Hot Stuff (4 page)

A commis is a chef in training. An expediter takes the order from the waitstaff, relays it to the different stations in the kitchen, sometimes puts the finishing garnish on the plate, and gets it back to the dining room. At least I think that's what these two people do.

I saw James's face light up as he sipped the coffee. “I think I've got it right, pardner. Let's see if I can remember this.”

“What?”

He closed his eyes, and as if reading from a book he said, “The sous is responsible for the kitchen when the chef's not around. Saucier, in charge of sauces. Very important. Chef de partie, demi chef de partie, both important. Commis? Commis, they're the cooks. Very important.”

“What? This is what you learned in culinary school? Something you had to memorize?”

“It's a movie quote, Skip. What did you think? We've watched it probably five times. You seriously can't remember?”

“We're trying to figure out who killed this girl and you want me to remember some movie quote that—”

“
Ratatouille
. You've got to remember that movie.”

The Disney cartoon from 2007. “You spent how many years studying cooking, and the best you can come up with is a quote from a rat-infested Disney movie?”

James couldn't remember what he had for breakfast this morning, but he could remember a movie quote from five or six, or twenty or thirty years ago.

“Not just any Disney movie, amigo. The best.”

Sophia Bouvier may have been right. James did lack maturity.

“What are we going to be doing? Let's say you tell me you think the dishwasher had it out for Amanda. Em and I run a check. We visit his home, the bar he frequents after work, we talk to his friends. That's what we're doing.”

“While I'm sweating my ass off in the hot, stuffy kitchen, doing everybody else's job under the guise of training for a position.”

“Three grand, James. Three grand per week.”

“Yeah.” He let out a long, slow breath. “All right, pardner. We'll take it. God knows we could use that kind of money.” My partner closed his eyes for a second, folding his hands, obviously
a little concerned about the position. Then, turning his head toward the counter, he made a connection.

A shy smile from the girl and a grin from James.

“Be right back.”

Walking up to the server, he talked in hushed tones. I turned and watched the traffic flow outside, South Beach vehicles with exotic emblems. Porsche, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce, and Bentley. I wondered what we were getting ourselves into. I was placing my best friend and roommate into a situation that could get him killed. What the hell, we'd done it before.

He walked back and I stood up.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Got her number, so we're good to go.”

Breakfast outdoors at South Beach's News Café was an experience. James, Em, and I, working on an expense account plus the three grand a week, dined on omelets with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and onions, a Quiche Lorraine, and a vegetable quiche.

“Bacon, cheese, onion, light cream—”

“James.” I nodded toward the sidewalk. A heavyset older couple walked by, the man in a Speedo bathing suit and his jiggling wife in a see-through cover-up. Nothing apparently underneath.

“I would use a little cayenne pepper and—”

“James, let us enjoy the food,” Emily said.

“You should know what you're eating, Em.”

“All I know is, I'm enjoying a free meal. Save the chef spiel for work, okay? Leave it alone.”

They fought like little kids.

“Check this out.” James reached down and picked up a plastic bag. Setting it on the table, he reached inside, pulling out a dark, polished wooden box. He opened it and held it up for us to see inside.

“A knife,” I said.

Removing the shiny knife, he carefully placed it in the center of the table.

“Not just a knife. A Wüsthof nine-inch chef's knife. Forged from a single piece of carbon steel that will cut through veggies and meat like butter.” He held it up, the sun glinting off the blade. “This was a gift from Michael Trump, head chef at Jack's Half Shell, when I graduated from culinary school. He'd had it for years, and, after I interned with him, he thought it was a fitting tribute to my culinary future.” Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled sadly. “I've only used it maybe five or six times, but still—”

Trump obviously pictured a brighter future for James Lessor. The truth was, my roommate hadn't used the Wüsthof knife in years.

I had to admit it was a piece of art. The flow of the design and the curve of the steel along with the dark, triple-riveted handle setting off the silvery blade made it look as if the knife should be framed and hanging on a wall like some medieval dueling weapon preserved for the ages.

“It's got this little nick in the tip, right here, but other than that, it's a piece of work.”

“You have to bring your own tools?” Em was intrigued as well.

“Any chef worth his weight has his own knife. Or knives. First thing Bouvier asked me. ‘What kind of knife do you have?' He seemed impressed when I told him it was a nine-inch Wüsthof Classic.”

“The guy doesn't really care what you do in his kitchen, but he's concerned about your tools?”

“I've got to look the part, Skip. A chef, a cook, needs his knives. I start with my chef's knife.”

He was right. Even if Bouvier wasn't offering him an actual kitchen position, he needed to look the part. James needed to do
everything possible to make his coworkers buy into his cover. It all started with his four years of college and a knife.

“Well, tonight's your first night,” I said. “You've got your cell phone and your knife and—”

“Chef says no cell phones.”

I swallowed a forkful of smoked salmon. “Screw Chef. If he wants results, we've got to have open communication, right? What if you need to contact us?”

“I explained that to him. Bouvier says I can take restroom breaks or sneak outside for a smoke and—”

“You quit smoking.”

“Oh,” James smiled, “you pay attention.” James had tried for years to kick the habit for good. Now he had an excuse to start his habit all over again. The kind of luck James always had.

“What if someone comes out and catches you talking to one of us and—”

“I'll buy a pack. I'll look legit. My guess is that anyone in that restaurant who ducks out for a smoke break also checks their messages. It's the perfect excuse to use the cell phone. As for the cigarettes, I can light them and look like I'm grabbing a smoke. I just won't inhale.” His smile was a dead giveaway.

“Right,” Em rolled her eyes. “But I'm sure you'd consider taking up smoking again if it was part of the job.”

“Anyway,” James took a bite of his toast, “there are no exceptions in his kitchen. What happens outside during my pee breaks, or my smoke breaks, no one is the wiser. I'll find a reason to get out so I can call you guys.”

A young man walked by on the sidewalk, sporting skin-tight lycra shorts and holding two leashes, black Doberman pinschers straining at the leather. I quickly looked back at Emily. Behind her a young lady in a micro bikini strutted across the street, her sculpted breasts bouncing with each step. South Beach.

“Guys,” James affected a somber look. “As much as I like the
idea of three thousand dollars a week, and as much as we could use the money, I don't like the idea of being in that kitchen any longer than I have to be.”

Em raised her pretty eyebrows. “James, I thought this would be your lifelong dream. Working in a celebrity kitchen.”

He cleared his throat. “My dream, Emily, would be to have my own kitchen. I'm not ready to work in a four-star restaurant.” James threw her a sincere gaze. “I can be an egotistical asshole sometimes, I am aware of that. But I am telling you, this shtick scares me.”

It wasn't like James to acknowledge any shortcomings.

“I wouldn't normally admit this to anyone, but I'm not ready for sous chef. As much as I've thought about being in this type of position, I never really visualized it. In less than,” he glanced at his cell phone, “six hours, I have to present myself to one of the finest restaurants on the East Coast. Let me tell you, friends, I am seriously not ready for this. I'm so sure they will find me out.”

Honesty, brutal, total honesty was not a quality of my friend. So either he was lying to us, or he was petrified and had to tell someone. I believe it was the latter.

“I am woefully unprepared. I have no idea what I'm getting into. And, I may be working with a murderer.”

“James,” I looked him square in the eyes, “if you want to back out, we both understand. I mean, the people who work in kitchens,” I hesitated, trying to find the right words, “they are a little strange. The pressure, the heat, the fast pace—”

“How the hell do you know all this, Skip? You've never been exposed to a commercial kitchen. I studied this for four years.” James raised his voice and I could tell I'd touched a nerve.

“Yeah, you're right. But I read Anthony Bourdain's
Kitchen Confidential
in one sitting. Pretty brutal.”

“Trust me,” he almost whispered, “that guy didn't get everything
right. It's not all yelling, swearing, sex in the walk-in, stealing food, and doing drugs.”

“It's not?”

“No. The guy didn't get it
all
right, okay? Apparently working in a celebrity kitchen is also about a chef's kid getting killed because of a coke deal. It's about kitchen help getting murdered in dark alleys. It's about a dominating wife who runs the show.” There was no smile. Just the cold, hard facts.

“Yeah, well, there's that too,” I said.

My friend stared out at the sidewalk as South Beach woke up to the sun and fun of a new day. Tourists and locals mingled in a dance unlike anywhere I'd ever been. Beautiful women, chiseled men, and so many dogs I lost count. I couldn't imagine living in this crazy section of South Florida.

“James, just go with the flow. We'll be right there if you need us.”

“I'm going to do it, Tonto, but I'm very apprehensive.”

“I think you made that abundantly clear.”

“Like Skip said, we'll be here. Whatever you need,” Em said, hesitating, “within reason.”

“You'll be on call.”

“We will,” I said.

I just had no idea how fast that call would come.

I drove him to work in the truck. It's a white Chevy box truck that barely runs, drinks oil like a bar lush drinks whiskey, and bounces over potholes like it has no shocks. Actually, the truck needs new shocks. Hell, it needs new brakes and new tires, but we can't afford everything necessary to make it a dependable means of transportation. What we needed was a new truck.

I diss his truck on a regular basis, but my rusted-out Taurus doesn't run at all, so we share the truck.

“How about we use some of the money we make for new shocks and to get you a new battery.”

He agreed.

“So far, the cops haven't admitted to any suspects,” James patted his shirt pocket, checking to make sure he'd brought his pack of Marlboros.

“No.” I recited the brief information we'd seen on TV. “Multiple knife wounds to the abdomen. No immediate person or persons of interest. Friends, relations, and coworkers being interviewed.”

The interviewer had been very interested in Em's relationship with Amanda Wright. He'd hung onto the fact that Em had
been a good friend, then they'd drifted apart, then she'd fixed James up with Amanda, and finally that we were dining at L'Elfe largely because Amanda was the sous chef.

“Did you ever argue with the victim?” he'd asked. “Did your relationship with Miss Wright go any further than just friends?”