Slow Burn (4 page)

"Mr. Reese
has scheduled a press conference for ten o'clock Monday morning, at which he
promises, for the first time, to address the issue to conclusion."

"You said
that was their first conflict. I take it there've been others?"

"A list
far too voluminous for repetition," Miles replied. "Ms. Meyerson has
recently accused Mr. Del Fuego of vandalizing her restaurant signs. Mr. Del
Fuego, for his part, is presently suing Ms. Meyerson on charges of industrial
espionage. He claims that Ms. Meyerson has spies inside his organization who
relay his expansion plans directly to The Meyerson Corporation. This
infiltration, according to Mr. Del Fuego, is the sole reason for his recent
spate of bad fortune."

Alomar sensed
my next question. "They're here." "Who?"

"All of
them. Del Fuego, Meyerson, Reese." "Why?"

"Because,"
Sir Geoffrey snapped, "they intend to use this golden opportunity to air
their linen in full view of the world food community. They intend to use the
glare of our culinary spotlight to continue their war of invective. They both
have arranged to be opening restaurants here in Seattle this weekend. The
timing is by no means coincidental, I assure you. These people have no
shame."

"You said
this Reese guy is here, too?"

"On the
eighth floor. And for precisely the same reason. He seeks to lend an air of
credibility to himself and his pathetic publication by making his pronouncement
in the shadow of our organization."

"Any idea
what Reese is going to say at his news conference? "

"None."

"I know
what I'd be doing," I said. "What would that be?"

"I'd be
cutting myself a deal with one of them, long before the news conference. With
that much at stake, ifs a good bet that either or both of them are willing to
throw money at him."

"I had
much the same thought myself," Miles said.

I made my words
a statement. "And you want me to find out what they're up to."

"Quite
unfortunately," said Alomar, "we know all too well what Mr. Del Fuego
is up to."

Sir Geoffrey
showed me his palm. "Please permit me one further digression, Mr.
Waterman. I merely want to be certain you understand the depths of depravity to
which these people have sunk."

Miles looked
smug as he leaned to the left and plucked a photograph from the nightstand.
After studying it, he again made that dismissive sound with his lips and
stiff-armed the photo in my direction. I walked over to the side of the bed and
took it from his fingers.

I looked it
over. "You don't usually see that many cattle on a downtown city
street," I said finally.

"Four
hundred head," said Senor Alomar.

"I didn't
think there were that many long-horned cattle left."

"Some fool
in Alabama was raising them as pets."

Among the
glass-sheathed high-rises, Jack Del Fuego, wearing a straw hat the size of a
hot-dog-stand umbrella, marched along in front of the herd, grinning wildly at
the crowd from above the curved forest of horns, high-stepping it, brandishing
his trademark cattle prod like a majorette's baton.

"Atlanta. Five months ago," said Alomar. "You see that tall double garage door
which is visible at the extreme left edge of the photograph?" Miles asked.
"Yep."

"Engine
company number three of the Atlanta Fire Department." I waited. "At
precisely the point where the herd was midway past the firehouse, an mcoming
fire alarm automatically threw open those massive doors." I knew what was
coming. "The attendant lights and sirens . . ." He massaged the
bridge of his nose.

"Stampede?"
I asked.

"Made Pamplona look like a petting zoo," said Senor Alomar.

"There
were, of course, rumors." "What rumors?"

Alomar looked
pained. "Regarding Ms. Meyerson's son, Spaulding. Initially, the
investigation turned up two citizens who said they had observed Spaulding
Meyerson pull the fire alarm directly across the street from the engine
house."

Miles took
over. "They later retracted their stories, however."

"And moved
into better homes," Alomar finished. "And now this," Miles
lamented. I did a Bud Abbott impression. "This what?" Alomar started
to speak, but Miles shook him off. "A couple of facts. Ms. Meyerson has a daughter
Brie." "Like the cheese?"

"All too
much, I fear, but that is neither here nor there. Ms. Meyerson also has considerable
land holdings in rural Virginia, where she raises the bulk of the nearly
fat-free Black Angus cattle which she so proudly trumpets in her TV
advertisements. She is, I understand, considered to be one of the foremost
experts in the husbandry of this new strain of Angus cattle."

I kept
reminding myself that I'd been guaranteed a full day's pay.

Sir Geoffrey
went on. "Young Miss Meyerson, whom I believe to be about eighteen years
of age, in what is called a Four-H project, raised a grand-champion Angus bull
of both prodigious size and superior lineage. The animal's pet name was
Bunky."

"Bunky,
you say," was the best I could manage.

"At the
propitious moment," Miles continued, "Miss Meyerson sent the beast
for Four-H allction, which I understand is the custom in that organization. In
this case it was purely charity, of course. Miss Meyerson hardly needed the
money. She was merely seeking to benefit the organization and the breed. She
assumed, quite correctly, that, considering the incredible size of the animal
and the perfection of his lineage, Bunky's future would hold little more than a
lifetime at stud. The beast was irreplaceable."

"Why
didn't she keep it, then?"

"A matter
of genetics, I'm afraid. Her bull was too closely inbred within Ms. Meyerson's
bloodline. As such, he could not be used for breeding and thus would have
required alterations."

I've always
hated that particular euphemism. The image somehow always seems just a tad
cavalier to me. You can alter your plans. You can have alterations made on your
trousers. But when it comes to gonads, as far as I'm concerned anyway, the only
animal that ought to be subjected to a little snip here and there is a Chia
Pet.

Miles
continued. "Young Miss Meyerson opted for what most certainly seemed to be
best for her beloved Bunky."

I did Bud
Abbott again. "But?"

"Bunky was
eventually purchased by a Mr. Hyram Hen-essey for the princely sum of three
hundred sixty thousand American dollars. Mr. Henessey purported to be a cattle
rancher from Juno, Texas; his stated intention was to further propagate Ms.
Meyerson's low-fat strain for the betterment of mankind."

"Purported?"

"Mr.
Henessey, it turned out, was actually a headwaiter in the employ of Mr. Del
Fuego." "Noooo ..." I began.

"Yesss,"
Miles finished. "Which brings us to the unfortunate affair in Cleveland eight months ago."

Miles
took a
deep breath, while Alomar hid behind his hand. Sir Geoffrey continued.
"Mr. Del Fuego's first attempt to gain retribution took place in
Cleveland eight months ago. The Cleveland operation, long one of the
company's most
profitable outlets, had fallen upon hard times and was on the verge of
receivership. In a mad attempt to save the operation, Mr. Del Fuego
proposed to
stage a free barbecue for the homeless. The city was, of course, only
too
willing to do its part."

"What
politician could resist?" muttered Alomar. "Bunky?" I asked
tentatively.

"Indeed,"
Miles said. "Mr. Del Fuego hit upon what he considered to be a novel
manner in which he could gain both publicity and vengeance at a single throw.
He engaged a meat-cutting firm whose dubious claim to fame was the possession
of a mobile slaughtering unit of such facility as to allow the beast to be led
live into one end of the unit and to then appear as packaged goods—ready for
the grill, as it were—a mere ten minutes later at the other end of the
lorry."

"The
miracles of modern science," I said. "What stopped him?"

"Ms.
Meyerson," Alomar said quickly.

"Yes,"
said Sir Geoffrey. "In a particularly canny move, the Meyerson woman
rallied the forces of animal rights to her banner. I am told they came from the
width and breadth of the Midwestern section of your country to support her cause."

"Four
thousand Four-H members alone," Alomar added.

"As I
understand it, the truck driver refused to jeopardize either the truck or his
own well-being by forcing his way through the crowd and summarily attempted to
leave."

"Attempted?"

"Yes,"
said Sir Geoffrey. "In a most unfortunate move, Mr. Del Fuego then tore
the driver from his seat and attempted to flatten the crowd himself."

"The
police intervened," Alomar explained.

"Mr. Del
Fuego's actions provoked a veritable riot among the demonstrators. Several
businesses were set afire."

I was agape.
"And he's going to try it again here in Seattle."

Alomar was hiding
behind his hand again. Sir Geoffrey took the lead.

"Mr. Del
Fuego has since changed his tactics somewhat. He has now sworn to roast the
beast whole at the opening of his Seattle operation, five days hence. At nine
o'clock this Friday evening."

"Whole?"

"On a
spit. In a pit," he said.

I stiffened my
chin and stifled a grin. He went on.

"We have
been led to believe that you enjoy a rather close relationship with city
government."

"I'm
related to a whole bunch of people who work for the city, if that’s what you
mean."

"We want
you to use your contacts to ascertain whether or not Mr. Del Fuego has obtained
the proper permits and such necessary for his planned debacle. Perhaps we can
crimp his plans in that manner."

"That's
easy enough," I said.

Alomar and Miles
now shared another glance. "We have also been given to understand that you
are able to muster a fair number of field operatives to assist you," Miles
said.

"You seem
to have done your homework."

"We think
it best that all parties be kept under surveillance."

"You want
them followed?"

"Yes, we
do. We hope that by doing so we may garner some advance warning as to their
plans."

"that’s
going to get real expensive. I'm going to need somewhere between ten and a
dozen people to work it. At a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses, it adds up in
a big hurry."

"Money is
no object," offered Alomar. I liked these guys better already. I decided
to level with them.

"I should
also tell you that following people around a city of this size is not an exact
science. If s not as easy as it looks on TV. If any of these people want to
make sure they're not being followed, it's not rocket science to lose a
tail."

Alomar took the
lead. "Perhaps we can facilitate your task somewhat," he said,
reaching into his jacket. He came out with a short stack of laminated cards. I
leaned over and took them in my hand. According to these documents, I, Leo P.
Waterman, was the official security coordinator for Le Cuisine Internationale.
Dude.

"Not a
very good picture of me," I commented.

Alomar gave me
a small bow. "We were forced to act in haste. But I believe they will
suffice for our purposes."

"Which
are?"

"We.supposed
that, in your capacity as security liaison, you would be likely to consult with
Ms. Meyerson, Mr. Del Fuego and Mr. Reese regarding any special security needs
they might have. In the process you would be likely to be privy to their
schedules, et cetera, thus making the business of keeping them under
surveillance considerably easier. I hope we were not mistaken."

"Oh,
no," I said. "This will make it a whole lot easier."

"Not only
that," said Sir Geoffrey, "but we are prepared to offer a substantial
bounty for certain other services. Clearly, the debacle cannot take place
without the beast. Ergo, it then stands to reason that the animal must be
stored somewhere locally."

"When you
say stored, do you mean stored dead or alive?"

"We have
no idea. And, quite frankly, it matters little to us whether the beast is
a-hoof .or a-hook. What matters is that the animal be found and at least temporarily
liberated."

"We are
prepared to offer an additional five-thousand-dollar bonus for the rescue of
the beast," said Alomar.

"A bovine
bounty, eh?"

"Quite,"
Sir Geoffrey agreed.

Alomar fished
in the other side of his jacket and came out with a gray envelope. I took it
and peeked in. Hundreds. A bunch of them.

Sir Geoffrey
Miles spoke. "We assumed that ten thousand American dollars would suffice
to get the operation off the ground."

'It will,"
I said, trying to appear calm.