Midnight Girls (23 page)

Herbie put his head round the door and said, ‘Hey, Mitch. Boss wants to see you.’

‘You mean Chef?’ Mitch looked round for Patrice but he was nowhere in sight. Herbie shook his head.

‘Nope. The boss. Mr Panciello. He’s out front with Chef.’ Herbie disappeared out of the kitchen.

Mitch wiped his hands on his apron. He had very rarely seen Mr Panciello up close. He knew that the owner often came in – a table was reserved for him every night and Mitch had seen him over in the shadows, with business associates or his wife and children, eating one of the special dishes he requested. It was a French brasserie but Mr Panciello liked Italian dishes and particularly pasta, so there was always some fresh linguine or new-made ravioli especially for him. Patrice often had meetings with Mr Panciello, to discuss menus, costs, staff and customers, and all the other minutiae of running a restaurant, and their relationship seemed cordial enough. Nevertheless, Mitch felt nervous. Why would Mr Panciello want to see him?

He made his way through the kitchen and out into the dining room. It had the curiously dead look it always had when there were no customers. There wasn’t a place in the world so achingly in need of people as an empty restaurant, Mitch always thought. The room seemed echoing and forlorn without them. In the far corner, Mr Panciello was sitting at his special table. Patrice was sitting opposite him, his chef’s hat laid respectfully in his lap. The two men were murmuring quietly to each other. Mr Panciello’s gaze flicked up and registered Mitch’s approach, and he said something to Patrice, who got up at once and turned on his heel to leave. He passed Mitch without meeting his eye or speaking, and hurried out to the kitchen.

What the fuck is this? he wondered, frowning. A small trail of nervousness crawled through his belly.

‘Mitch?’ Mr Panciello smiled at him. He had an unexpectedly smooth, deep voice. ‘Come sit down.’

Mitch approached and took Patrice’s empty seat. Mr Panciello was dressed in a dark, well-cut suit, with a scarlet-and-blue striped tie that looked as though it might be in the colours of some smart university or country club. His dark hair had receded, leaving a smooth pink dome to his head, and what was left was streaked with grey.

‘How are you?’ Mr Panciello asked, giving Mitch a warm look. He was tanned and his eyelids dropped down at the edges, lost in creases and wrinkles so that he looked like a tired but friendly old hound.

‘Fine, thank you, sir,’ Mitch said cautiously. He felt his knees begin to jiggle beneath the table. Out of the kitchen, he was suddenly seized by a violent desire for a smoke. It made him feel almost breathless and panicky, how much he wanted it.

‘Good, good.’ Mr Panciello clasped his hands together on the white linen table cloth and leaned towards Mitch. ‘So, how long you been here now?’ His accent was solid New York.

‘Ah, about a year, sir.’

‘You like it?’

‘Uh-huh. It’s good to work in a place with a reputation like this one. The last places I worked in all went bust. Couldn’t get the customers in.’ Mitch grinned. ‘But your restaurant, sir, isn’t like them. You got good people. Good food. A solid menu.’

‘Glad you approve.’ A small smile twitched about the other man’s lips. ‘You’re right, you aren’t going to see this place closing. That can’t happen. Tell me a bit about yourself, Mitch. Where you from?’

‘Small town in the West. Nowhere special. You know the kind of place – a thousand inhabitants, a school, a church
and
a diner, a row of shops you can put your arms round.’

‘And you wanted to get out, did you? Wanted to come to the big city.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Nothing to keep me there, sir. My parents and I don’t get along. They weren’t keen on me being a cook. They wanted me to go into the church – they’re crazy keen church goers, sir – maybe become a priest. But that life wasn’t for me, only they couldn’t see it. I got myself a Saturday job at the local diner, started flipping burgers and found out I liked it, and was good at it. I got myself interested in cooking and started reading about it, getting books out of the school library. When I left school, I knew college wasn’t for me. So I moved to the next biggest town and got myself a job at a bigger restaurant and off I went, moving along to something bigger each time until I got myself here.’

Mr Panciello nodded and seemed to be thinking hard. ‘Well, that’s an interesting story, Mitch. It makes a lot of sense to me, and I admire your determination and your drive. You’re gonna make something of yourself, I’m sure of that. But, you see, there’s a problem.’

The nervousness, which had been settling down, flared back into life in Mitch’s belly. ‘What’s that, sir? You unhappy with my work?’

‘Not with your cooking. I know what you can do. Patrice has told me how much you’ve improved lately. Your steaks are making this place famous. I value that. But there is something going on that I will not tolerate. I
cannot
tolerate.’ Mr Panciello fixed him with a stern gaze, his previously warm brown eyes turning flinty. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Mitch?’

He stared back. ‘No, sir,’ he said slowly, trying to sound honest.

‘Hmmm.’ Mr Panciello leant back in his chair and stared
up
at the ceiling. ‘OK. Let me tell you something you might not be aware of, young man. There are bad people in the world – very bad people. People who’d do anything to make money. Some of those people are just low-down criminals. Scum. The kind who mug old ladies and steal their purses for a couple of dollars. I don’t have any time for those people and I’m sure you don’t either. But there are other people who take a more sophisticated approach to breaking the law. You may have noticed that the restaurant world is full of these people.’

Mitch blinked at him, unsure if he was supposed to reply or not.

‘For some reason, this business attracts criminals. Perhaps lawbreakers like a good party, because they sure seem to get themselves deep into anything to do with people having fun: restaurants, films, bars, clubs … you name it, they’re swarming round it. Now, anytime your average joe opens a restaurant, he’ll find that before too long he’ll have some unexpected visitors.

‘Some very polite guys will turn up and kindly explain to him that they control things in his area, and shed some light on how things are. First, they’ll be supplying protection to his outfit, and he’ll need to pay a little something for that. If he protests that he doesn’t need protection, they’ll make him see very clearly that he does. They’ll also explain that one of their aunties, a very sweet old lady, runs an excellent laundry service and they’d greatly appreciate if Joe could send all his table linen and napkins there, for a very good rate, a rate for friends, understand? And one of their brothers has a fish business, and whaddya know, he sells the best fish in the city, for the best prices! So it will make sense for everyone if Joe uses this guy for all his fish. Why not? Let’s keep our business between friends, huh?

‘And so it goes on. Your meat, your vegetables, your salads, even the fucking floor cleaner. Someone has a cousin or a sister’s husband or someone else who supplies this shit, and it’s in Joe’s best interests to buy it. Fuck, it’s in everyone’s interests!’ Mr Panciello barked out a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Do you see what I’m saying, Mitch?’

He nodded slowly.

‘Now, this is the important part.’ The restaurant owner leant in towards him again, clasping his hands and fixing him with an earnest stare. ‘You ever seen any of those guys round here?’

Mitch shook his head. Actually, now he came to think of it, that was unusual. In previous restaurants he’d worked in, there had been unshakable relationships such as his boss had just described: suppliers who were never fired despite their poor produce, for example. And he distinctly remembered visits from heavies in suits that were almost comically Mafioso in style, with pinstripes and padded shoulders. What did it matter to a lowly commis-chef who spent all day peeling shallots, blanching tomatoes and chopping parsley? But all that was notable for its absence in this brasserie.

‘Ever wonder why that was, Mitch?’ Panciello said in a low voice.

He caught the hint of menace and felt cold. He shook his head again, still not daring to speak.

‘Well, maybe you should have, my friend. Maybe you should have.’ Panciello made an almost imperceptible gesture with his head and suddenly two burly men, one in dark glasses, the other with a face thick with stubble, appeared as if materialising from the shadows. ‘It’s come to my attention that you are stealing from me. Please don’t insult us both by denying it. It’s bad enough that you attempted to pretend otherwise earlier, but I’m prepared to
overlook
that for the moment. The fact is, you are the deputy head chef here. That’s a position of trust. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mitch said, trying to control his breathing. He could feel his heart beginning to race. He was sure that things were about to turn very bad indeed. Panciello knew everything … and who were these thugs who’d just appeared from nowhere?

‘You are abusing that trust,’ continued Panciello. ‘You are over-ordering supplies and making money for yourself by selling on, sometimes to rival establishments. I don’t need to tell you what kind of a view I take of that. Now – are you wondering how I know about this?’

Mitch could feel beads of sweat breaking out across his nose and forehead. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment.

‘The rival establishments have told me. They’ve told me because they are under contract to use suppliers designated only by me and my business associates.’ Panciello smiled. ‘Yes, I’m afraid
I
am that somewhat persistent visitor who insists on his friends making use of his services. And that is why my own establishment is remarkably free from those very gentlemen. In short, I am in charge of all the money making in this entire district.

‘Now you will probably be feeling the soft warm trail of shit as it drips down your leg while you realise the extent of your error. You have made the mistake of fucking over the man who excels in fucking over, who specialises in it. Who
owns
fucking over.’ Panciello’s eyes, hard as two pebbles, glinted with something like amusement. ‘I feel kinda sorry for you, kid. But you must see that there have to be consequences to your actions. Punishment. Ever heard of the French Foreign Legion?’

Mitch shook his head, confused by the sudden change of direction. ‘No … no, sir.’

‘They are one hard-assed outfit. They train the best, the toughest, soldiers in the world. You know what they used to do to deserters? It was so bad that when men were caught after deserting, they’d beg to have a bullet through their heads because it was preferable to what they’d have to go through. And they all had to go through it, in front of their comrades – it was the only way of showing the others what would happen if they tried the same trick. It made sure that anarchy was kept in check. Think about it. What if every soldier decided to mutiny, to rise up and destroy the few men who were ordering them about? They’d be an unstoppable force, they’d slaughter everything in their path, all control would be lost. The guys in charge cannot allow that to happen, can they? If one little piece of scum is allowed to get away with it, it would start a rush. So you’ll see, I’m sure, why I cannot allow you to get away with stealing from me.’

Panciello spread his hands, as though seeking Mitch’s sympathy. ‘It could ruin my entire operation. One little fucking chef from Nowheresville fleeces Panciello’s operation and suffers no consequences?’ He shook his head. ‘Nuh-uh. Can’t happen. In a moment, I’m going to ask my pals here to take you outside and explain to you the extent of your mistake, but before that I have a word of advice for you, because I like you, Mitch. You won’t believe me, but I really do, and it saddens me that you’re not going to be around here any more.’

Panciello stared at him for a moment, raking his face with his hard gaze. ‘Get off that shit you’re smoking. Make something of yourself. Fuck making shitty little dollars on a crate of fucking lemons. Think big. Be someone. Understand? Be an owner. That’s the only way not to get fucked. Stamp on everyone else before they stamp on you. Because the truth is, everyone’s out to screw everyone else. Have I made myself clear, kid?’

Mitch nodded, feeling icy cold.
Are they gonna kill me? For the sake of some fucking food? Oh, man … Oh, man, I need a smoke like I’ve never fucking needed it before
…

Panciello stood up and offered his hand to Mitch, who took it, and they shook hands solemnly. ‘Good luck, young man.’

Mitch watched him as the older man buttoned his suit jacket, gave a small nod to the burly men who stood silently on each side of Mitch’s chair, and made to leave.

‘Please, Mr Panciello …’ His voice came out high and with a trembling edge, although he tried to conceal his fear. ‘I apologise, most sincerely, I …’

The other man didn’t turn round. ‘Goodbye, Mitch. Take it like a man, huh?’ And he was gone.

Mitch felt his stomach turn to water as two big meaty fists landed on him, one on each shoulder.
Ah, fuck!
he thought, as the nausea of fear swamped him.
Shit, man! What the fuck are they going to do to me?

Chapter 20

Oxford 2003

THE PROBLEM WITH
having fun
, Allegra decided,
is that it wears itself out
.

The thing that was the most enjoyable you could possibly imagine one day grew wearisome the next and needed something extra to enliven it. She could quite see how the rich needed more and more extravagance to tickle their jaded palates. If caviar and champagne became commonplace and mundane, then how about making fountains flow with the champagne and having the caviar served on solid gold platters mounted on the backs of baby elephants?

And if taking drugs and getting drunk or high meant that a party was more enjoyable, then how could a party be fun without those things? And surely, by extension, the more drink and drugs there were on offer, the more fun the party would be.