Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Page B

black bandana around his head slammed a china plate down on the shiny stainless prep table, tossing seared ahi tuna from a pan. “
El ojete
.”
    I was pretty sure the term translated to asshole.
    The waiter grabbed it and pushed his way through swinging doors, eager to get the delicacy to his table.
    I caught the figure from the corner of my eye, just as a runner sat my first tray of dishes on the stainless counter.
    â€œVanderfield, I hope you’ve got one hell of an excuse.” Chef did not seem pleased.
    â€œYeah. Later, okay. Don’t give me any shit right now. Things look a little busy.” He ignored the chef to his face, then flashed him a middle finger behind his back and walked to his station.
    Joaquin Vanderfield wore his white jacket, a black sasharound his waist and a holstered knife on his right side. A six-foot pirate with a two-day growth on his face and his weapon of choice strapped to his body, he immediately walked up to the video screen, studied it, spun around in his station, and grabbed two pans. The hotshot with the questionable reputation of having banged Amanda Wright, the bloodied victim.
    Chef Marty frowned, grumbled under his breath, and went back to his grill, tossing three more steaks on the hot metal. I saw him glance at Vanderfield with a cold, hard stare. Another suspect in the murder. Joaquin Vanderfield, spooning a large gob of butter and grabbing a spray bottle, set the cast-iron skillets on the searing hot metal.
    â€œDude.”
    I spun to my left. James stood there, a Wüsthof knife in hand, a Miami Heat cap hiding his thick head of hair.
    â€œA little crazy, huh?” I figured he’d noticed.
    â€œFirst sitting, man. After that, we settle in. Every night is showtime. It just takes a little while to get rid of the butterflies.”
    He was really getting into the act.
    â€œBut get this, amigo. Marty comes up to me earlier and says, ‘Chef Jean said to give you this knife.’ What’s that all about?”
    â€œCool. James, Jean Bouvier has five drawers of knives. It’s not like he’s using them.” It made sense to me. “So Em didn’t have to bring a knife back?”
    â€œNo. And I called her and alerted her to the situation.”
    â€œYou’ve got a knife, James. That’s a good thing.”
    â€œSkip, I had my own knife. Someone put another knife in my locker. Same identical knife. Then I find a knife in the Dumpster. Wüsthof. And, finally, the chef gives me a knife, again identical to my original knife. I find this a little strange. I think somebody is messing with me.”
    He was right. “Bouvier said he’s put the word out on you. I understand his reasoning, but, my friend, you are now a target.Before, you were just a chef in training. I don’t know where we go from here, but I suggest we keep on trucking and talk to as many people as we can.”
    He nodded. “One more thing, amigo.” He pointed toward the door that led to the dining room. “Bouvier’s wife walked back in about ten minutes ago.”
    I hadn’t noticed.
    â€œShe seems to be here a lot. Anyway, this stocky, short businesswoman, she pulls me aside, grabs my arm with a death grip, and reeking of alcohol tells me that she wants this killer caught. At any cost.”
    â€œI had the impression she wasn’t happy that you were the one hired to go undercover in her kitchen. Even though you’ve got credentials. Even though you have kitchen experience.”
    â€œI had the same impression. But I happen to be the guy, so apparently she felt the need to put a little pressure on the situation. And she was a little drunk. Just saying—”
    I nodded. I knew nothing about her.
    â€œAnyway,” James said, “she tells me she has a lot riding on the outcome of this murder investigation. The reputation of the company, the product line, and restaurants. And all the time she’s got this