Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Page A

know you’ll get pissed off, but here’s a shocker. Something you probably won’t believe. Em, your girlfriend, is the type of girl I’d like to meet.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSomeone with a little backbone. Amanda was needy. She wanted me to give her affirmation. And until I know something about a girl, I’m not about to do that. But I never had the impression she was pushy or trying to be something she wasn’t. I just didn’t find her personality that attractive.”
    It was a shock to me. I’d always viewed James as an opportunist. A one-night-stand kind of guy. And here he was admitting to me that deep down inside he wanted to date—Em?
    â€œWell, at least we know the staff has been put on alert that you are gunning for the South Beach job.”
    James rubbed his hands absentmindedly on his apron.“Joaquin will be happy to hear that he’s been passed over once again.”
    â€œIf he ever shows up again.”
    James was quiet, as if thinking about the jeopardy he was in.
    Finally, he stopped and looked at me. “Who do you think did it, Skip? If you just had to guess?”
    â€œWe’ve got little to go on, James. Gut reaction?”
    â€œThat seems to work for Bouvier.”
    â€œThe sous chef. Vanderfield. He’s got the most to gain.”
    â€œWe don’t know all there is to gain yet, do we?”
    â€œWe’d better get busy,” I said. “A lot of ground to cover.”
    â€œAnd we’d better be safe.”
    The
we
thing didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to tell him that bumping off a dishwasher didn’t get anyone anything. It was the head chef in training that was standing in the way.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

    We got slammed by a party of twelve right off the bat and it seemed that every one of the diners ordered something different. I guess this must be a problem, because there was a lot of swearing and banging around as cooks had to double up on preparation.
    â€œLessor, Gonzales, get over here and chop. Spring vegetables, onions—” More bandages. “I need this bowl filled. Then get on the onion soup. Slice two reds, two sweet—” he motioned to two large pots, steaming on the gas stove top.
    I’d emptied the dishwasher and was waiting for the first round of salad and appetizer plates to come back. I lived to scrape and wash.
    As orders flooded the computer screen, Marty pulled meat from the refrigerated drawers and threw steaks and four chicken breasts on the grill, orange flames leaping from the grate. He sprayed something on them with a squeeze bottle, then dipped a white fish in egg batter and dropped it into a deep fryer. With the casualness of a seasoned veteran, he picked up a large spice shaker and sprinkled something on the chicken.
    Two of the other cooks were pan cooking something in a wine sauce, throwing it up in the air like I’d seen James do with omelets and catching it on the flip. An industrial-sized bottle of white wine rested on the stainless counter next to the steam table.
    Steam and smoke were caught in a spiral, sucked up by the large stainless steel hood exhaust system. Grease spattered, meat sizzled, and one of the line cooks expertly wrapped bacon around scallops, tossing them in a skillet with olive oil and what appeared to be minced garlic. The aroma was, for a moment, overwhelming.
    Spanish words I did not understand were hurled at blinding speed, and it all seemed like organized chaos, but the food hit the plates, the lady making salads was creating visual masterpieces of red, green, yellow, and orange peppers along with tomatoes, and the waiters were picking up their meals in an orderly fashion. Kelly Fields was putting finishing touches on her baked goods.
    â€œStill waiting for the tuna at three.” A waiter shouted out. I was wrong. There were some complications.
    â€œI had to catch it first.” A Puerto Rican cook with a thick accent and a