Hack (5 page)

“Nope.”

“Beginner’s luck, then?”

“Maybe beginner’s stupidity.”

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Away.”

“Only one problem, though, mate.”

“Which is?”

“What do you do for an encore?”

I hadn’t thought about that.

“I’ll just go back to my pet column.”

“Wouldn’t count on it, old son. The Editor is pleased. For now.”

“That was pleased?”

“Oh yes. Ecstatic. Julie Andrews. You wouldn’t want to see displeased, mate. You really are new here. Wife? Family?”

“No. Not even a pet.”

Nigel went back to work. I googled Tal Edgar on my iPhone and got a lot of hits about the infamous British tabloid editor whose approach to journalism seemed to be very proactive. The hard-drinking Londoner had shaken up news markets in Melbourne, Sydney, London, and Los Angeles, stomping the competition on behalf of his boss, New Zealand media billionaire Trevor Todd. One profile piece described Edgar as “The Man Who Makes News.” Competing rags did hatchet jobs, claiming he threatened to fire—or did fire—one person a day, in order to terrify the non-union staff into working around the clock. There had been nervous breakdowns, suicides, newsroom fistfights. It didn’t sound like
The Sound of Music
to me.

Badger intercepted me on the way to the bathroom and brought me to what he optimistically called his office, a tiny glass-walled box the size of an elevator, just off the City Room. He shut the door and I squeezed into one of two chairs on opposite sides of a small desk piled with folders and printouts. The folder closest to me had my name on the tab. My employee file. Or had he whipped one up to intimidate me?

“What happened to your face, old son? Punch-up in the pub?”

I realized he was talking about my three facial scars but it took me a few seconds to realize he was asking if I got it in a bar fight.

“Right,” I agreed. “Punch-up in a pub.”

“I want you to listen to something, mate,” he said. The word “mate” sounded distinctly unfriendly. It was interesting how a word that sounded friendly in Neil Bantock’s Australian twang could be so mangled by Badger’s British consonants. His nasal voice dripped with the tone of an “I-outrank-you” school bully. Badger fiddled with his mouse and I heard the computer dialing a number. A sibilant male voice answered.

“Hello. It’s Neil,” the dead man said. “Aubrey and I are having a food fight right now so please leave a message. Remember what Auntie Mame said: Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death. Tally Ho!”

“You called Neil Leonardi’s phone,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Quiet!” he said, typing fiercely.

“Neil, I’m sorry,” Aubrey’s voice emerged from Badger’s computer. “I love you but you made me so mad. You make me crazy. If Skippy can forgive you, I can. Call me please, sweetheart.”

The message ended with a beep.

“You hacked into Neil’s cell phone messages,” I said, again stating the obvious.

“You reckon?” Badger sneered.

“Isn’t that illegal?” I asked.

“The point is the fat man left seven messages for his boyfriend, probably after he was dead,” Badger said.

“Husband.”

“Pardon?”

“Husband. Aubrey and Neil were married,” I told him.

“No such thing,” Badger laughed.

“There is according to New York State. I thought we were supposed to be accurate?”

“I meant there is no such thing in the pages of the
New York Mail
,” he explained.

“Okay, but I don’t think he did it.”

“Don’t be a silly cunt. He’s under arrest. I have all the messages, some quite naughty, what he’s going to do to Neil when they make up. See if you can get your sources to say this is Aubrey’s pathetic ploy to fool cops and set up a phony alibi. It’s a solid follow.”

“I don’t have any sources,” I replied, truthfully. “I just blundered in. I met a couple of guys up there but they may never talk to me again.”

“You had better hope they do.”

“Why?”

He looked at me with bemused pity, like he was talking to the world’s dumbest bastard.

“I assume in these hard economic times you would like to continue working here?”

“Sure,” I said, taking the three steps toward the door. “Nice to be appreciated. I also want a raise. Mate.”

This time he blinked. I got up and walked to the door.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“To the Greek joint. Someone stole my souvlaki. I’m hungry, mate.”

In the elevator I changed my mind and went back uptown.

Bistro du Bois was a converted storefront on Madison Avenue near 91st Street. The front was dark cherry wood, cut glass and shiny brass fittings. An A-frame sandwich board on the sidewalk outside said it offered “French Provincial Fusion Cuisine served dim sum style.” Whatever that was, it wasn’t cheap. A mesquite-grilled, truffle-infused cheeseburger special cost forty-two bucks.

Inside, it was warmly dark, with indirect honey lighting around the walls and ceiling. Waiters and waitresses in black pants and white shirts hurried among islands of white tablecloths with white plates piled high, offering them to seated customers. I realized that dim sum was like in some Chinese restaurants, where they brought you different dishes and you picked without ordering.

On the right was a small bar with more brass and a huge mirror along the wall. Set into the rear wall was a stainless-steel counter with piles of plates on one side under bright lights. The counter was flanked with walls of glass, behind which chefs in kitchen whites chopped, sliced, boiled, sautéed and argued. Some of the cooks were laughing and had champagne glasses. One of the guys celebrating was the tattooed guy from the video. The one who had glared silently at Aubrey. I walked to the bar and nodded to a female bartender, an attractive young thing with a name badge that read
HEATHER
, also in a white top and black pants, but tighter than the waitresses’.

“Table, sir?”

“No, thanks. You the boss?”

“Not me. He’s in the back. What’s this about?”

“The homicide.”

“Oh yeah, some of your guys just left. Terrible. I’m Heather. This way, please.”

She led me toward the glass wall and into the bright kitchen. In the kitchen she brought me to the carousing guy with the tattoos.

“He’s here about the murder.”

The head chef turned to me, a wide grin on his face. “The other cops told me that pig Aubrey was under arrest for murder. Please tell me that hasn’t changed,” he said in a voice thick with drink.

“It hasn’t. He’s in jail.”

They all cheered and poured more bubbly.

“Thank God,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m the exec chef and owner. Maurice Verre-Montaigne.”

“Sounds French. I’m Shepherd.”

“Actually it’s Murray Glassberg from the Bronx, but hey, French restaurant, French name, right?”

“And the best authentic Puerto Rican kitchen crew from Manhattan,” laughed one cook with a crooked chef’s hat, which sparked another round of drinks and cheers.

“So, what can I do for you?” Murray asked. “Need me to identify the killer out of a lineup? Number three! The fat bald guy!” He roared with laughter.

“I get the impression you did not like Aubrey very much,” I observed.

“Fuck no. Everybody hates Aubrey in our business. Nasty fat fuck goes out of his way to torpedo good people. He gets off on it. He also does it on TV but now he’s been harpooned. Moby Aubrey. About time. Is he eating prison food yet? Can’t wait for that review.”

“I don’t read his reviews or watch his show so I really don’t—”

“So you don’t know what a colossal, candy-coated cock-gobbler he is?” Murray giggled. “He should have been the one killed but maybe it’s better this way.”

“Aubrey put Murray out of business years ago with a very unfair, nasty review,” Heather explained. “He came here with a film crew today to do it again. He must have heard Murray was back and doing well, after ten years of working for others. Now his review won’t run, thank God. We’re saved.”

“That crew filmed him slugging his boyfriend, Neil,” I told them. “Homicide has the video. Also the footage from his meal here. I saw you glaring at Aubrey at his table but you didn’t speak to him.”

“No. I wanted to tell him that if he trashed me again and ruined me for a second time, I would kill him. But I was afraid if I started, I would kill him right here. Right in front of that damn camera. It was a close thing. For once he didn’t bring his slimy boyfriend, the bitchy one who insults the waiters, the food, the wine, the décor—like he’s some kind of expert on everything just because he’s gay.”

“He was the one killed,” I told Murray.

“The nasty boyfriend?” Murray asked.

“Husband, I think. Yes, Neil… Leonardi.” I almost said “Neil Parmesan.” It was catchy. “His throat was cut.”

“Gee that’s too bad,” Murray chuckled. “A two-for-one combination. Pig and snake.”

The whole crew roared with laughter.

“And you were here all day?” I asked sharply.

“Since about eleven this morning. Ask anyone here. The other cops did.”

“That’s okay. I believe you. So you found out Aubrey was coming when he walked in the door?”

“No. He reserved a table in his name earlier in the week. His film crew showed up about ninety minutes before him and set up at their reserved table, so we knew it would be on TV. They even had us sign releases,” Murray said.

“I thought food critics made secret visits, so they get the food everybody else eats?” I asked.

“Not Aubrey. He wants you to know he’s coming for you. More fun that way.”

“But isn’t that corrupt? Doesn’t that allow chefs to prepare and give him better dishes and service than anyone else?” I asked.

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Murray replied. “Welcome to Foodland. It’s not about objectivity. It’s about subjugation, sadism, special treatment. And then he’ll piss all over whatever you do anyway, like he did the first time. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

Murray put down his champagne glass and embraced Heather.

“I would have, Heather,” Murray told her. “I wasn’t going to let him destroy us. I would have killed him. Now I don’t have to.”

“I know,” she said, hugging him tightly.

“I’m not celebrating his boyfriend’s death, even though he was a creep,” Murray explained to me over her shoulder. “I’m celebrating Aubrey’s arrest and especially the fact that I don’t have to kill him.”

“Thanks. I understand,” I told him, turning to leave. “By the way, is there by any chance a chicken souvlaki sandwich on the menu?”

There wasn’t. But in a few minutes I was eating the best one I’d ever tasted.

My ex-boss found me a sublet on Broome Street in the TriBeCa neighborhood on the West Side downtown. It was a small, overpriced one-bedroom apartment in one of three identical six-story red-brick buildings that used to be factories. It was like living in a traffic jam. Day and night, especially during the evening rush hour, honking lines of cars filled the one-way street, bound for a nearby entrance to the Holland Tunnel. The Holland Tunnel did not go to Holland, but to New Jersey. And the rush hour was about four hours long. I have no clue what “TriBeCa” means. There were two pitiful saplings on my block and two actual trees.

Mary Catherine was waiting in my living room, her high heels off, legs tucked under a short business suit skirt on my black fake leather couch. The long, natural dirty-blonde hair she kept in a French braid during the day fell loose below her shoulders. Cold Thai food and stacks of legal documents were on the table. She was an amazing sight to come home to.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded.

“Working. Remind me, Mary Catherine. When did I give you a key to my apartment?”

“I gave you the key and kept a copy, and that is what’s best for our arrangement. You were writing about how to pick up dog poop until this time of night?”

“That was my first column. Now I’m working on number two. Well, the second column—whether it’s right or wrong to make love in front of your pet.”

“So? Which is it?” she asked, completely uninterested.

“Depends. Lots of issues. What kind of pet, the pet’s reaction. All things considered, no. Especially dogs. Cats are more mature.”

“Glad that’s settled. Seriously, where were you? Were you with a girl?” she demanded, returning to lawyer mode, her crisp blue eyes watching me.

“No. Two gay guys.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yup. I’m kidding. Sort of. My new job just got more complicated.”

“Is that good or bad for us?”

“Both,” I told her. “We may actually have to do this.”

“Okay, let’s get to it,” Mary Catherine said, unwinding in a way that was a pleasure to watch. “My husband hates it when I’m late.”

* * *

I woke up in my rumpled bed at seven because the phones were ringing. Both my landline and my cell had the City Desk on them, telling me to go to the Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street to cover Aubrey’s 9:30 arraignment on a charge of murder. I tried to explain that I really wasn’t a reporter and had no idea how to cover court proceedings but I was already talking to myself. I showered, threw on jeans, a clean dress shirt and black waterproof sneakers.

It was cool and hazy outside but you could tell it was going to be another nice spring day. I bought newspapers, a Danish and a coffee at the corner store. Around me, Manhattan people were buying the
Mail
and talking about my first news story—a cannibalistic murder—and laughing. It was a strange feeling. I was proud and ashamed. The emotions merged into excitement. I snagged a cab and triple-tasked in the bouncing backseat—eating, drinking, and reading. In the
Mail
, I was a superstar. Mary Catherine would freak. My name was on the front page, under the huge, screaming bold type headline:

I had already seen the front page on the morning news shows. All of them. They held up the paper for the cameras, with my name visible. It was a national story. So much for my low-key cocoon. The front page had a shot of Aubrey stuffing his face with mysterious food and Neil’s surprised face, superimposed onto a frying pan. A red banner across the top of the page said “EXCLUSIVE: Cannibalism Cuisine Confirmed by Cops.” A menacing wedge of cheese was floating nearby.