by Edward Lee
“Don’t worry about it,” Tate repeated after a pause. “Go back to the dungeon and haunt your own office. You let me worry about Kirby.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
Brice left. Tate couldn’t figure it. Maybe the kid was exaggerating…
Tate thumbed through his Rolodex, to the Ks. kirby, paul, west wind apartments. He dialed the number and waited.
Six rings, then: “Hello?”
“Kirby, this is Tate. One of my people says you’re lollygagging on the singles piece. Is—”
“Who?” Kirby’s voice drifted. “Who is this?”
Tate ground his teeth. “Tate, you know? Harold Tate? Editor and chief of the City Fucking Sun? The guy who just paid you three bills on a series for the Weekender—”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” Kirby sounded drained, barely coherent. A pause lapsed across the line. “Don’t worry, it’ll be in.”
“Well it goddamn better be, son, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you sound like shit. You—"
Click.
The line went dead.
“How do you like that son of a bitch,” Tate muttered to himself, and hung up. Fucking writers, he thought. They’re all a bunch of fucking weirdos.
— | — | —
CHAPTER EIGHT
“This is unbelievable, Vera,” Dan B. enthused.
Vera strolled down the shining hot line, gazing. The kitchen was huge, and it had been outfitted to the max. Groen industrial ovens and braisers, additional deck ovens, and twin South Bend ranges with ten burners each. And behind the line: Vulcan friers, Blodgett roasters, and Cleveland/ALCO professional steamers.
Dan B. looked dismayed. “And it’s all brand-spanking-new. Feldspar could’ve saved himself forty or fifty percent buying used or rebuilt, but he didn’t.”
“I don’t think that’s Feldspar’s style,” Vera acknowledged. “He’s not interested in cutting corners.”
The cold line, too, was replete with the same: brand-new Bloomfield salad and soup stations, three Univex mixers, and Groen speed-drives, plus an array of shredders, slicers, graters, and grinders. The entire kitchen glimmered in stainless steel newness.
“Every chef’s dream, right?” Vera suggested.
“You ain’t kidding.” Dan B. walked, nearly in a daze, behind the lines, glancing astonished at an entire wall of Dexter/Russell cutlery, Wearever pots and pans, and Wollrath prep gear. “Service bar’s the same way,” Dan B. went on. “Donna’s in there having a baby rhino. And Lee…”
“Holy shit!” the voice exclaimed around the line.
Lee was running around like a kid under a Christmas tree. His chubby moon face bloomed in delight with each of his shocked glances to and fro. Then his belly jiggled when he stopped before a mammoth Hobart chain-washer, which could crank three hundred sixty racks per hour. Lee’s eyes widened in something like veneration. “It’s…it’s beautiful,” he stammered.
“Look at that,” Dan B. laughed. “He’s getting hard. It’s not the Hustler Honey of the Month, it’s just a dishwasher.”
“No, no, it’s more than that.” Lee grinned at Dan B. “It’s the best dishwasher in the world, and it’s even more beautiful than…your mom.”
Dan B. promptly gave Lee the finger. But Lee was right; the great machine was one of the best dishwashers in the world, and so was the three-stage glasswasher behind it. Vera realized that just the equipment in this kitchen probably cost upwards of half a million.
“Let’s not embarrass him,” Dan B. suggested. “Lee wants to make love to the dishwasher.” He took Vera by the arm, getting serious. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
Vera followed him to the end of the line, past a pair of five-hundred-gallon lobster tanks and customized Nor-Lake walk-ins.
“What’s wrong?” Vera asked. “Aren’t you happy about all of this?”
“Sure. But there’s something…I don’t know. Something’s not right.”
“Like what?”
“Like that Hobart machine, for one,” Dan B. said. “That’s a fifteen-thousand-dollar rig, it’s something you use for a banquet house or a mess hall. You don’t need a machine that elaborate for a country restaurant. And the same goes for all of this stuff—sure, it’s all great stuff, but it’s overkill. Feldspar’s got to be out of his mind dropping this much cash for a restaurant in a questionable location.”
Why are men always so skeptical? Vera wondered. “Don’t complain. If we work our tails off, and get in some good advertising, we could fill this place every night.”
“Come on, Vera. That’s wishful thinking. You and I both know that the chances for any new restaurant, anywhere, are less than fifty-fifty.”
“That’s why Feldspar’s going full-tilt, to up the chances.”
“Maybe,” Dan B. conceded. “But take a look at this.”
He led her next to a stainless steel door at the back of the kitchen. He pulled it open. Vera stared in.
“Can you believe this?” Dan B. inquired.
Vera shrugged. Okay, maybe Feldspar was going a little crazy with the money. What she was looking at, past the door, was another kitchen, nearly identical to theirs.
“A second kitchen just for room service?” Dan B. questioned. “Feldspar thinks business is going to be so great that he needs a separate kitchen just for the hotel orders? It’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not.”
Vera and Dan B. turned at the remark.
A young man stood immediately to their rear: tall, trim, wavy longish light-brown hair. Vera found him instantly attractive in a lackadaisical sort of way. He wore tight, faded jeans, a white kitchen tunic halfway unbuttoned, and old clunky line boots. He smiled, almost cockily, and extended his hand to Vera.
“You’re Ms. Abbot, right?”
“Vera,” she said.
“I’m Kyle, the room-service manager. And you’re…Don?”
“Dan B.,” Dan B. corrected, and shook hands. “The chef.”
“I heard what you were saying just now,” Kyle went on, “and I can understand where you’re coming from. I felt the same way when Mr. Feldspar first took me on. But I can tell you, Magwyth Enterprises has inns just like this all over the place, and not one of them has lost money yet. In fact they’ve all jumped into the black right off. So don’t worry about the location, or the fact that Mr. Feldspar’s spent so much money up front. The guy knows what he’s doing.”
“We didn’t mean to imply that he didn’t,” Vera hastened to say. First day on the job she didn’t need this guy running to Feldspar with negative implications. Immediately she viewed Kyle as her personal competition: room service would have an instant edge in gross receipts. Make friends with him fast, she warned herself. She’d been in the business too long to play hoity-toity.
“And I can tell you something else,” Kyle added, and flipped a lock of hair back off his brow. “You do good work for Mr. Feldspar and the sky’s the limit. But you have to prove yourself first. You have to show him what you’re made of.”
Vera repressed a sarcastic face. Kyle was showing his true colors right off the bat. It was the same as him saying: I’m the one to beat around here, and I’m not going to give you an inch of slack. “We appreciate the input, Kyle,” Vera eventually said.
Kyle glanced to Dan B., nodding. “I hear you’re pretty good behind the line. I’m looking forward to trying out some of your grub.”
“My ‘grub’ will knock your socks off,” Dan B. promised.
“Me, I do all the cooking for room service. I always have a standing bet with the restaurant chef, quarterly evaluation. Whoever comes out on top takes a C-note from the loser. Interested?”
“Sure,” Dan B. said. “I’ll take your money, no problem.”
Kyle laughed. “Okay, man, you’re on. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Mr. Feldspar wants me to show you to your rooms whenever you all are ready. I’ll be over here in my gig.”
“Thanks, Kyle,” Vera said.
“See you all later.”
Kyle went into the room-service kitchen and closed the door behind him.
“What an asshole,” Dan B. concluded at once.
“Yeah, but at least he’s a good-natured asshole,” Vera said.
“And I didn’t like the way he was scoping your rib-melons.”
Vera squinted at him. “Whating my whats?”
“The way he was looking at your t-…your breasts.”
Vera nearly blushed. “He was not—”
“Of course he was, Vera. Christ, I thought the guy’s eyeballs were gonna pop out and land in your blouse. Talk about low-class. And how do you like that shit he was spouting about a quarterly evaluation? That snide punk probably can’t even cook microwave tater-tots. I’ll bet he thinks mahi-mahi is an island in Hawaii. If I ever lose a cook-off to him I’ll turn in my gear and jack fries at Hardee’s for the rest of my life. The punk.”
Chef rivalry, Vera realized. It was worse than the Redskins and the Cowboys. “Don’t get your dander up,” she advised. “Try and get along with him for now; we don’t need any personality conflicts before we even open.”
“And I’ll tell you something else.” Dan B. lowered his voice, as if Kyle might hear him through the steel doors. “Me and Lee saw a couple of really freaky types wandering around the place earlier. Maids or something. Looked to us like they were stoned on ’ludes. We tried talking to them, but they just walked away.”
“Yeah,” Vera acknowledged. She remembered the odd woman she’d seen pushing the cart of vases back in the dining room. She hadn’t spoken a word. “So what?” she allayed. “What do we care about the maintenance staff? They’re probably people Feldspar grabbed from some other inns, foreigners probably. They don’t talk to us because they probably can’t even speak English. Ten to one a lot of them don’t have green cards, so don’t make a stink about it. If Feldspar wants to run illegal labor in the background, that’s his business.”
“Really ugly too,” Dan B. articulated. “These two chicks looked like cave women in maid uniforms.”
“Be nice,” Vera scolded. “I don’t know which one of you is more sexist and insolent, you or Lee.”
“Me,” Dan B. asserted.
“You’re probably right. I’m going to check out my room now, and see what else this Kyle character has to say. Meantime, I want you, Donna, and Lee to go over every single piece of equipment in the kitchen. Make sure everything’s hooked up and wired properly, and keep a list of anything that doesn’t work. Also check out the dry stocks, see what Feldspar’s already got. We don’t want to find out on opening night that we don’t have any salt.”
“Got’cha.”
Dan B. went back down the line. Vera opened the big room service door and found Kyle marking things off on a clipboard. He looked phony, like an act. Vera had the notion that he’d been waiting for her all along, and wanted to appear busy when she came through.
“I’m pretty much done for now,” she announced. “Can you show me my room?”
“I’d be happy to.” Kyle put down the clipboard and grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I’m really excited. We’re gonna crank in some business. Did Mr. Feldspar tell you? The Inn’s already got its first four weekends booked in advance.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Hundred percent occupancy. All ninety rooms.”
Vera doubted this. “He told me there were a hundred rooms.”
“Total to let, sure. The other ten are for the local room reservations, the ones on the second floor. Those are the ones you’re in charge of. Didn’t Mr. Feldspar tell you?”
“He told me,” Vera answered. You run ninety rooms and I run ten, but I’ve still got the restaurant. This was getting absurdly complicated. If Kyle was the room service manager, why shouldn’t he be in charge of all the rooms? “How many of my rooms are booked in advance?”
“None,” Kyle said.
Vera frowned.
She followed him to the opposite end of the RS kitchen. It infuriated her: if anything, Kyle’s kitchen was even more elaborate than hers, with more walk-ins and equipment. She stopped cold at the next sight. “Hey,” she said. “How come you’ve got four lobster tanks and I’ve only got two?’’
Kyle held back a laugh. “Look, Ms. Abbot—Vera— don’t get hot under the collar. Just because I have a bigger facility than you doesn’t mean that Mr. Feldspar thinks I’m any better than you. It’s business.”
“Business?” Vera objected. “What’s business got to do with you having two more lobster tanks than me?’’
Now Kyle did laugh, openly. “I don’t believe it. We’re having an argument over lobster tanks…
“And you’ve got more ranges, more ovens more convection steamers, more—”
“Stop and think a minute at what you’re saying. You run the restaurant, I run room service. I’ve got ninety rooms to handle, all you’ve got to worry about are the separate dinner orders.”
“Oh, and that instantly means you’re going to be doing more business than me?”
“Of course it does.”
“Back in the city I used to run a hundred and fifty dinners a night—that’s a lot more than ninety.”
“No it isn’t, not really. I’ve got ninety rooms, sure, but the average room books two people, and that’s three meals a day, not just one.”
Vera paused. He had a point… sort of. Perhaps she was letting a petty jealousy cloud her ability to see facts. “Well,” she attempted, “some of those people will be coming in to The Carriage House to eat.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Kyle baldly told her. “Mr. Feldspar figures that most of your business will be from the locals.”
“Is that so?” she huffed.
“Like it or not, the majority of The Inn’s business will be from wealthy out-of-towners, a select clientele. That’s why he needs me running the RS.”
“Oh? And why is that? You’re saying that my people aren’t good enough to serve your ‘select clientele’?”
“Hey, you said it, I didn’t. I’m more experienced in this gig. I’m sure your man over there is a great chef, but there’s a difference between a great chef and a great room-service chef. It’s a different job.”
All right, all right, Vera tried to settle herself down. She was falling right into Kyle’s trap, fighting already for higher ground—and losing. “I see what you mean.”
“We’re a team, Ms. Abbot—Vera.” His grin remained subtly sly. “Let’s be friends. I’m not out to compete with you.”
Bullshit, she thought for sure. She’d run into plenty of Kyles in her career, people who come on as nice guys, yet they’re stabbing you in the back whenever they get the chance. Everything Kyle said made objective sense; nevertheless, she didn’t trust him for a minute.
At least he’s cute, she thought next. A moment later, though, when she considered the thought, she felt shocked. Vera was not a libidinous woman. Her sex life with Paul had been good, but that was over now. It didn’t seem part of her character to suddenly acknowledge her attraction, however remote, to some kid she’d met fifteen minutes ago.
Be a good girl, Vera. Forget about this guy’s tight ass and start acting like an adult.
“Come on,” he prodded. “You’re gonna love it. Mr. Feldspar says you have your choice of suites.”
Nearing the end of the RS line, they passed two elevators, rs staff only, one read, and room service delivery read the other. But suddenly he was taking her through a door which opened up behind the reception desk in the atrium, between the twin winding stairwells.
“I still can’t believe how beautiful the atrium is,” she commented. Once again, her gaze strayed out over the array of plush carpet and furniture, and the gorgeous artwork, statues, and flower arrangements. Kyle, however, seemed to take it all for granted, turning up the left stairs without a second glance.
“Let me grab my bags,” Vera said. “I didn�
�t bring much in the way of personal effects.”
“Forget it.” Kyle waved her up. “I’ll have the dolts bring it up later.”
“The what?”
“The dolts, you know. The housekeeping staff,” Kyle designated. “That’s what we call them. They’re good workers but not much in the smarts department.’’
Vera’s lip pursed. Dolts, she thought. “I don’t know what school of management you come from, Kyle, but tagging your manual labor with derogatory nicknames doesn’t exactly do wonders for employee morale.”
“Jesus, you’re touchy. I hate to think what kind of nicknames they have for us.”
Vera grabbed two of her suitcases, which the movers had left in the foyer. “At least let me take them,” Kyle insisted.
“I can handle it,” Vera replied.
Kyle grinned. “You’re pissed off, aren’t you?”
“No, Kyle, I’m not pissed off. I just think you’ve got a lot to learn about dealing with people.”
Kyle laughed. “Hey, I’m a nice guy—I swear. I’ll bet my next check you’ll be calling them dolts a week from now. They’re all immigrants from eastern Europe or something. Most of them can’t understand a word you say.”
“Oh, so that means they’re stupid? That means they’re dolts?”
“All right already, I’m sorry. Boy, you and me really are starting off on the wrong foot.”
Vera sighed, following him up the stairs. “Do they have green cards?”
Now it was Kyle’s lips that pursed. “That’s the wrong kind of question to ask around here. Mr. Feldspar got them from one of the other inns.”
“He’s got inns in eastern Europe?”
“Sure. Eastern Europe’s a boomtown now, are you kidding? Since the cold war ended, all kinds of U.S. investors are setting up shop over there. We’ve even got an inn in Russia.”
“And it’s making money?”
“Hand over fist.”
Vera contemplated this as she stepped onto the landing. She’d read that the Radisson and some other major hotel chains were opening in eastern Europe, but they were for travelers and businessmen. But what kind of clientele could Feldspar possibly have attracted to Russia? She couldn’t imagine such a business risk.