A Brisket, a Casket

by Delia Rosen

  “Look, all this is making my head spin,” I said. “We were supposed to be getting to the point.”

  “Yes, Ms. Silver. You’ll pardon my wordiness. I caught it from my dad on those glorious nights he’d build a fire under the night sky, settle me down in its light and warmth, and teach me so many other valuable life lessons.”

  I looked at him. Was it my imagination, or had he wordily apologized for being wordy? When he finally did stop talking, I figured it was just a buildup to an a cappella rendition of “Home on the Range.”

  But Ramsey didn’t break into song for me. Instead, he said, “Believe it or not, Ms. Silver, I’m here to spare your deli from fading like an old star. Because it’s got something even the biggest and brightest of them don’t possess. And I’ll give you one guess what that is.”

  I shrugged. “Kishka?” I said. Which, I should maybe explain, was me trying to be acerbic by naming a type of kosher sausage.

  Ramsey laughed…a full, deep-down laugh that made his chest and shoulders heave. Finally, he removed his sunglasses, pulled a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, and wiped his tearing eyes.

  I admit his reaction caught me off guard. New York City’s supposed to be the humor capital of the world, and maybe it was once upon a time. But I’d found the mega-corporatized males who were the only types that could afford to live there anymore either had no sense of humor at all, or were too uptight to show it freely, as if giving in to a good belly laugh would put a fatal chink in their masculine sophistication. They smirked, they snarked, they talked about comedy being savvy and smart. But it had been a while since I’d seen a man laugh as openly or heartily as Royce Ramsey.

  Not that I was too pleased with my reaction to him. Joking with the Enemy—nice going, Gwen.

  When he was finally through chuckling and dabbing his eyes, Ramsey neatly folded his hankie and returned it to his jacket, leaving his shades off. “I enjoyed that, I truly did,” he said. “But, you know, much as I appreciate sausage made from beef intestines—especially if it’s got schmaltz in the mix instead of some low-fat veggie substitute—I can’t say it’s the difference maker I had in mind.”

  Okaaay. So he not only knew about kishka, he was a kishka connoisseur. “You told me I only had one guess.”

  “Fair enough,” Ramsey said. “The quality your deli’s got that stars don’t is adaptability, Ms. Silver. That’s because it’s run by people. And what people have over everything else is the capacity to change.”

  I looked at him. “You’re losing me again,” I said. “What’s your wanting to buy this place, have to do with the sun, moon, and stars?”

  Liarson held up his briefcase and wiggled it in my eyes. “I’ve brought some material that should answer your question,” he said. “If we could move to a table…?”

  “No chance!” Thom grunted. “It’s a health code violation lettin’ buzzards into the—”

  I put a mollifying hand on her arm. “We might as well hear them out.”

  “What for?”

  “Then it’s done,” I said, my eyes meeting Ramsey’s. “And we won’t have to bother with it again.”

  She frowned. Ramsey smiled. I struck a middle ground and pursed my lips.

  “Once is enough if an explanation’s any good, Ms. Silver,” he said finally.

  I nodded, waved for Thomasina to lead us up the aisle, and she took us toward a booth at the rear with a floor-shaking stomp in her step.

  Oh, and before I forget—good laugher or not, I still didn’t like Ramsey. Or the fact that he kept repeating my name all the time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What you see is a proposal for the multipurpose entertainment venue we call Ramsey Land,” Liarson was saying.

  I half expected to hear trumpets bellow out a fanfare. “Clever handle,” I said. “Did it take a whole team to brainstorm it?”

  The thinnest of smiles materialized on Ramsey’s mouth before he began rubbing its corners with his thumb and forefinger—as if to erase any suggestion of it.

  Liarson apparently didn’t share his evil leader’s appreciation for repartee. “It is a working name,” he said. “Lest you grow too amused, I would urge you to consider that Ramsey Land will be the largest construction project in downtown Nashville since the Bridgestone Arena.”

  “But unlike Bridgestone, it won’t be some big unfriendly eyesore,” Ramsey said. He spun his hat around a finger. “My facility will embrace Nashville’s history. Its design elements will reflect Southern grace and charm. It will be an attraction in the truest sense of the word.”

  “Kind of like the places on Broadway you want to tear down,” I said, glancing up from the picture in the brochure. “The Western Swing Inn, Stagecoach Bar, Trudy’s…and of course Murray’s Deli. To name a few.”

  Ramsey didn’t look amused now. “You’re an intelligent woman, Ms. Silver. It’s admirable that you’ve undertaken to keep your uncle’s restaurant solvent. I’ve shown you great respect…all kinds of respect…and wish you’d give some in return.”

  I shook my head. “Who’s being disrespectful?” I said. “I just can’t fathom why anyone who really cares about Downtown would bulldoze what’s here and replace it with papier-mâché.”

  “That’s a mischaracterization. Take a close look at the pictures in my brochure. At the authentic detail that’s in them.”

  Thom scowled from the booth seat beside me. “I’ll answer your question if he won’t, Nash. Pure and simple, this buzzard wants to build somethin’ fake that matches what he sees in the mirror. Him talk about charm? The only kind he knows is a dollar sign.”

  While Thom wouldn’t have won any tactfulness awards, I understood her loathing of the facility Ramsey had planned. Its columns, dormers, and fancy roof moldings were too much of a good thing, bundling every classic architectural feature into an exaggerated monstrosity lifted from a Hollywood studio lot or the Vegas Strip.

  Ramsey had kept watching my face. “Your manager here misreads me,” he said. “I told you about the cycle of neighborhood popularity and decline. Do nothing to revitalize an area, to renew it for the future, and it will exhaust itself.”

  Liarson nodded his agreement. Shocker there, huh? “Our economic projections show lower Broadway trending toward the early decline phase,” he said. “This might not be evident to its business owners. But statistics show it is inevitable in the coming months.”

  “That’s idiotic,” I said. The streets were packed every weekend. “The bars and clubs are jumping. And you want me to believe they only look like they’re in good shape?”

  “Perceptions aren’t trustworthy indicators,” Liarson said. “Mr. Ramsey’s team uses sophisticated computer-modeling techniques. Cutting-edge software—”

  “Buzzard shit,” Thomasina said. “May the Good Lord forgive my Sunday cussin’.”

  Ramsey didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else. I’d never heard Thom use foul language before—Saturdays, Sundays, and weekdays included—and sat there waiting for lightning to strike.

  A.J. might not have qualified as she strutted around to polish the silverware at a nearby table. But she certainly delivered enough sizzle wearing a pink stretch halter, a black ruffle miniskirt, and high-heeled spaghetti-strap shoes, with a butterfly tattoo in all its winged glory on her ankle.

  Seated across from me in the booth, Liarson swiveled his head around to watch her, his beady little eyes dropping to her stockingless, shiksa-shapely legs.

  “Mister, you find me wipin’ a fork with a napkin so interesting, you’re welcome to come over and help,” she said. “If not, you might want to clean the crud from your weddin’ band instead.”

  Talk about going from mesmerized to mortified in a heartbeat, Liarson’s cheeks flushed red as he and everyone else in our booth glanced down at his left hand. I hadn’t noticed the ring before. There was no crud that I could see, but it was possible A.J. had sharper receptors.

  “I fail to understand your refusal to co
nsider my client’s buyout.” Liarson had shifted his attention back to me. Give him credit for a quick rebound, although I wasn’t sure I liked being the safe one. “We’ve put together a generous, comprehensive package that relieves you of ownership and overheads, but affords a great many incentives. You will stay on as a minor shareholder, titular manager, and spokesperson—”

  “A shill, in other words.”

  “Your characterization,” Liarson said. “We’re giving you a vital role in our promotional campaigns. You will be the face of the franchise, with your image appearing in brochures, and a contractual provision that allows for television and radio appearances. The delicatessen will occupy a central location in our dining plaza, and we will make every effort to assure the essence of its current motif is recreated in our modernized complex. Lastly, while Ramsey Holdings reserves the right to rename and make staff changes to the restaurant, we guarantee your employees salary-equivalent positions at Ramsey Land.” His eyes swung onto Thom. “It is expected that there will be a particular requirement for ushers and ticket takers once the transition is complete.”

  “Ticket-takers? How dare you look at me when you say that, you little moth—”

  I grabbed Thom’s arm to stop her before she said something she’d regret. We needed her at the restaurant, not in some monastery serving out a penitential vow of silence.

  “It’s hard for me to believe some of the other business owners on our street went for this offer,” I said, shaking my head a little as I turned toward Ramsey

  “Not some,” he said. “Every establishment you mentioned has committed to it.”

  I was quiet for a minute. Maybe that was true. Maybe Ramsey could prove it. And maybe he’d paid for their commitments by rolling truckloads of money up to their owners’ doors. Without my jumping aboard, though, his project was a non-starter. Ramsey knew it, Liarson knew it, and most importantly, I knew it. Murray’s was smack dab in the middle of the block, and there was no way anybody could build around us if I held out.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I appreciate the offer. I think it’s even possible you’re sincere in believing your computer predictions and theories about restaurant life cycles. But I don’t happen to believe them. I don’t intend to leave this building—”

  “How has business been this weekend, Ms. Silver?” Liarson interrupted.

  I gave him a dirty look, and not just because it ticked me off that he’d started in with the “Ms. Silver” bit. “Are you trying to imply something?”

  “No,” Liarson said. “I’m asking up front if your weekend grosses were deflated by the untimely death of Buster Sergeant on your karaoke stage. And while you prepare to answer…have you considered how people will feel about dining here when it becomes common knowledge you were nearly murdered on the premises last night? That you could have frozen or suffocated in your refrigerator if an alarm hadn’t summoned the police and fire department to the rescue? Such a concentrated burst of negative publicity…well, I’m afraid it would douse even the brightest of stars in the firmament of local eateries.”

  I tried not to let my jaw drop. “How…how did you know?”

  His pencil mustache started to crawl across his face. Or so I thought before I realized it was actually that he was smiling, his upper lip stretching the ’stache taut.

  “I grew up in the Metro area. I have friends and family here. Went to school with people. Attended Nashville State University.” Liarson stared at me, leaning forward over the table. “We’re a small community, Ms. Silver. A social network. Word comes to me, word goes out. There are no secrets.”

  I sat there dumbstruck. A moment ago, he’d been dangling a carrot in front of me. Incentives, my face in lights, my staff manning the ticket booths of a grand new entertainment Mecca. But here was the other part. The or else. The stick.

  I glanced over at Thom, nodding, and the two of us rose as if on cue. Then I turned to Ramsey.

  “You’ll have to excuse us,” I said. “We have a lot to do before the deli opens for brunch.”

  He nodded, put on his Stetson, stood up on his side of the booth. “I hope you’ll reconsider. Take some time…I want you to be able to think clearly and decide what’s in your best interests. Once you’ve made your final decision, it would be my great wish that you’d feel free to contact me.”

  I looked at him for a moment that wound out and out, my eyes squaring on his face.

  “Consider yourself contacted,” I said, and walked away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Caz,” I said, “the funniest thing happened to me on the way to being strong-armed by a zillionaire and his lawyer today.”

  She looked at me. We were sitting on lawn chairs in the garden outside her condo, the afternoon sun beating down on our shoulders. The butterflies fluttering around her neat, colorful flower beds might have been real-life versions of the tattoo on A.J.’s ankle, but maybe that was thinking backwards.

  “Dare I ask what happened?” Cazzie said. She reached for the pitcher on her lawn table, refilled my glass with her homemade fruit punch, then poured some into her own glass.

  I reached for the punch and sipped. Caz used orange, pineapple, and pomegranate juice in her recipe, and the latter gave it a tartness I enjoyed. She had explained that the pomegranates also added antioxidants, which were supposed to be healthier for me than nicotine or caffiene…though my request for formal proof was still pending.

  “Okay,” I said. “You ready?”

  “Unless I’m supposed to be waiting for entrance music.”

  That sounded like a good idea to me, so I rattled the ice cubes in my glass in lieu of a drum roll. “This morning at the deli, I stopped being a gefilte fish out of water.” Ta-da.

  Her eyes widened. “You really mean it?”

  “I’m dead serious,” I said. “It’s weird, Caz. Those men, Ramsey and Liarson, are at the deli trying to intimidate me. And honestly, they’re doing a pretty decent job, walking in like they already own the place. Confident as I’m trying to act, I start to wonder how I’m supposed to stand up to this pair when no one else on Broadway seems inclined.”

  “That doesn’t make it easy.”

  “No,” I said. “But then all of a sudden, I realized that I’m still holding a major trump card. Without my selling them the restaurant, they’re stuck. They can draw up all the plans they want, they can have a mountain of computations, they can persuade every other business owner on the street to take the money and run. The only thing they can’t do while I hold out is build their downtown Oz. And knowing it made me feel….”

  I hesitated. Cazzie waited. I tossed in some bonus hesitation.

  “Empowered?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “Stubborn.”

  Cazzie laughed, drank, looked at me over the rim of her glass. “Well, there you go,” she said. “One thing’s for sure…you’re sounding more like a Southerner than ever.”

  I sat a moment as a vagrant breeze made my hair a bigger mess than usual. It was three o’clock, and I’d driven home to feed the kitties—and truth be known, to see if Caz might be around for a brief heart-to-heart. On Sundays, the deli kept shortened hours, closing for the night at about seven P.M., and although we didn’t have an official break between the morning and afternoon shifts, business had slowed enough after midday to let me slip out for a while.

  “I don’t want to sound gushy and oversentimental,” I said. “Too much drama, you know? But I have to tell you…it was something else when I realized Thom had my back today.”

  “I can imagine it would be,” she said, “since she’s never been anything but at your throat.”

  I smiled, saluted her pithiness with a wag of my finger, and took another drink of fruit-sweetened antioxidant miracle elixir. “I’ve learned that a restaurant’s a different animal than most businesses. The hours are never ending. It isn’t like an office job where you spend most of your time alone at a desk. You’re constantly around people, managing situatio
ns with your coworkers, your suppliers and service providers, and your customers. When you spend such an enormous chunk of your day interacting with the same group—sometimes seven days a week—you have to enjoy being around them.”

  “And you do, right?” Cazzie said. “That’s the sense I always get from you.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “The guys in the kitchen are a breed of their own. They bicker constantly, but I never worry that they won’t get things done. I just kind of dodge the fireworks and then stand amazed at the food that comes out of there.” I smiled a little, remembering Friday night’s babka controversy. “My servers are great too. Luke’s like a kid brother. A.J.’s flirtatious, insatiably horny, and a dream employee. Vern, Medina, Raylene…they’re all hardworking and conscientious. Everybody has their moments, but I’ve had no major problems with them.”

  “Bringing us to Thomasina.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I couldn’t run the place without her. And I know how much Uncle Murray would’ve wanted us to get along. But instead, it’s been more like we’ve been stuck with each other. I’ve invested so much of myself in the place…financially, emotionally, you name it…”

  “You needed to feel you wouldn’t be on your own if things got rough.”

  “In a nutshell,” I said. “I can live with coexistence if that’s the best we can do. But it’s different from knowing you can depend on a person in the clutch,” I said. “When A.J. and Thom wouldn’t be pushed around by Royce Ramsey…and then were so rock solid behind me…that’s when I got stubborn.”