guys in suits. And right now, in my direct line of vision, I see someone who could easily be watching me. The whole idea is pretty absurd, though. So maybe Coover had just said that as a way to spook me, to make me think it was true.
In which case it worked.
But again, if the outcome is what he said, if he actually delivers – the cheque, some form of severance, an actual job – who cares?
Kate, probably, but that’s not going to stop me.
I stand up and move away from the bench, then head back onto Broadway.
Next landmark, the Flati
ron, but Coover said ‘this morning’, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. I know restaurants, however, I know their circadian rhythms, and for sure there are guys up there right now taking in deliveries – the crates of produce, the sacks of flour, the vacuum-packed slabs of meat. In the kitchen someone is halfway through zesting fifty lemons and someone else is hauling a twenty-quart container of chicken stock out of the walk-in. There’s a guy out by the loading dock having a cigarette and another one in the poky little backroom office tearing his hair out over prep lists. But it might still be too early for this Stanley individual. He’s probably at the gym doing kettlebell workouts. Either that or he’s at home slumped in front of his medicine cabinet, nursing a vicious hangover and trying to decide what pills he needs to get through the day.
I’ll stop off someplace, get coffee and a bagel, sit in a booth for a while. Look out the window, read a paper, then show up at around ten, ten thirty.
Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street.
I’ve got this.
4
The first striking thing about Barcadero is how high-end it is. Given its location, this shouldn’t come as any surprise, but it does. On my way there, I look it up and find out that it’s been open for more than two years. And that’s the second thing. Restaurants open and close all the time in New York, but if you pay attention to this stuff a joint like Barcadero would at least be on your radar. And it’s definitely not on mine.
Though who am I kidding? Not only have I been out of the loop for months, it’s not as if any loop I ever was in would mean I’d be hearing about a place like this. Anyway, with executive chef Jacques Marcotte running the kitchen, I’m guessing that Barcadero is conservative and pricy with the kind of atmosphere that food critics feel compelled to call ‘rarefied’.
One of the kitchen guys lets me into the vestibule area, and, as I’m waiting for Stanley to appear, I look out over the main room. Turns out I’m not wrong, and I quickly conclude that I’m wasting my time. I was happy to get the referral, and maybe it’ll kick-start something else, but I can’t see it – they’re not going to hire a guy whose last job was working at a military chow hall. Jesus. I mean, Mouzon was a nice place, okay, but it was small and very casual, and before that . . . ‘Danny?’
I turn. The man approaching me is short and wiry, though I’d say it’s more kettlebells than pills. He radiates such an immediate and intense energy that I’m almost afraid I’ll get electrocuted if I shake his hand.
‘Stanley Podnick,’ he says.
We shake. I survive.
‘Come on.’
He leads me into the dining area, pulls out a chair at the nearest two-seater and sits down. He indicates for me to do the same and places a cloth-bound notebook and a fountain pen in front of him. He looks at his watch.
‘Okay, Danny,’ he says, opening the notebook, ‘we have a situation this morning. A callout.’
I lean forward slightly, and swallow. ‘A callout?’
‘Yeah, one of my prep guys, Yannis, he says it’s an ulcer, peptic, perforated, I don’t know . . .’ He looks at me quickly, rolls his eyes, then goes back to the notebook. ‘What am I going to do, call him a liar? Anyway, I’ve tried all my covers, and no dice. Bottom line, I’m in a bit of a pickle.’ He looks at me again. ‘So how about it?’
‘I . . . I don’t—’
‘What? Is there somewhere you have to be?’
‘No, it’s just, I thought there’d be more of an interview process.’
Stanley Podnick looks at his watch again and picks up the fountain pen. ‘I don’t have the luxury. Besides, you come highly recommended.’ He taps his pen at the open page of his notebook. ‘Two years at Mouzon, the DFAC stuff. It’s clear you know your way round a kitchen.’
What the fuck? He’s got my résumé?
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s about the only thing I do know.’
‘So?’
I shrug. ‘Just like that?’
He leans in towards me, and whispers. ‘Danny, I’m in a bind. Plus, like I said, you come recommended.’ He pauses, holding my gaze. ‘What do you want? This is above my pay grade. For now. You fuck up in my kitchen, though? That’s a different story. Anyway, seeing as how you’d be prepping here but you worked the line at Mouzon, this would actually be a step down for you. In theory.’ He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the grandeur of the room. ‘Though not in reality, of course. In reality, this would be a fantastic opportunity for you.’ He flips the notebook closed and puts it under his arm. Shifting sideways in his chair, he looks at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Well?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Okay. Great. And thanks.’
‘Let’s just hope I’m the one thanking you in ten hours.’ He hops up. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
The kitchen at Barcadero is pretty big, not chow-hall big but bigger than any regular place I’ve ever worked in. When I see the expanse of stainless-steel surfaces, the long station racks, the vent hoods, the enormous ovens, burners, gas ranges and cooling units, I realise that this is as close as I’ll probably ever get to my dream of working at a place like the Four Seasons. Stanley gets me an apron, a jacket and a pair of clogs. He conducts a lightning-fast tour of the kitchen and then introduces me to Pablo, one of the other prep guys. The place is still pretty quiet, so I have a chance to get my bearings.
I’ve met a hundred guys like Pablo – he’s late twenties, handsome in that chiselled, unshaven way, and barely speaks any English. But it becomes apparent within minutes that he’s not an asshole, which is good news for me. Because he easily could have been – protective of Yannis and ready to pound my balls non-stop for the whole shift. Instead, he lends me some knives and sets me up at a station peeling veg, easing me into it. And in his broken English he gives what turns out to be a pretty funny running commentary on the entire place as it slowly comes to life – as the dishwasher moves about, turning on all the equipment, as the sous chef arrives, followed by the line cooks, then the garde manger, then Jacques Marcotte himself, as the tasks multiply and the real cooking gets under way, and finally – too busy after that – as actual service begins.
Every time he does a pass through the kitchen, Stanley checks up on me, but there’s never a problem. If I’m finding it a challenge, it’s only in terms of volume and pacing. There’s a clear rhythm here, like in any kitchen, and you just have to learn it. But there’s nothing I can’t do, no task or procedure I’m unsure of or have to ask about.
At one point, I get a ten-minute break and go outside to the loading dock, where I turn on my phone and send a text to Kate: ‘Hope the assignment’s going well. Good news. Found work. Already halfway through my first shift.’
I stand there for a while and listen to the hum and roar of the city. I haven’t had time to think about any of this, about Phil Coover and the referral and Stanley Podnick having my details, or about the fact that I’m working. But it’s fine. I’m tired, and relieved, and there’ll be plenty of time to dissect all of this later on.
Kate replies: ‘Amazing!!! Can’t wait to hear x.’
Back inside, I go along the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. As I walk by the pick-up window, I glance out at the dining area, which is slammed at the moment, a sea of business suits, tanned faces and mostly grey hair. What are they all talking about? The food? I doubt it. It’ll more likely be money, how you get it, how you multiply it, how you keep it, a hundred variations on that conversation – a hundred out of the million that take place in restaurants all over the city every day.
Back at my prep station, I realise that from where I’m standing I have a direct line of sight into the dining area. It’s only a sliver, the rest of the view is blocked by a large vent hood on one side and a bank of refrigerators on the other – but still, it’s a welcome distraction. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, because I was concentrating so hard. It’s an angle on the room, a corner of it, one table, three people at the moment, but it could be four, a static sho
t, medium close, without sound – not much, but something to play around with when the monotony kicks in.
By the time my shift ends, I’m destroyed, mainly because I’m out of the habit – three and a half weeks of idleness is a long time in this game. Without Pablo, it would have been a lot harder, and I thank him.
And then Stanley thanks me. ‘That was impressive. You fit right in.’
I nod.
‘So, you up for this again tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘And after that I guess it’ll depend on how Yannis is doing, but . . . you know, I have your number.’
I nod again and tell him I’m available.
Outside on the street, Pablo suggests going for a drink, but I know how that one usually plays out, so I pass and take the subway home.
*
When I come through the door, I see Kate at the table, laptop open in front of her, papers everywhere. She’s slumped forward a bit, her eyes are red, and she looks pretty much the way I feel.
But as I’m closing the door, she pulls her chair back and moves towards me. We meet halfway for a quick hug. Then she sits down again, I stand by the refrigerator, and we talk. For the first few minutes it’s all about my day – the work, how I came by it, Barcadero, what kind of place it is, what the prospects are.
Tell me, tell me.
And I do.
But not having mentioned anything yesterday about Phil Coover, I decide not to mention anything about him tonight. I have to improvise a detail or two, but I manage to pull it off and once I’m at the restaurant it’s easy: there’s the rarefied atmosphere to describe, there’s energetic Stanley, Yannis’s ulcer, the kitchen, Pablo, the routine, the food, plus the fact that this could turn out to be what Stanley called a fantastic opportunity . . .
Then I ask how her day went, how she got on with the coding assignment, and, when she looks up at me, I see that she’s got tears in her eyes. ‘Kate? What is it?’
She clenches her fist. ‘Nothing. It’s—’