Life Among Giants (42 page)

Jack stuck around long enough to make sure things were going to be okay, then to his car and to the Remarkable Bookshop downtown, kill an hour or so—his own reservation was for 6:15—get himself something to read over a solo dinner. Kate would be his waitress, too, so she wouldn't just be serving the one table or compromising service for actual customers by serving anyone other than Jack. And, of course, Sylphide and the killers.

RuAngela was to help Kate collect utensils, drinking glasses, napkins, anything and everything that might yield usable DNA samples, just the hostess's usual job of tidying. Kate had looked into “best practices,” as the FBI manual called them, and the private lab we would use had provided ridiculous little vials and glassine envelopes and swabs and even an evidence log. RuAngela would also coat-check our PPX table, take jackets, capes, sweaters, whatever the killers were wearing, comb them betimes for hairs, flakes of skin. I had quit protesting the technicalities—all that, I hoped, would be moot.

At five-thirty Firfisle's first diners appeared, elderly regulars, Tuesday clockwork. Prep was still in progress when their orders came in, and the kitchen underwent its seamless transition to service, the daily infusion of energy.
Th
e Firfisle gang all lived for that pressure, the exhilaration of running ahead of an avalanche for a few hours every night. For me, just the usual nerves, nothing extraordinary. It was the big game, and game day had finally come. I closed my eyes and pictured a successful outcome over and over: the plates going out, the plates coming back empty.
Th
at's all I had to achieve.

Th
ere was a small fridge under each station in the kitchen, and I padlocked mine after a long look at the perfection of my sausages.
Th
ey were keeping their color nicely. I tried a microscopic pinch of the filling—still in perfect taste, that exquisite, harrowing flavor. Sylphide, playing dupe to the Blood Banks of India scam and fussy diva all at once, would enforce the ordering. So there should be no surprises.

By six the dining room was full, one of those nights that won't unfold gradually but explodes.

“Rumble,”
E.T. called out.

“Rock 'n' roll,”
we all answered.

It was a great kitchen on a particularly good night, everyone's timing flawless, the call-and-response game spontaneous, and we all laughed easily, staying connected to one another and to the food.

Kate popped in the kitchen, marched straight to the salad table. “God damn,” she said.
Th
ere just wasn't enough for her to do. I could see she was crawling out of her skin, the inner Kate beginning to emerge. In our trim jacket she seemed a very beautiful matador dropped down from some unknown dimension, flushed and vibrant, much older than she looked, much younger than anyone there, a nine-year-old playing restaurant. She was close to ignition. She'd have to settle down. If anything could set her off it would be the sight for the first time in nearly twenty years of Tenke
Th
orvald. But what other tactic did I have?

“Just calm,” I said, touching her back.

Th
e kitchen was sizzling and popping. Zone-hot, as we used to say on the Miami Dolphins.

“Blue jeans,” E.T. sang out. Kate was his ‘Venus in Blue Jeans,' he meant. She'd heard it before, visibly relaxed, thumped out to the dining room, thumped back, nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait. “DNA,” I said.

“DNA,” she repeated. She gathered up the napkins she'd folded, pushed out into the dining room. She was my Crazy May, and might do anything. She didn't come back, five minutes, ten. I'd got salads pretty well caught up, so chanced a peek out there. Judicious Jack was in his place, probably early—I wore no watch—seated over by the coatroom. Kate was looming over him. She looked nothing like a waitperson, not even a matador. She looked how the president of the United States would look in a movie for ambitious girls. She pointed at the menu emphatically, tense as a mousetrap. Jack flirted as if they'd just met.
Th
ey'd better pull it in, I thought. Jack saw me watching, got the message, said something to Kate, something I could read on his lips:
DNA.
She made a circuit of the dining room with the water pitcher, nice.
Th
e men's eyes followed her fanny. Jack would order the Pasta Pazzo, of course, and that would set things ticking.

I went to my station, waited, waited interminably, polished the stainless steel of my counter. Finally Kate appeared with Jack's order, and after an appropriate wait I plated the tamer wild-mushroom sausages I'd moved from E.T.'s fridge to mine, top shelf, darker in color than the deadly group on the bottom shelf, quick minuscule pinch—still flavorful. Heated bowl exact timing from Colodo at the pasta station, double ladle of her morning's beautiful pasta dressed with leek cream. Dash of salt in the sauté pan, splash of Umbrian E.V.O.O., strips of pepper red and green, three or four leaves peeled off a fat new brussels sprout, short heat, peak of flavor, make a little crown atop the piping fettuccine, sausages laid like thick petals, pretty.

Kate was back too soon, snapping and dancing like a power line down in a storm, you could feel it. Yet very smoothly she folded a napkin over her hand, took the bowl, turned to E.T. for the green tomato fries on their separate plate, Pasta Pazzo complete. Jack was going to be thrilled: free meal.

I helped the dessert table get a gooey mango cake plated cleanly, made some adjustments at the grill, wiped my station again, triply sterilizing everything that had come in contact with the other sausages during prep, bursting with the tension till Kate tumbled in again. “
Th
ey've arrived,” she announced to the kitchen.

Th
e pace picked up a beat.

E.T. looked her up and down, just as he would any waitperson under stress. “Calm,” he said, deep voice.

Kate breathed for him, came to me at my station.

Quietly, I said, “Remember, you're a plain-old waitress. You've seen it all. So what, she's famous.”

“No, no. It's him,” she said. “It's fucking Brady.”

“Doesn't matter, Katydid. Okay? Just like we said, exactly. He'll pretend he doesn't recognize you. He knows whose restaurant this is. Of course you work at my restaurant, just like we said. You'll pretend you don't know him, too. It's a game. We'll get what we're after.
Th
ey think we're scared. Just as we planned—you don't care about a couple of middle-aged gays. Let Brady guess whether you recognize him, why you're dissing him. We play their hubris.
Th
ey think we're stupid, still kids.
Th
ey think the only plan is theirs. And okay to greet Sylphide. A little rueful, like we said.”

“Like we said.”

“Stay focused,” I said. “
Th
ink DNA.”

Kate took a breath, tugged down at the tight matador jacket. She said, “RuAngela's taking their coats!”

“Just as planned,” I said. “Maybe help Picky Ricky.” And she did, helped our headwaiter carry out a large order, table twelve over in the corner. I couldn't help it, looked out after her. In the front window, sunset in progress, every possible layer of light, Perdhomme and Kaiser just getting settled in their seats, RuAngela helping them, Sylphide already alight on hers, pleasant smiles all around.

Th
e owner of Restaurant Firfisle should greet the famous dancer, Sylphide and I had agreed.
Th
at would be just normal behavior. Greet the dancer, acknowledge her guests, play the recognition game, we had called it—everyone pretending—act scared, in fact, someone taken by surprise and trying to keep his cool (nerves would take the place of any acting: I was scared, all right), lull them, stroke them, take my revenge face to face. I was always greeting guests. It came naturally enough. So out of the kitchen, straight to their table.

“Sylphide,” I said. “Delightful.”

“Ah, the famous owner,” she said extending her hand.

I kissed it.

Perdhomme didn't look at me, made a point of staring out the window. I gazed at him a beat too long.

Kaiser put his hand out. “Brady,” he said. “Brady Rattner.”

I shook the limpish hand, braved a long look in his eye—he was one of those people who doesn't back down from a gaze.

“
Th
ierry,” Mr. Perdhomme said quickly. He didn't offer his hand, gave me the briefest look. Exquisitely awkward. He knew exactly who I was, and he knew I knew him.
Th
ere was definitely something planned for me, planned for later, for after they'd taken Sylphide down.

I kept my face blank, said what I always say: “We're pleased to have you.”

Little blunt sentences, tough Newcastle accent, Brady said, “We do love the restaurant. We're not meat people. How's your capitalization? We'd love to invest. We'll stop in when we're back. Yes, we'll stop in. And we'll bring some associates of ours. If you're still here.
Th
e restaurant, I mean. It's a volatile business. We have skilled associates. It may be you're gone by the time we're back, but if you're still here.”

“We'll be here, all right.”

“We're off to Bombay tonight,” Sylphide sang, preternatural ease.

“India,” I said impressed.

“She insists on the trains,” Perdhomme said as if miserably, everyone acting.

“It's authentic,” Brady said as if placating a reluctant partner. He had hundreds of millions of dollars in his eyes, or maybe a billion, now that Tancredi was on his way out.

“
Th
ere's an endless outdoor market by the station,” Sylphide said. “
Th
ey fill you an enormous basket, beautiful things.”

“Not an inch given to jetlag,” said Brady. Brady Rattner, Dabney's rotten brother, I couldn't get over it: Kaiser.

“But first, Restaurant Firfisle,” said the dancer, and we all laughed as if it were the wittiest thing we'd ever heard.

RuAngela returned with the wine list. You're lingering, her look said. Don't be stupid, it said. Perdhomme snatched the thick book, buried his face in it.

“I'd better get back in the kitchen,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat. I backed away from their table, Brady's gaze upon me frigid. I looked to Sylphide, but she was touching Perdhomme's sleeve, saying something bright.

Quick hello to an older couple, regulars I was fond of, then a detour to the coat room, where I found the dancer's pea coat. I sniffed it to be sure—jasmine—then slipped our smooth little stone heart into the right side pocket, the pocket you always put your hand in first, imagined her fingers finding it, my only chance to say farewell before her trip. Fleeting thought: maybe Emily wasn't the bride that fate had in store for me.

Back in the kitchen, I cleaned my station yet again, with only a thump in my chest when Kate hurried in with the actual order. She'd calmed herself, spoke like a seasoned old waitress, all business. Autumn-vegetable stew for Sylphide, as the dancer and I had planned, no surprises. Pazzo for the boys, Sylphide imperiously ordering for them, as planned. I nodded, matter of fact.
Th
e beet and arugula salad went out first, to be split three ways, three pretty little plates.
Th
en the warm olives and almonds Kaiser had ordered, a tiny dish.

Signal from RuAngela—time to plate the entrées. Bowls of tangled fettuccine from Colodo, smoothest timing, not a word between us, impress the celebrity. Flash-sauté the garnish, drop it in, then four fat death-cap sausages, each like petals on flowers. And Kate's rhythm a little better, a relaxed waitress now that she and RuAngela had their first genetic samples from salad forks and water glasses. Ru appeared with more exact timing, a loud joke for the kitchen. E.T. began to sing—always singing, our E.T. We'd gotten the food out beautifully, the whole kitchen knew. We were going to get the DNA we needed, our little team knew. We were just serving them dinner. Almost all of us could relax.

RuAngela nodded, collected the dressed vegetable stew from a line cook, the green-tomato fries from E.T. Kate draped her arm with a napkin, loaded up the pasta, followed RuAngela's high heels. But Kate's hands were burning—those heated bowls gripped wrong. She stopped at the door station—a tall, stainless-steel table placed for just such emergencies—got her napkin lined up properly, inspected the food, looked back at me as RuAngela rushed in.

“I touched him,” Ru said as Kate pushed out into the dining room. “I put my hand on his dirty shoulder. I gave him the Ru-Ru eye.”

T
H
E EVENING RUSH
heated up another notch.
Th
e kitchen clicked and whistled, splendid machine. I took up my position on the fireline as a new welter of small-plate orders came in, wrenched my mind off the meal going on out there: nearly a pound of mushrooms concentrated for each killer, if they ate all their sausage, enough for a ghastly death in every bite, a chef who took no chances.