The Chef Read online

  We’re led through the dining room. It’s filled with kitschy décor, like vintage Louisiana license plates from the 1940s and a plastic skeleton wearing a Saints jersey.

  As we settle into our cozy corner table, she asks, “Are you seriously going to keep that mask on all night?”

  “Of course. It’s part of the fun of this place, isn’t it?”

  “Okay,” she says, “I shouldn’t admit this. But part of the fun of having dinner with you, Caleb…is getting to look at you. The real you…”

  Her compliment makes me blush. I’m even tempted to take my silly mask off right now.

  But I can’t. Not yet.

  Doing so now would be way too big a risk, and I can’t afford any more risks tonight.

  A tall, redheaded waiter arrives at our table. “Good evening and welcome to Soûlard,” he says. “May I offer you two our wine and cocktail list?”

  “No, thank you,” she replies. “Just club soda and lime for me.”

  “Really?” I ask her, tilting my head in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  This place is known for its fanciful concoctions. Hell, the word soûlard means “drunk.”

  “I’m very sure,” she answers. “I’m not drinking.”

  “As in…not drinking tonight? Or ever?”

  There’s an edge to her tone as she says: “Can we just drop it?”

  Now I feel like a dope. I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on, but don’t press the issue. At least not yet. I ask our waiter to make it two club sodas with lime.

  After a brief discussion with my dining partner, we order our food. We decide to share two appetizers: fried tempura zucchini patties drizzled with velvety crab remoulade, and shrimp dumplings with tomato concassé (a snooty culinary way of saying “crushed”). Our mains will be a citrus-glazed swordfish amandine that promises to be tangy, flaky, and crunchy all at once, and a succulent lamb chop Clemenceau on a garlicky bed of mushrooms, peas, and diced potatoes.

  The food, as I expected, is incredible.

  But the company is even better.

  There’s an easy playfulness to her tonight that I’ve never seen. Our conversation flows easily. She tells me about her master’s degree from NYU in Renaissance art history. Her thesis—big surprise—explored the use of food and drink imagery in the work of Michelangelo. We talk about our childhoods, hers in a wealthy suburb on Long Island, mine in a crumbling row house practically down the street. We share memories of our most memorable vacations. Our most delicious meals. Our favorite bad movies. And on and on.

  Through it all, I keep her smiling and laughing, prodding her to open up more and more. As we pass a dinner plate back and forth, our hands briefly touch.

  Later, no food involved, our hands touch a few more times. And linger for longer.

  After our dessert course is cleared away—a roasted fig-infused sweet pudding called a blancmange, and a molten chocolate “blackout” cake so gooey it makes my teeth stick together—I say to her, “All right, now I’ll give you what you came for.”

  With a dramatic flourish, I remove my masquerade mask.

  “Oh, my God, you’re hideous!” she exclaims, cringing and shielding her eyes. “This dinner is ruined. I think I’m going to be sick!”

  I pretend to be crushed. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s the way God made me. Can you forgive me?”

  I reach over and stroke her forearm. I shamelessly make puppy-dog eyes at her, too.

  She does not, however, have my undivided attention.

  All night, I’ve also been keeping an eye on a muscular, suit-clad man with vaguely Middle Eastern features slowly pacing around the dining room.

  And it looks like, now with the mask off he’s spotted me.

  He’s speaking into his wrist mic now. Probably alerting the rest of his security team—likely made of fellow ex-Mossad agents—to my presence.

  At least I hope he is.

  Oh, I forgot to mention: Soûlard is one of the restaurants run by David Needham.

  The man I’m desperate to talk to again in connection with the pending attack.

  Right now, I just need to sit back, wait, and let him come to me.

  While keeping my date none the wiser.

  Chapter 44

  OUR WAITER sets the check down on our table. I reach for it, but Vanessa whisks it away so fast, I feel a small breeze.

  “Nuh-uh,” she teases. “A deal’s a deal, Caleb. Think of all the delicious food you’ve been treating me to lately.”

  “Not fair,” I say. “That was a couple sandwiches and a few scoops of grits. This is an expensive three-course extravaganza.”

  But she insists. She puts down a credit card and says, “Anyway, I’m expensing this. I’m going to make my husband pay.”

  As the waiter returns with her receipt, I notice the security guard is now standing by the swinging kitchen doors. He’s watching me carefully, like a sniper lining up a shot.

  I recognize the stone-faced man next to him, too, whispering into his ear. It’s David Needham’s chauffeur. The same Israeli asshole that stuck a pistol in my face in the backseat of his Town Car two days ago.

  This means David has recently arrived.

  Excellent. Just as I’d hoped.

  “I have to run to the little boys’ for a minute,” I tell her. “Meet you out front?”

  We stand and part ways. I head toward the restrooms, until I see her exit the restaurant. Then I change course for David’s bodyguards.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” I say. “I believe your boss is expecting…”

  Oooohhfff! With one swift move, the chauffeur sucker-punches me in the gut.

  I hunch over. Gasping for breath. Anticipating another strike.

  “You know he was not expecting you, Mr. Rooney,” he says, voice strong and in control. “But he does wish to see you.”

  The two men lead me through the bustling kitchen and into a cramped, dim storage pantry. As they take their posts just outside the door, I see David Needham standing inside, next to a pyramid of bottled béarnaise sauce.

  “You’re a real snake, Rooney,” he says darkly.

  “Well, you’re a real hard person to get an audience with,” I say, struggling to catch my breath and not to hurl the lovely meal I just consumed onto the floor. “I assume you got the messages I left at your office last night, this morning, and this afternoon?”

  “I did,” he said, folding his arms. “So you’re threatening to leak fake financial records to the Times-Picayune that link me to a murdered terrorist? Give me a goddamn break. That’s the most ridiculous and insulting thing I’ve ever—”

  “And yet you came running over here to see me as soon as I popped up in one of your restaurants,” I say. “Listen, David. The records are real. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if they weren’t. And if you didn’t have something to hide.”

  His pasty face tightens—with either nerves or rage. Or both.

  “I do not. But a libelous news story like that—think of the damage it would do to my restaurants. You of all people should know how a trial-by-tabloid will sink a career.”

  I take a step toward him and say, “I’m not interested in bringing down your business. I’m trying to bring down a terrorist cell before it’s too late. So tell me why a rich, conservative, paranoid foodie with a security team fit for a crown prince has been funneling money to an inner-city Islamic charity for Muslim refugees.”

  He looks confused.

  “An Islamic charity? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, David,” I say. “You’ve given twelve thousand dollars to Crescent Care through four different shell companies. That’s enough to buy hundreds of pounds of fertilizer. Cases of gunpowder. Dozens of pressure cookers. Or God knows what else. This is your one chance to come clean and stop this thing before it goes any further.”

  I take another step forward. But he doesn’t flinch.

  Instead, he starts to smile.

  “I thin
k the exhaust fumes from cooking inside that jalopy of yours are messing with your head,” he says softly. “Do you have any idea how many charities I’ve supported in my lifetime? This ‘Crescent’ one you mentioned—I’ve never heard of it. But if I’ve given them money, I’m sure the work they do is upstanding. And completely legal.”

  He takes a breath. And smirks.

  “You made it sound like you had a smoking gun,” he says. “You don’t even have a water pistol. Now take your mask and your lies and get the hell out of my restaurant.”

  My instincts tell me this bastard is lying. He’s such a goddamn control freak, I bet he knows the thread count of the napkins on every one of his tables. The brand of urinal cakes in every men’s room. He definitely knows where his money goes.

  I feel an urge to wring his neck until I get the truth…if there weren’t two armed ex-commandos standing five feet away from me.

  “Don’t worry,” I answer. “I won’t be coming back here.”

  I can’t help but add: “The zucchini was too salty and my lamb chop was dry.”

  He smiles.

  “Thanks for the feedback, Killer Chef. Maybe someday I’ll be good enough to ladle dog shit out of the back of a truck.”

  He pauses, then says, “Or go after another man’s wife.”

  My fists tighten. Now I really want to wring his neck. Or worse.

  But I keep my cool. Barely. I turn and exit the pantry. With an escort from his two security goons, we retrace our steps back through the kitchen.

  This time, however, they lead me to the rear “staff only” exit.

  The door opens up into a dark, quiet alley.

  Realizing this, I spin around. I raise my hands, bracing for a beatdown.

  But the two Israelis just stare at me. Then they slam the heavy door in my face.

  Slowly, I lower my fists in relief.

  Alone now, I have two thoughts.

  One: I’m even more worried than ever before.

  Two: The zucchini and lamb chop were actually perfect.

  Chapter 45

  “SORRY FOR the wait,” I say to Vanessa as I return to the front of the restaurant.

  She’s standing with her back to me. But I notice the mist of her breath is visible.

  How strange. It’s February, but this is New Orleans. The temperature tonight is a balmy sixty-one degrees.

  Then I see why: she flicks a cigarette butt to the sidewalk.

  If that rumor Gordon Andrews shared with me is true, she’s someone who should definitely kick the habit. But it’s obviously not my place to mention that.

  So instead, I smile and say, “You’re just full of contradictions, aren’t you? An art historian in the food biz. A Big Apple girl in the Big Easy. Sober, but a smoker.”

  She grimaces. “I picked it up in grad school. What can I say? The flesh is weak. All my doctors keep begging me to quit.”

  “‘All your doctors?’” I ask. “What’s that mean?”

  Now, that’s not a “gotcha” question. I’m just testing to see how much she cares to reveal about herself. A classic interrogation technique, repurposed for romance.

  “I meant, um…anytime I see a doctor, they—not that I see them often, just—”

  “No explanation necessary,” I reassure her.

  I step closer and put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Besides,” I continue, “where there’s smoke…there’s probably something burning on a stainless-steel, six-burner professional stove.”

  She rolls her eyes at my cheesy line. Then she smiles.

  “Thanks for tonight, Caleb. I had a wonderful time.”

  “‘Had?’ Are you saying the evening’s over?”

  She gives me a look. “Are you saying it’s not?”

  To be honest, I was planning to say goodnight to her at this point. To end our night on a high note. After my confrontation with David, I’m dying to dive back into my investigation. To find out what the hell he’s hiding and why.

  But standing so close to her, soaking in her beauty under the hazy orange glow of the streetlamps, I can’t help myself. My flesh is very weak.

  “I was thinking of taking a stroll through the French Quarter to walk off some of that meal,” I say. “I’d love it if you joined me.”

  She smiles. “Consider yourself joined.”

  We start heading east down St. Charles Avenue, along one of the final stretches of tonight’s parade. The procession ended hours ago, but the narrow street is still thick with spectators. Nearly every one of them has beads around their necks and drinks in their hands.

  As we make our way, she and I are jostled by a group of drunk college kids. We have to step around them, and for a few, brief seconds we’re separated.

  When we reconnect, I exclaim: “Phew, there you are! Did you miss me?”

  She laughs. “Desperately, Caleb. And so it doesn’t happen again…”

  She slips her small, soft hand into mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.

  It’s a simple gesture that catches me by surprise—and fills me with delight.

  Hand in hand, we turn right onto Canal Street and head into the French Quarter.

  I notice lots of metal police barricades set up along the sidewalks. Crowd control. I see some officers, too. A few Louisiana State Troopers on foot patrol. A pair of NOPD mounted cops keeping watch. I’m sure there are undercover cops here as well, and having seen that National Guard convoy earlier, I’m sure they are quartered somewhere close, as a QRF—Quick Reaction Force—to respond instantly in case something breaks out.

  Having them all here is better than nothing. But Christ, in the case of an actual emergency…

  “Why the long face, mister?” she asks. “Everything okay?”

  I brush aside my doomsday-scenario fears and force a smile.

  “Right here, right now…everything is just perfect.”

  After a few more blocks, we reach Bourbon Street, a stretch of road whose name is synonymous with debauchery. Sure enough, it’s teeming with loud, rowdy partiers. Loud whoops and yells. Frat boys with matching jerseys jostling and screaming up at the balconies, clustered with hard-core drinkers, dangling beads in their hands. Little squads of bachelorette parties—pretty, innocent women wearing sashes and tiaras—stumbling by in their high heels, careful not to take a tumble or spill their drinks. The flashes of phones taking photos of ladies exposing their breasts for the privilege of receiving strings of worthless plastic beads. Dueling bands and DJs send waves of music among the crowds from the open doors and windows of bars.

  “I don’t think I have the strength for this tonight,” she says, stopping at a street corner. “Sorry. It’s getting late. Can we start heading back?”

  We’ve reached a crossroads. In more ways than one. An invitation back to my place is on the tip of my tongue. But with Vanessa, I don’t want to rush things. It’s a delicate balance, with her being married and my attention already so divided.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” I reluctantly answer.

  “Right. Yeah. It is. Unless…” Her lips curl into a hint of a smile. “Do you want to come over for a nightcap? I make a mean club soda with lime.”

  This part of Bourbon Street is raucous, loud, and overwhelming.

  But through some miracle of science or affection, I’ve heard her words loud and clear.

  We squeeze hands and walk away.

  Chapter 46

  WE DRIVE separately to her and Lucas’s home in the Lower Garden District. It’s a classic terraced town house, with a beige façade and periwinkle shutters. The way its paint scheme reflects the moonlight, it looks like, well, something magical out of a fantasy movie, one involving wizards, elves, beautiful maidens, and heroic warrior/chefs.

  I park in front and take a moment to collect myself before I go inside.

  Since my divorce from Marlene, this is the first time I’ve felt this good about another woman. I can even imagine a real future with her.

  But at the
same time, I’m thinking, what the hell am I doing? Our timing is terrible. Our circumstances are even worse. For God’s sake, she’s married.

  I wish things were different. Desperately. But this is the hand I’ve been dealt.

  I know if I don’t try to play it…I might regret it forever.

  Vanessa greets me at the front door with a “Hi,” and a tender kiss on the cheek.

  She leads me into the living room, which is decorated in an eclectic Southern style: a Victorian love seat, antique French cast-iron chairs. The lights are dim, and some tinkling Art Tatum piano jazz is wafting from an actual record player in the corner.

  “Take a seat,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

  I oblige, easing myself into an overstuffed green sofa. Then I take some deep breaths. I’m practically jittery with anticipation, like a high schooler being alone with his prom date, recently crowned Prom Queen.

  Vanessa returns carrying two tumblers of club soda on the rocks with fresh lime wedges perched on the rims. She hands me a glass, then lifts hers to toast.

  “To…Miami,” she declares.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Um, okay. It’s a great city and all, but why—”

  “It’s where Lucas is. All this week, at least. Checking out locations for a new Cuban-fusion restaurant. I hope it takes him a long time to find one.”

  “I’ll be happy as long as he doesn’t come home tonight.”

  We chuckle and clink glasses. Then she leans back on the couch. She coils her legs beneath her like a cat and rests a hand on my knee.

  “You should know, Caleb, this feels a little strange to me.”

  “Something wrong with my knee?”

  She playfully slaps it.

  “I don’t normally do this kind of thing. And by ‘I don’t normally,’ I mean…‘I’ve never done anything like this before, ever.’ Not since Lucas and I were married.”

  “Then we can take things slowly,” I reply. “Or, stop altogether if you think that’s best.”

  She bites her lip, considering. “What do you think?”