by Alan Russell
Annette was a vision of a bygone California dream and behaved like something out of The Twilight Zone. A 1951 Ford station wagon, the car was an anachronism that looked even more dated than her years. Annette was a bona fide woody, a wood-paneled wagon. Nowadays there are only ersatz versions of woodys, cars with garish plastic wooden veneer. Of course those same sidings don’t need the constant attention of oils, lacquers, varnish, and elbow grease, and owners don’t have to worry about the sun, elements, termites, and fighting off drunks trying to get toothpick souvenirs. Am knew that woodys were the real thing, and that woodys were history, but more than anything else, he knew that woodys were a pain in the ass.
He had never aspired to own a woody, wasn’t one of those Californians who pined for a visual reminder of the beach blanket gatherings of the early sixties. Decades back, woodys were the ultimate beach buggies, ideal for carrying the now-dinosaur long boards. In days of yore, surfers didn’t risk only the waves, they risked hernias getting to them.
Am’s friend Gerry had forced the woody on him. When Gerry was tipped off that the DEA was investigating him, he’d decided to leave town in record time.
“You take my baby,” he had told Am. “You take Annette.”
Am had suggested he call Frankie Avalon.
“Just give me three thousand,” he had said. “Annette’s worth ten, easy.”
Am had told him no. Three thousand times, no.
“But it’s not like I’m really going to be selling you Annette,” Gerry had explained. “When things settle down, I’ll come back and reclaim Annette.”
And Am’s three thousand dollars?
“You mean your five thousand dollars,” Gerry had said with a wink. “You know I could never give my baby up.”
Ten years had passed since Am’s last conversation with Gerry. His only communication had been a dog-eared postcard sent from Colombia. “How’s she running?” Gerry had written. He had signed his name but left no return address. He hadn’t even added the usual SoCal greeting, “The weather’s here, wish you were fine.”
There was a love/hate relationship between Am and Annette. Though her bikini days were long over, Annette still liked to go to the beach. Am was convinced she was a vehicle that Stephen King should write about. If you drove Annette along the coastline, she rode like a Ralph Nader dream, but unfortunately all roads didn’t lead to the ocean. Annette invariably balked whenever Am strayed from her approved route.
The ignition started. Purred, even. Am pulled Annette out and drove toward the exit, toward his bed. Through the illumination of her headlights he saw a familiar scarecrow figure running toward them. Ted Fellows, the Hotel sous chef, was difficult to mistake. He was tall and thin and dressed in whites. His white hat was bobbing, and his arms were gesticulating wildly. Am knew Ted’s apparent neediness didn’t bode well. He would have ignored him, save that to do so successfully would have entailed hit-and-run. It was still tempting. Annette slowed to a stop, and Ted jumped onto the passenger’s seat.
For a few seconds Ted sucked in air and was unable to speak. “It’s Marcel,” he said finally, either too short of breath or too indignant to say anything else.
“Marcel’s the murderer?” asked Am.
Ted shook his head, sucked in some more air, then said, “This morning he learned the meaning behind road kill. And then we learned the meaning of temper tantrum. Marcel broke a few blood vessels and more than a few plates. The special should have been tossed pans.”
His tale begun, Ted started breathing easier. It was Am’s turn to hyperventilate.
“After exacting ample revenge for Waterloo,” Ted said, “Marcel left for a few hours. When he came back, he didn’t say anything to anyone. He just went into his office, closed the door behind him, and drew the curtains.”
“He didn’t knife anybody, did he?” asked Am. “Tell me he didn’t knife anybody.”
Ted shook his head. “It wasn’t a knife we were afraid of, Am. It was a bomb.”
“Oh, God,” said Am. He had always thought Marcel was a lunatic, not a terrorist.
“We’d all seen him carry in this big burlap bag, and we couldn’t help but wonder what he had in it. Then he started making mysterious trips in and out of his office. He gathered all sorts of ingredients, including a lot of herbs and spices, but he was very quiet about it, very unlike Marcel. Later that afternoon we all felt better when he started shouting orders and questioning everybody’s competence. He, Marcel Charvet, wasn’t going to look bad in his culinary Super Bowl because of the kitchen’s ineptitude.”
Am had forgotten about the food critic being feted that night. “What’s the menu?”
“It’s top secret. That’s not unusual. Marcel’s done that before. But I had this weird feeling that something wasn’t right. Then, about a half hour ago, I overheard him telling the server that his special was Meurtre de la Route. Marcel made the waiter repeat the phrase several times to make sure he got it right.”
“I’m not familiar with that dish,” Am said.
“Neither was I,” said Ted. “I figured it was some arcane dish with a fancy French name, but I couldn’t find it in any of my recipe books. I even got out a French dictionary, but I wasn’t sure of the spelling.”
“So why didn’t you just check the entrée out?”
“I did. But his Meurtre de la Route was bagged.”
“Bagged?”
“Papillote. Sealed in buttered parchment paper. Sometimes you do that for flavoring and tenderizing.”
“Look, Ted,” said Am, “this has all been very interesting, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the day I’ve had—”
“Not ten minutes ago,” said Ted, “Marcel was called out to the floor by some guests. I don’t have to tell you that he could teach a peacock how to strut, especially when he has a good audience.”
Marcel’s next temper tantrum, thought Am, would be when he learned the staff referred to those performances as his “phallic Gallic.” When summoned to tables, Marcel always donned his huge white chef’s hat, the kind of headware only the Queen Mother should have been allowed to wear. Then he strolled through the restaurant as though he were the feature attraction in an Easter hat parade.
“After getting his hat,” said Ted, “Marcel left his office door open, so I decided to close it. I don’t know, Am, maybe I went to snoop, too. The place was a mess, littered with all of Marcel’s prep work. But in the corner was his mystery bag. It was clearly not as full as it had been. And there was a smell, a reek, I wasn’t familiar with. I couldn’t help myself; I went over and peeked inside.
“At first I wasn’t sure what was in there. You know how Marcel is about cleanliness; by this time the bag was mostly a refuse container. I had to do some sifting, and that wasn’t pretty. But it beat what was at the bottom of the bag. There were still a few relatively whole specimens. They were possum.”
“Opossum?”
Ted nodded. “And these weren’t the kind of possum raised on some ranch,” he said. “It was clear these possum hadn’t died at the hands of a butcher, or even a hunter. They were sort of squashed . . . ”
“Oh, my God,” Am said. “Road kill.”
An idling Annette was suddenly floored. Am’s driving and her response might have qualified both of them for the Cajon Speedway. He took the back way and parked with squealing brakes at the delivery entrance behind the Hotel.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” asked Am.
“You know what he’s like,” Ted said. “I figured you were the only one he might listen to.”
Meurtre de la Route. And one of the most important food critics in the country.
“It might not be too late,” Ted said. “It’s a five-course meal, Marcel’s creations from salad to dessert.”
Instead of finishing with mousse, thought Am, he’d probably conclude with Meurtre de la Mouse. He sprinted ahead of Ted, took the back stairs three at a time, threw open the service door, and sidestepped a room service waiter with a
tray. It wasn’t an open field, but he was able to weave through servers and dishwashers before taking a shortcut through all the cooks working the line. There he gained the passageway to the Hotel’s showpiece restaurant, the Trident. And Marcel.
The chef had claimed a vantage point that allowed him to look out to the dining area without being seen. Apparently Marcel was gauging the reactions to his repast.
“Has it gone out?” Am asked.
“Haz wut gun owt?” spat Marcel.
“Your Meurtre de la Route.”
“Yez,” said Marcel with a wide smile, his eyes defiantly triumphant.
Ted pointed out the table. The epicure was about sixty and looked like a professional critic. His white hair was immaculately combed and parted, his necktie knotted carefully, his pencil mustache perfectly groomed. His companion, a younger man of around forty, also had a persnickety look and air.
“Do they know what they’re eating?”
“If zay asked, I told ze server to tell zem zay were eatin’ gibier.”
Ted translated while Am wiped Marcel’s spit off his face. “Wild game,” he said.
“Road kill,” said Marcel. “That’s what everyone say, no? So I make road kill.”
San Diego has no “Deer Crossing” signs, and you don’t have to watch out for cattle. Few exotic animals, with the exception of migrating birds, are seen within its city limits. Along its roads can be found dead cats, dogs, and skunks. And opossums. Given the alternatives, Am supposed Marcel had chosen his road kill well. The marsupials had made themselves at home all over San Diego. They liked trash cans more than sanitation workers, and enjoyed the balmy climate. They were also about as smart as a fur ball. Sometimes they played possum when threatened by cars.
Am thought about playing possum himself but instead found himself walking over to the road kill table. Even when standing in front of the critic and his companion, Am wasn’t sure what to say. For a moment he eyed their plates. The papillote had just been opened, and the steam was rising from the dish. From what he could see, the opossum had been carved up and looked like some unidentifiable meat. Maybe the critic didn’t know French and had no idea what was in front of him.
“Novel,” said the older man to the younger. “How do you think Marcel got the idea to serve possum?”
“Meurtre de la Route,” said the other, pronouncing the words as if he had attended the Sorbonne. “Marcel has a sly sense of humor.”
“Gentlemen,” said Am.
They took their eyes from their plates and looked up. “I’m Am Caulfield,” he said, “the assistant general manager of the Hotel California.”
They said something back, but Am wasn’t listening. He was still desperately in search of some plan. “We are honored to have you,” he said.
It was evident they were used to the royal treatment, but that usually came with the after-dinner drinks. Their forks had been raised in the air long enough. They tried to dismiss Am with a few mumbled words of reciprocal thanks.
“As you know,” Am said, “our entrée selection is vast. We are proud of all our dishes, and I was thinking that it might be better if you ordered off the menu so that you can feast on the succulent fare of a representational meal. It hardly seems fair to partake of a dish that our chef so rarely creates.”
“The nightly specials,” lectured the critic, waving a knife at Am, “are the signature, the trademark, of any quality restaurant.”
Am thought about grabbing their dishes and running off with them, or of faking a seizure and falling on the table, but the knife wielder had studied under a basilisk. The critic froze his every intention.
Retreating, beaten, Am said, “Bon appétit.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“The specials—they are my per-og-a-teeve, no?”
PerFrogative, maybe, thought Am.
“What do you think the county health department would say about your per-og-a-teeve?” Am asked. “How many ordinances do you think we violated by serving up your Caltrans special?”
“Ham. How do you zay it? You are ovaryacting.”
Twenty minutes earlier, when Am and Marcel had been exchanging screams, each might have been overreacting. Now they were in Marcel’s office, and Am was just trying to get the chef to admit he had done something terribly wrong. Marcel’s vocabulary was quite limited in that area, and Am was beginning to suspect that the French language didn’t include the words I am sorry.
“What you have done, Marcel,” said Am, “goes beyond a prank. You have put the Hotel’s reputation on the line just because your pride was tweaked.”
“Tweaked? What is zis tweaked?”
“Upset. Nettled. Bothered.”
Marcel shook his head. He was still wearing his ridiculously large chef’s hat. “Zis talk of road kill was a very bad thing. In zis kitchen we create wonderful food.”
“But just because you perceived an insult,” said Am, trying to move in for the kill like Perry Mason, “did that give you the right to serve road kill to one of the most eminent food critics in the country?”
Gastronomic virtue, evidently, was the highest of all courts. “When Marcel Charvet make a meal,” he said, taking a deep breath as a buildup to an indignant spit, “any meal, it is somethin’ to be remembered.”
“And you see nothing wrong with what you did?”
“Have you heard any complanetz yet?”
That was the rub. They say it’s not bragging if you can do it. Marcel insisted nothing was wrong with serving opossum. Wasn’t it considered a delicacy in some parts of the country? The “spezals” were his domain, and he could serve whatever he wanted. He said he had decided opossum was just the thing, and since his purveyors didn’t stock opossum, he quite fortuitously had just managed to—stumble, yes, stumble, that was the word—upon some.
A loud rapping at the office window put an end to their arguing. A busboy was motioning feverishly to Am. “Gunther needs you right away in the dining room, Mr. Caulfield,” he said.
Gunther Schneider was the maître d’ of the Trident. He resented any intervention by hotel management unless there was a problem, at which point he readily delegated complete responsibility.
“What’s up?” Am asked the busboy.
“Older man is down,” he said. “He’s probably had a heart attack or something.”
The stricken man had drawn a standing room only crowd. Am caught a glimpse of the victim’s face, which was enough to make him think the man wasn’t experiencing coronary problems. One of the servers had decided the same thing. He had already moved behind the man and was applying the Heimlich maneuver.
The blue face had thrown Am off. But after the victim disgorged a chewed piece of meat, and his coloring began to return to normal, Am realized the choking victim was none other than Stanley “Whiner” Weintraub. With some regrets, Am realized it was he who had insisted that all Hotel personnel be versed in lifesaving techniques.
Whiner had been a thorn in the Hotel’s side for years, or at least half a thorn. Estelle “Whiney” Weintraub was the other half. She had the shriller voice. The restaurant was getting the opportunity to hear it.
“Stanley,” she said, “Stanley! Are you all right?”
Whiner tried to say something, then gave up the effort. He raised his hand weakly, showed the world he was still alive. Dammit, was Am’s unspoken reaction.
No one could figure out why Whiner and Whiney always returned to the Hotel California. According to them, their room was always totally unacceptable, the food was awful, and the service was abominable. Every year the Weintraubs called on Am several times during their stay to report that the Hotel was far, far worse than it had ever been before. They pulled out laundry lists of litanies and woes, and invariably Whiner would end the conversation by saying, “I should pay you for staying here? You should pay me!”
“Murderers!”
It wasn’t a good day to hear that ringing announcement. With her husband’s voice temporarily impaired, Whin
ey had the whole floor to herself. Her bony finger was pointed Am’s way, drawn, no doubt, to a familiar face to wag it under.
Nils Olsen looked puzzled. He wasn’t getting the hero’s reception he expected for saving Mr. Weintraub’s life. Nils had been in the United States for half a dozen years, had come from Sweden as a student, and had not wanted to return to his country’s cold winters. Then again, he hadn’t bargained for this much warmth.
“You didn’t warn us about the bones! Are you operating with a license to kill?”
While Whiney’s attack was heating up, Nils motioned Am over and whispered in his ear. In the middle of her ranting, Am made so bold as to interrupt.
“There were no bones, Mrs. Weintraub. Your husband had the veal marsala . . . ”
Whiney raised her voice a few decibels. It was an old tactic of the Weintraubs. If they ever looked as though they were losing an argument, the hysterics started. “My husband almost dies of food poisoning, and you have to make like a wiseguy. Is that right? Is that decent?”
“Your husband was choking on a piece of veal,” Am insisted. “That hardly qualifies as food poisoning . . . ”
“It was dry. He told me that, said it before his throat was land mined. Stanley! Are you all right?”
He waved again, motioned that he was ready to rise to his feet. Nils started to assist him, but that wasn’t to Whiney’s liking.
“I’ll help him,” she said. “Stanley! Are you all right?”
He was flapping his whole arm now. Soon, Am knew, too soon, he’d be flapping his mouth.
“Mrs. Weintraub, will you be needing any assistance up to your room?”
“Why do you ask? Do most of your restaurant guests need to be carried out on stretchers?”