by Don Bruns
I found myself almost shouting over the loud music.
Mikey smiled. “Oh, there could be lots of reasons. Boyfriend—”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
Glancing around the room, he said, “I got to get these tables wiped down and set. Cloths, candles, flowers.”
“Yeah. Big job. Did Amanda have a boyfriend? Somebody who worked in the kitchen?”
“Look, man, I din’t know her. There’s talk, you know. And why are you so interested?”
Why was I interested? I manufactured a reason that wasn’t far from the truth. “I told you, my friend is working back there. I’m looking out for him. I guess I wanted to know if it’s dangerous.”
“Is he gonna piss people off? Is he gonna promote himself where he shouldn’t be promotin’? Is he gonna play like his shit don’t stink?”
“That’s why she was killed?”
He stared at me.
“Is that what she was like?”
“I don’t know nothin’. Okay?”
“Hey, I’m just asking. I heard one of the cooks say that maybe she was seeing Joaquin Vanderfield.”
His eyes narrowed and he took a step back.
“I din’t say that. Who would say that? What goes on in that kitchen I don’t know nothin’ about. Yo no sé nada.”
It was the second time I’d heard that phrase in the last two days. I know nothing.
“Just wondered.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t wonder so much,” he paused and then turned away, picking up his rag and a spray bottle, and moving to the next table. The conversation was obviously over.
As I walked back into the kitchen, I wondered if I’d received a veiled threat. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. The walls echoed with Alley Boy’s “Gonna Rob Me a Nigga.” I couldn’t say much for Mikey’s taste in music.
Checking the parking lot, I saw no sign of the black Jag, so I ducked back in and strolled down the hall, past the walk-in with two padlocks on it. I glanced up and saw one of the cameras, the lens pointing right at me. Instinctively I smiled, ran my fingers through my hair and continued to the employee locker room. No James. His locker was closed, but the padlock was open.
“James. You back here?”
There was no answer, just the backbeat of the recording echoing down the hall from the kitchen.
“James?”
Nothing. And then I heard a cough. Faint, like the sound of someone softly clearing his throat. There was no one in the locker room. Two restrooms were at the far end of the area, and I pushed open the men’s door.
“James.”
Stall doors were open and there was no one there.
Pushing open the women’s door, I hesitated, then stuck my head in.
“Somebody here?”
One stall door was closed. There was no sign of anyone’s legs under the door, and even though it was doubtful someone was there, I almost walked in. One night on the job probably didn’t give me the right to intrude. Into the women’s restroom or anywhere else.
“James?”
Then I heard the outside kitchen door open and footsteps, fast, coming my way. Someone jogging, running.
“James?”
He rounded the corner, breathless, his eyes wide.
“Dude, there’s something very strange going on here.”
“No shit.”
“No. I come back here, the lock’s in place, so I open the locker and guess what?”
I had no idea.
“Somebody’s been in it again. That wooden-handled Wüsthof knife, the apron, they’re gone. Somebody—”
“James. Where did you get the padlock?” I didn’t remember him buying one. He just announced he had a locker.
“Standard issue. Chef Marty gave it to me as soon as I started.”
“Think, my friend. Marty probably knows that combination. Everyone in the entire restaurant could know that combination. The lock belongs to L’Elfe. It’s their property, right?”
I saw the surprised hurt look in his eyes. “No, don’t tell me. I’m not that stupid, am I?”
I kept a sober look on my face.
“Damn. Skip, I swear, I never even thought of it. How did that get by me? Hell, I’ll get my own lock.”
“A little late for that.”
He stared at the locker for a moment, then grabbed me by my shoulder, turning me around.
“Follow me, man. I want someone else to see this with his own eyes.”
Giving me a push forward, he headed back out the door.
“What?”
James didn’t say anything as we walked out the door into the parking lot. The black asphalt had soaked up the hot Miami sun and it radiated as we walked twenty feet where James stopped.
“You’re not going to believe this, amigo.”
Stepping up to an army-green garbage Dumpster, he grabbed a pole, and forced the top open.
“Look inside.”
I stepped up on an empty plastic crate and stared down into the slimy empty cavity. Even with the garbage removed the stench of spoiled vegetables and rotting meat was overwhelming.
“Nothing there, man. It’s empty.”
“What? That’s impossible.”
James stepped up and looked.
“Damn.”
“What did you see?”
“The apron, the knife, they weren’t in my locker. So I’m thinking, where would someone put them?”
“The trash.”
“Yeah. So on a wild hunch I looked in here. The apron was in there, covered with some boxes and stuff. Then I took this pole,” he pointed to a long wooden rod propped up against the Dumpster, “and I pushed the boxes out of the way.”
“You didn’t touch anything?”
“No. No more fingerprints. I didn’t want to contaminate anything. I was going to get some plastic wrap.”
“And?”
“I saw a knife.”
“You mean the one from your locker? The one the cop wanted to test for fingerprints?”
“Identical. Identical to mine and the one that was stabbed through the apron. The same one that my first boss, Michael Trump, gave me. The Wüsthof. I showed it to you at the News Café.”
“Your knife was in the Dumpster?”
“I’ll know in a minute. Mine was stashed in my locker. That top metal shelf. Along with the plastic holster.”
He stayed on the crate for a moment, looking into the empty shell and shaking his head.
At that very moment Em’s black Jag pulled up and she stepped out, pushing her Ray-Bans back on her head.
“That trash hauler almost hit me back there.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Just as I turned into the drive, here he comes.”
“Trash hauler?” James looked at me. “Damn, Skip, that’s where it went. Em, can we follow that garbage truck?” James pointed down the road.
“What?”
“James thinks he saw his knife in the Dumpster, but now it’s probably inside that truck that almost hit you.”
“What was your knife doing in there anyway?”
“We’re not sure,” James said.
Em frowned. “You want me to chase a garbage hauler so James can get his knife back?”
“Along with the apron and maybe the knife with fingerprints on it. The one that Ted was so interested in.”
She took a deep breath. “Some things you just don’t sign on for.”
“Em—”
“Well, get in.” The disgust was thick in her voice. “If we don’t leave now we’ll lose him.”
Obviously chasing a trash hauler was low on her list of priorities, but if it was one more step in finding Amanda’s killer, she was willing to take the ride.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The driver was a she, Maggie Juniper. About forty-five years old, a wide smile with laugh lines around her eyes. She and a quiet, young male sidekick ran the truck and the route, and we caught up with them about three restaurants down the road. I’ll have t
o admit she was fast. They were in and out of those places in less than two minutes.
“It’s not in my job description, but let’s see what we can do.”
Flipping a switch, she climbed out of the big blue refuse hauler, complete in her Carhartt jeans, Pendleton work shirt, and black rubber boots.
“Normally you have to engage the lifter and it just picks up the Dumpster, opens in the rear, dumps the load, and closes back up. Pretty slick. But I’ve got a manual override so I can open her up this way.”
She studied James for a moment.
“You’re sure you know what you’re looking for? You’re sure it’s in here? We’ve got a pretty tight schedule.”
Walking to the back of the truck, she and the boy leaned in with gloved hands and started sorting through the garbage and trash.
“We loaded another establishment, plus this one before you ran us down. Quite a bit of stuff back here.”
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. I mean, if we had gloves—” James trailed off.
Maggie spun around, smiling. “Oh, gloves are something we’re not short on. Brian, get the man a pair of gloves.”
James grimaced.
“Don’t worry about it, James.” I smiled at him. “I scraped it all off the plates just last night so not too much of it should be spoiled.”
He muttered something under his breath and started spreading the garbage. Fifteen minutes later Maggie called a halt to the process.
“Kids, as I pointed out, I’ve got a schedule, and I’m already behind. I’m sorry. Obviously, I want to help but—”
“Here it is,” James yelled, pulling the Wüsthof out by the blade with a gloved hand.
“I can’t believe it. I knew it was in that Dumpster. This is the knife.” He was grinning as he held it up.
“Crocodile Dundee, James.”
I could tell he remembered the scene. Where the teenaged punk pulls out a little knife when he’s going to rob Dundee. The Australian says, “That’s not a knife,” as he produces a huge Bowie knife.
“That’s a knife,” James said. “Wow, Maggie, thank you. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know.”
Flashing her smile, her eyes sparkling, she said, “Honey, if I was fifteen years younger.”
I swear he blushed.
“Hey, I know how it is. Those things are expensive.”
She drove off and Em stood there shaking her pretty head.
“You guys are a constant source of amusement. A constant source.”
“We should have found the apron too,” James lamented.
“Let’s get back to the restaurant.”
“Can James walk?” she asked. “He stinks and, after all, this is a brand-new car.”
James rode in the back and Em kept the windows down.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
James’s knife was missing.
“So what does that mean? Somebody stole your knife? Maybe you misplaced it, James.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“Maybe somebody stole it, but this one, the one from the trash, isn’t yours? Or is it?” I was trying to make some sense out of it.
“Should have carved my initials in the handle. This one, the one we found, I wish it was mine, but it’s not.”
“They look the same to me.”
“No nick in the blade. Mine had that tiny nick near the point.”
“Let me take it to Ted.” Em reached for the plastic-wrapped knife.
Ted again.
“He can at least check it for fingerprints.”
“See if you can get it back before tonight. I’ve got to have a knife. I can score some smaller knives, but I need the big one. I can’t cook without it.”
Em nodded. “But think about this, James. Someone who had access to this kitchen apparently stole two knives from your locker.”
“And?”
“And if you show up tonight using either of those knives, after they tossed this and possibly yours in the Dumpster, it’s going to tip them off that you are on to them.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not made of money, Emily. Just get it back, okay? To buy a new one would cost over one hundred dollars. And until we get paid for this gig, I don’t have ‘over’ one hundred dollars.”
Juan Castro didn’t show up for work, so Chef Marty told James to call me. I refused at first, but after several threats and James begging a great deal, I said yes to one more night as dishwasher.
This time I got fed. The meal is standard in upscale kitchens. It seems the cooks prepare a meal for the staff before the customers show up. It wasn’t the gourmet food that customers would be served, but it wasn’t half bad. According to Chef Marty it was a French beef stew with more vegetables than beef, but it was filling. And Bouvier showed up. After the last time, I hadn’t expected to be impressed, but having seen him half a dozen times on television, knowing his marketing influence and branding power, I have to admit I found him to live up to his hype. He seemed charged up, in broadcast form as he stood in front of the assembled kitchen staff. Smiling, his artificially whitened teeth glistening, he faced the staff.
He addressed them by saying, “You people—you are what makes this thing happen. It’s not just me, it’s you. Don’t forget that.”
I was reminded of Danny DeVito on steroids. He was short, somewhat rotund, with a fringe of hair around his ears. He bobbed and weaved as his hands did much of the talking. Wearing an apron that appeared to be somewhat soiled, he showed he was still a working man, yet he hadn’t cooked a thing. Either he didn’t wash his aprons, or he simply wanted people to assume that he was busy in the kitchen and had just grabbed a break.
“You do things that our customers can’t do. When I say to the TV audience, ‘But can you do this?’ it simply means that they probably can’t. But you, my loyal staff, you can do this. You are the magic. That’s exactly why our customers are here. Because when they go home, it turns out they can’t do what we do. In the privacy of their own home kitchens, they fall short. Whatever they try, it lacks a little flavor, it doesn’t have the same presentation, the portions aren’t perfect. They can’t do it, but you can. Our customers are here to experience the supernatural. They come here for the magic of Bouvier and L’Elfe. Don’t forget that.”
He paused, smiling, watching the reaction of the cooks and waitstaff.
“I’ve worked hard to bring this dream to life. You, my wonderful staff, you are the bridge between reality and dreams. Don’t forget that.”
He kept repeating that phrase, don’t forget that, as if we all had attention deficit disorder.
“Make it happen tonight. Make some magic, people. We’ve had a little setback, and I feel bad about that. I’m certain that the person responsible will be found soon, but in the meantime, there’s no reason for you to let down.”
Pointing at the assembled staff, he smiled, a mellow, fatherly kind of look on his face, his eyes twinkling.
“When I say, ‘can you do this’, your answer to me should be, ‘of course we can.’ Because you can.”
I found “a little setback” to be somewhat trivial when it came to the life of a young lady, but Chef Jean was on a mission. A mission to rally the troops. I forgave him the understatement.
“I want the food to be excellent, I want the service to be superb. I want people to walk out of here tonight saying, ‘I could never make a dish like they do.’ Don’t forget that. They should look at each other and say, ‘no, I couldn’t do this!’” Bouvier glanced at me. “From the dishwasher to Chef Marty. From our sous chef trainee, James,” I couldn’t believe he was addressing us individually, “to our head waiter Justine and our pastry chef Kelly. Astound our customers tonight. Can you do that? Can you? Make this an experience they won’t forget.”
There was a brief round of applause, and I saw genuine enthusiasm on the faces of his staff. I noticed a scowl on Mikey Pollerno’s face, but for the most part Bouvier’s speech was well received. T
hese people were working a celebrity kitchen, part of a team that was revered around the world.
I remembered James telling me that a handful of French chefs actually studied under Bouvier. He was an impressive little guy, and here he was, inspiring us, telling us to astound his customers with great food and great service.
For a brief moment, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. Astound our customers. It was easy to see why James was caught up in the moment. I wanted Jean Bouvier to be proud of my efforts.
That brief moment was very brief. I was a dishwasher, and nobody in that fancy dining room, with the tablecloths, the flowers, and the fine wines and food ever considered that someone was scraping the remains of their meals off of the expensive china in the bowels of this famous kitchen. But it was fun being on the inside. That didn’t often happen. It was exhilarating having a celebrity addressing me. Actually talking about me. Well, not by name, but—
“Eugene, James, could I see you for a moment.”
I froze. Chef Jean Bouvier had just singled us out. And I wasn’t sure that was a very good idea.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He motioned to us and we went down the hall. I glanced up as we walked by the walk-in and saw the second camera, directly pointing at the door. Just before we entered the employee locker room, he opened a door in the middle of the hallway and entered his cramped office. I would have thought that a celebrity chef would have a spacious office with expensive walnut paneling and a mahogany desk. We followed him in and he pushed the door shut.
“Damned handle is jammed on the inside here. Can’t lock it from the inside,” he said. “Need to call a locksmith.” He glared at it, as if a look would free it up.
“So, what do you have?” He sat down behind the banged-up steel desk. We stood in a room with no other chairs. One desk, one chair, a filing cabinet, and a three-foot-high red rolling tool cart with five drawers. A video monitor was mounted on the file cabinet, a stack of CDs sitting beside it.
James and I looked at each other. I spoke first. “We have a dishwasher who had a crush on Amanda. He’s not shown up for two nights.”
“What else?” Gone was the charm, the warmth. This was business. Cold, hard, ruthless.