Spiced to Death (23 page)

“How can he—oh, I think I see … This stuff is hot?”

“Sure. When the big stores have sales, they take the opportunity to bring out merchandise they couldn’t sell before. When the people behind these ventures put on one of these illicit sales, they bring out stolen goods too.”

We moved on. People were still coming in and the noise level was rising. There weren’t any low-value items on sale—no soap powder or cereal, no sugar or flour, and of course no perishable goods like eggs, bread, butter or fruit.

We came to a stand with jars of jams, jellies, chutneys and marmalades and another with cans which all appeared to be the same. We stopped to examine them. The first was lobster and the only thing wrong with it was a red stain on the label. I looked at another can and it was the same. Gabriella was looking at a can and it had the same red stain on the label.

She looked at her can, then mine. “Funny,” she said. “The stains are similar.”

“All the cans are like this. Notice where the stain is?”

“No.”

“Exactly where the ‘sell-by’ date is.”

We came to a stand with a few large trays of what looked like fat dry herrings. The little wizened man attending the stand was short on teeth but made up for it with a booming voice. He was arguing with a prosperous-looking man with gray hair.

“What is it?” asked Gabriella.

We watched and listened.

“We’re getting warmer,” I murmured.

“But what is it?” she persisted.

“Japanese fugu fish.”

After a moment, she asked, “Isn’t that the poisonous one? Didn’t some people die last year in San Francisco?”

“There are twenty species of fugu and all are deadly poisonous except one. That one is only edible from October to March and even then only certain parts are safe to eat. The fish contains a poison called tetrodotoxin, which is found in the ovaries, liver, entrails and in the skin. The Japanese describe the fish as ‘touch and go’—one touch they say, and you go.”

Gabriella shuddered. “Is it that good? That people will take that kind of risk?”

“A lot think so. Or it may be that it appeals to eaters who also enjoy Russian roulette. Before it can be cooked in Japan, the poison must be removed by a qualified cook, and those qualifications are issued only by a government department. Only one cook in five passes the tests. It’s admitted that at least five hundred people die in Japan every year from eating fugu and the true figure may be very much higher.”

The next stand was selling an even stranger-looking edible, though Gabriella didn’t want to believe that it was. Two or three inches long, they were pinkish brown strips of puffy flesh and I told Gabriella that they were duck’s tongues.

“They eat those?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Italians eat spider crabs, don’t they?”

She shrugged. “Well, in Venice, yes.”

“Goat meat and turnip tops?”

“But they’re good—”

“And what about squid, carp and cuttlefish?”

“Delicious. They’re different, they’re real foods.”

“Everyone doesn’t think so,” I told her. “Anyway, duck’s tongues are a highly valued item in zen cooking. Hong Kong imports them from all over the world.”

“I think they look revolting.”

“Cooked with broad beans, onions, ginger and white wine, you’d love them.”

“Not if I knew what they were,” she said firmly.

I knew better than to press the point any further so instead I said, “In any case, you might be wrong with these. Duck’s tongues are easy to duplicate and the ones here could very well be phonies.”

Our onward progress led us to a bar where an elderly woman with orange hair and far too much makeup beckoned us. She held out a balloon glass with the tiniest amount of pale emerald green liquid in the bottom.

“Only five dollars,” she urged as her face cracked into a persuasive smile.

“What is it?” I asked.

She waved a hand almost hidden under a weight of rings and bangles. The wave indicated a double row of bottles behind her on the bar. They carried a label which had a curving crimson band against a background of yellow and brown flowers intertwined. Along the crimson band was a word in large white letters:
ABSINTHE.

“Too early in the day for me,” murmured Gabriella. To the woman, she said in a chatty tone, “I didn’t know anyone still drank it.”

“They do if they can get it,” said the woman meaningfully.

“What’s in it?” Gabriella wanted to know.

“Try it and see,” enticed the woman.

Gabriella was still playing hard to get. “I heard it was dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous, all right,” she leered. “He knows, don’t you?” she said, looking at me.

“It was banned because it was believed to encourage moral laxity,” I said. “Ernest Hemingway drank a lot of it for that or, well, a parallel reason.”

“Tell her they used to give it to the French Army,” the woman insisted. “Wouldn’t have done that if there was anything wrong with it, would they?”

“What’s in it?” Gabriella asked me.

“Wormwood was in the original recipe. It affected the nervous system and destroyed the brain.”

“Van Gogh drank it all the time—him and those other French painters,” said the woman, not willing to give up.

“The word
absinthe
to me conjures up a picture of Toulouse-Lautrec wandering through Montmartre with a glass of it in his hand,” said Gabriella thoughtfully.

“There! See!” said the woman triumphantly. “And look at all the wonderful paintings he did! And just with those little legs of his! Not only him either—what about all those others? That one who looked like Anthony Quinn and went to Hawaii!”

“It used to be 140 proof,” I contributed. “That’s almost twice the strength of bourbon or scotch.”

“Right,” said the woman. “It’s good and strong. Don’t want to taste it? Take a bottle home.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Hundred dollars—special price.”

“Think I’ll stick to Chianti,” said Gabriella as we shook our heads sadly and walked away, the woman’s voice still calling after us with progressively reducing prices.

“It’d be a great price for the genuine stuff,” I said to Gabriella.

“Surely there isn’t any of the original still around?”

“Oh, yes,” I assured her. “Bottles keep showing up at auctions quite often. One sold at five thousand dollars recently. At a state banquet in Switzerland, President Mitterrand of France was the guest of honor and they served soufflés made from authentic absinthe.”

“I suppose there’s an awful lot of the fake stuff on the market, then?”

“Lots. The herbs that were in the original were fennel, aniseed and hyssop and those are still used. Industrial alcohol made from sugar beet is sometimes used as it’s cheap.”

We were looking for the next stand to examine. Gabriella said, “Well, we seem to be running across items that are a bit nearer to what we’re looking for. Somehow, though, I can’t see us finding any Ko Feng here.”

“No, you’re right,” I agreed. “There isn’t—”

A tap on the shoulder stopped me.

A deep voice asked, “Looking for Ko Feng?”

I turned to find myself facing the biggest and the blackest man I had ever seen in my life.

H
E WORE A LIGHT
gray suit, a waistcoat that had a thin red-thread pattern running through it and a cream shirt with a flowing red and white tie.

I was able to see these details clearly because my eyes were on a level with the middle of his waistcoat. He was so large that the suit had to have been specially made, but even so it was extremely tight and the pearl buttons looked as if they might pop off under the strain at any moment.

He was a huge man, huge in every direction. He might have been described as fat but he looked to be bubbling with energy so maybe it was muscle. There was a tremendous amount of it, whatever it was. His legs were like tree trunks and he had arms which appeared long enough and powerful enough to strangle a water buffalo.

His head was like a big globe on top of his immense shoulders and it was a startling black—an intense coal black. I know it has always been said that the Ceylonese have the blackest of all black complexions and now that they are known as Sri Lankans, their color is just as dark. I didn’t know if this man was a Sri Lankan but none of that island race could be any darker.

He was probably used to people staring at him. He must encounter that everywhere he went. The whites of his eyes were quite clear and there was a gleam of intelligence in them which hinted that he might be a dangerous customer with such a combination. He didn’t look unfriendly but with that bulk and build, he didn’t need to.

Gabriella was as dumbstruck as I. He repeated his question.

“You folks looking for Ko Feng?”

I found my voice. “We’re very interested in it. Are you selling?”

He laughed, a deep laugh that seemed to boom up from the depths of a barrel. It went spiraling upward to disappear into the unseen void above the lights.

“What do you want to do with it?” he asked, looking at us from one to the other.

Gabriella looked at him calmly. “Are you in charge here?”

His features were not Negroid and his mouth, though big, was not full-lipped. It became even bigger as he grinned, showing a large number of dazzling white teeth.

“In charge? Of this?” He waved a hand of black fingers the size of bananas. “No, ma’am, I’m not in charge of this. I’m just here like you, looking around, looking for bargains.”

There was a shrewd glitter in his eyes and he was evidently sizing us up. He came to a decision. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Yaruba Da. I’m from the Congo.”

Gabriella shook the proffered hand cautiously and I did the same, both of us concerned that we might come out of the encounter with the nickname of “Lefty.” But he was aware of the danger too and his grip was firm yet gentle.

We gave our names and he nodded. I was trying to place his accent and it wasn’t easy. It had a decided British undertone so perhaps he had been to school there. He spoke like an educated man but without affectation.

Gabriella leapt in, taking the initiative.

“So you’re looking for Ko Feng? What do
you
want to do with it?”

He chuckled. It was like a warning sign that a volcano was about to erupt. I hoped it wasn’t symbolic.

“I want to cook with it—like everybody else,” he said.

“Where do you want to do this cooking?” demanded Gabriella. She was not one to be intimidated.

He dived into his waistcoat pocket and came out with some cards. He handed one to each of us.

African Dreams
it read and had a Manhattan address.

“Oh, you have a restaurant…” Gabriella said, a little mollified.

Authentic African Cuisine,
the card announced.

“That’s an original idea” I told him. “The cuisines of Africa get very little attention in the Western world and they have so many great dishes to offer.”

He eyed me, assessing. “You know Africa?”

“Not very well. I know something about cooking, though.”

Gabriella wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “So you came here to look for Ko Feng?” she challenged.

“I didn’t truly expect to find any here today but this is the kind of occasion and place where one might pick up some rumors, talk to folks who might know where to find it.” He studied us thoughtfully. “Folks like you two.”

“We don’t know where to find any,” Gabriella said truthfully. “We came here today for the same reason as you.”

He nodded. “You two got a restaurant?”

“No,” Gabriella said, looking him right in the eye. He waited for her to expand on that brief answer but she just looked back and said nothing.

“You sound like you’re English,” he said to me and I nodded.

“That’s right.”

“Went to school there—Cambridge. Went to the Sorbonne in Paris before that because I spoke French first, the language of the Congo. Then went to Harvard later.”

“What did you study?” Gabriella asked and I was glad she didn’t add, Was it cooking?

“History,” he told her. “Then philosophy. But I never felt like either one was something I wanted to pursue the rest of my life. Neither one was practical enough for me. I got interested in cooking and did some research on the history of food and cooking. I went to Cairo and opened a restaurant, then came here to New York and just opened African Dreams.”

Gabriella was easing up a little now. His statements could be checked so he no longer looked as threatening, though he didn’t look any smaller.

“How did you hear about this event?” she asked, ever the policewoman.

“Same way you did, probably,” he said with the same wide grin.

Gabriella and I both knew he hadn’t leaned on a police informer but he obviously wasn’t going to tell us any more.

“You see a way to use Ko Feng in African cooking?” I asked him curiously.

“Sounds to me like it’s a spice that can be used in any cooking,” he said seriously. “If it’s what they say it is, it’s wonderful stuff.” He studied us, then said abruptly to me.

“You say you’re English?”

I nodded.

“The fellow who was killed after the Ko Feng was brought into the country was English.”

“I know.”

“You can’t be him…” He was thinking as he spoke. “… So you must be the other one.”

I wasn’t sure how much of my undercover role should be blown so I said nothing, hoping that Gabriella would pick up on the answer.

“He
is
the other one,” she said firmly.

Yaruba Da was still studying her. “And you’re in the food business too?” he persisted.

She didn’t answer right away and he spread two big hands.

“Hey, in a place like this, you like to know who you’re talking to,” he said.

“That’s true,” she said.

He grinned in resignation. Turning back to me, he asked, “Having any luck finding that stuff?”

“Getting close,” I said confidently.

He moved a half step closer. “Between you two and me, I really need something new like this Ko Feng. The restaurant business is tough anywhere. I don’t have to tell you how tough it is here in New York. A genuinely novel flavor like Ko Feng could make sure I stay in business.”