Monster's Chef (15 page)

Maybe he worried that I wouldn't be a team player, and needed insurance that if I did know something I wouldn't be able to speak to it with certainty.

I showered and waited on the porch with a tall glass of ice water, debating whether I should tell the sheriff of my suspicions, though I knew I wouldn't. Then I saw the black-and-white roll up the gravel road. Sheriff Graves wasn't a personable man. When I first came to Santa Ynez, I had to report to the station to register as a parolee. I was surprised to be interviewed by the top lawman in town. And he treated me with contempt, barely speaking to me. I wondered if he disliked me for being a New Yorker. When he asked me to confirm where I had lived and worked, I said New York, and he repeated the word as though New York had syphilis.

Graves walked over to me without looking up, until I thought he might step on my toes.

I stood to greet him, but he sat down next to me.

“Listen, Gibson, I should take you down to the station and get another statement, but I'm short-handed with all these interviews we got to do and can't spare somebody to drive you back.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking that was fine with me.

“I got a question for you, and I want you to take your time in answering.”

“Sure.”

His blue eyes were shot through with red. Must not have slept much in days.

“I hope you know what a piece of flying shit this has turned out to be. I'm so sick of these fucking reporters, goddamn cockroaches. And the lawyers are worse than the reporters. Surprised you're willing to talk. His lawyers have everybody clammed up.”

I shrugged. “I don't mind talking, but I don't have much to say.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed.

“Let me ask the questions and I'll worry about how much you know.”

“I'm fine with that.”

Graves stood up and nodded to a van parked by the mansion.

“See that goddamn van? Monster's people are watching. Come on.”

He gestured for me to follow him, and we stepped behind the bungalow, which faced open country.

“Those Security yahoos are using a directional mic to listen to us whenever they get the chance. I'm telling you this though I can't prove it, but that's okay. I've complained enough, to the point where I think I'm talking to myself when I talk to them. They deny it all, but I know they hear me.”

“So what do you want from me?” I asked.

“Well, hear this, you know you're being set up.”

“I am?”

“Sure. Why do you think they're letting you talk to me? They have all of their employees with a lawyer right at their shoulder, making sure everything goes according to plan.”

“What plan?”

“For you and the Mexican to be the fall guys, the patsies.”

“That's not going to happen. I never trusted Monster.”

“That's good because you shouldn't. You should be talking to your lawyer. Off the record, like I've said, you've already been fingered.”

“Fingered me? How?”

“How long have you been collecting child porn?”

“I've never collected child porn! I've never seen any child porn,” I said, sputtering with anger.

“We searched your bungalow,” Graves said, without looking at me.

“How can you do that without my permission or a court order?”

Graves smirked.

“Mr. Stiles gave permission. It is his property.”

“But . . .”

He interrupted me with a wave of his hand.

“We didn't find anything, but someone left an anonymous message on my voice mail about you and your relationship to Manuel Flores, that you both are pedophiles.”

“Yeah, that's a crock. I don't have any interest in children. I don't even want children of my own. That's just a load of shit for someone to say that about me.”

The sheriff looked at me for a long minute. “Maybe I believe you. What about this Manuel Flores? No history of molestation and then we find a mother lode of child porn in his work area. It's kind of pathetic. You'd think they'd do a better job of going about this setup.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“I want you to report to me whatever you see Monster doing.”

I nodded, but I wasn't at all sure I wanted to get into it at that level. I wasn't constitutionally suited to narc on anyone.

“I don't trust Monster, but I don't want to get into something I can't handle.”

“Suit yourself. Just remember I'm extending an olive branch to you because I believe you're innocent and getting reamed. Now, I don't want to be left hanging, like those fucking idiot police in that Ramsey case. I want this to end and the media gone.”

“Tell you the truth, working here is like being in a strange dream. Most of the time I don't know what the hell is going on moment from moment. It's a constant state of confusion. I think there's something in the air, in the water.”

Sheriff Graves laughed.

“Yeah, well, I can't say I like coming out here. First of all, no one says anything without a lawyer. I know Monster has them sign their lives away if they want to work for him. It's useless trying to get anyone to tell the truth. I tried to follow up on allegations of drug use, but Monster's money carries a lot of weight. I can't fight that, and I can't get state money to fund investigations. After a while you get tired of beating your head against a wall, and you just let it go. Some people shouldn't be parents, they should have to apply for a license to be parents, but this is different. A child died and someone is going to pay for that!”

Sheriff Graves slapped the wall with such force I thought he might have broken his hand. He rubbed his palm and stared at me.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, right now. Just keep your eyes open. They think we'll go after you because Manuel disappeared.”

“Manuel disappeared?”

Graves nodded. “We brought him in for questioning. He had some interesting things to say, then we got that tip about you. I didn't bring you in because it seemed too convenient. I mean, you don't have a history of child abuse; you had a drug problem that you're being tested for. You have a parole officer and you're checking in. It didn't add up to me. Manuel disappeared after the investigation turned in your direction.”

“I had nothing to do with this, and I'm sure Manuel didn't have anything to do with this.”

“How well did you know him?” Graves asked.

I shrugged. “Not well at all.”

I didn't want to look him in his eyes because I was afraid I might say what I really felt.

“What do you think happened to Manuel?” I asked.

“From what I hear he went back to Mexico.”

“Why would he run?”

“He had some things in his background,” Sheriff Graves said.

“Like what?”

“I can't go into that, but I have my doubts that he had anything to do with the kid's death.”

Hearing that he didn't suspect Manny was a tremendous relief.

“Tell me something before I go. What's it like in there? I only saw a few rooms,” he said, pointing to the mansion.

“It's huge, a maze. I couldn't find my way around inside. I wanted string to unwind behind me.”

“Did you see many children in there? He's been stonewalling about that.”

Images of boys dancing in Monster's private
Nutcracker
flashed in my mind.

“I saw some, but can't say for sure. My memory is hazy. But I don't get these parents.”

Sheriff Graves sighed. “You know the answer, it's money, just money.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“He throws it around, and people are willing to look the other way, even when it comes to their own kids.”

“It's amazing someone hasn't shot him.”

“Okay, I don't want you shooting anybody. Don't think of doing something involving guns. All you need to do is let me know what's going on. That's it! I don't want you doing anything stupid, playing hero,” he said, with a menacing squint. “You understand what I'm saying?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Don't mean to bust your balls on this, but if you get to thinking too hard about Monster, it ain't good. Let me tell you I've had a few daydreams of putting it to him. I mean, the man's a child-molesting black man who bleaches his skin white, and folks accept it because he pays the taxes around here.”

“Yeah,” I said, glad that Sheriff Graves wasn't too swift on the uptake and hadn't noticed my bleached blackness.

Glancing about, as though he might be spied on, he handed me a pager.

“If you get into serious trouble, use this. Press the orange button and I'll get out here fast as hell.”

“You think I'll need it? Monster is going to have me killed or something?”

Sheriff Graves smirked.

“I don't know what that man might be capable of.”

I nodded, and he walked back to the patrol car. When he was gone, I looked over the pager; the little nondescript box had a bad feeling to it. If I ever had to push the button, I wondered what kind of nightmare I'd be in.

 

KUMQUAT AND HABANERO CHILE JAM

MAKES 1
½
CUPS

   
1 large blood orange

   
1 cup sugar

   
½
cup seeded, sliced kumquats

   
1 habanero pepper, seeded and julienned

   
2 tablespoons orange juice (freshly squeezed)

Using a peeler, remove the orange rind and reserve it; then cut off and discard the white pith underneath. Set the orange aside.

Put the rind in a medium saucepan and add cold water to cover it by 1 inch. Bring to a boil; drain. Repeat 2 more times. Let the rind cool slightly.

Finely chop the rind and the reserved orange; put in a medium saucepan and add the sugar, kumquats, habanero, and 2 cups water. Bring to a boil; reduce the heat; and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the water has evaporated, 35 to 45 minutes. Let cool; then mix in orange juice.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I FIRST SAW THE DOG FROM A DISTANCE
, posing on a rise, and thought it was a statue of heroic proportions that Monster had installed earlier that day and that I had only just noticed. I stepped off of the porch into darkness instead of perpetual daylight. The security lights that made Monster's Lair bright as Yankee Stadium were dimmed for some reason. No, the only illumination was the moon, hanging low like a Chinese lantern, bathing the grounds in a bluish glow. I wanted to see, to get a better look at this dog. I walked along the broad pebble path that I knew well, but I almost fell when I saw the huge beast of a dog on the hill before the expanse of lawn in front of the mansion.

The dog tossed its head back and howled, deep and urgent. Then it focused its attention in my direction. My curiosity fled as quickly as I tried to do, running hard to the bungalow. I didn't hear the sound of a massive dog closing on me, but I ran, ran as hard as my lungs could stand, and raced up the steps of the porch and managed to get the door open and my ass inside.

I flung a chair against the door, but I was sure the dog could burst through if it wanted to. I heard nothing and sighed. Whatever poisonous vibe resonated at Monster's Lair, its volume had been ratcheted up.

THE NEXT MORNING
I heard a car drive up and the sounds of two people approaching the door of the bungalow, but before they knocked or I got out of bed, the door flew open. The morning light made me squint, but I still could see Thug's huge arm sweep Monster into the room. I sat up to greet them and find out what kind of trouble I was in.

Monster smiled and waved for Thug to leave. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing black silk pajamas, sunglasses, and a bright-green fedora. He crossed his hands and waited as though he expected me to ask a question.

I didn't say a thing.

“Well, how did your conversation go with Sheriff Graves?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

“We talked. He wanted to know what I knew about what goes on here. I don't know what goes on here so I didn't have much to say.”

“Did he ask you anything specifically, anything 'bout the boy?”

“You mean the dead boy?” I said, and watched Monster flinch.

“Yes, that's exactly who I mean,” he said, just as softly.

“He asked me about him. I said I never saw the boy before and didn't know how he died, though I suspected he overdosed.”

Monster's mouth fell open.

“You told him that?”

“Yes, I did. Anybody who saw that body would have known that the boy had overdosed. That might not have killed him, the overdose, maybe he suffocated somehow. Who knows? I'm not a coroner.”

Monster shuddered, and his placid expression gave way to grief. It took a minute for him to compose himself.

“Listen, other than that, I need to discuss another matter with you. I'm not sure how you'll feel about this, but I think it would be good for you, for me . . . and Rita.”

“What?” I said, probably too quickly.

Monster straightened his pajama top, ran his hand through his mop of hair (he had an exceptional weave), and focused his concealed gaze onto me.

“Earlier I talked to you about coming on board with me, in a different capacity.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, this is it. What I need you to do. I want you as a consultant.”

“As a consultant? The only thing I know is food, that's my business.”

“I need your advice about Rita. She's not doing well.”

“I don't know. I think I should find work in my area of expertise.”

Monster stood up and reached into a pajama pocket and came out with a checkbook. He started to scribble in such a dramatic, theatrical fashion I thought it would be illegible, but when he handed the check to me, it was very clear. A check for fifty thousand dollars.