Roux the Day (22 page)

I looked out the back window. Another cab was coming and a couple got out. I was about to settle in my seat, satisfied that I had shaken off any pursuit, when a man hurried into view—I wasn’t sure from where.

He was a little under medium height, dark hair, and he had a small black mustache. He was wearing a dark suit. Who the blazes was he? He jumped into the other cab. My driver was looking at me in his mirror.

“Where you want to be on the Square?”

“Just head for it,” I told him. “I’ll make up my mind when we get there.”

We went through a knot of traffic and when we came out, I looked back again. The other cab was still there. My driver was a young-to-middle-aged fellow with a sallow complexion. Some Latin blood in his heritage. He drove competently and without the urgency that many taxi drivers show.

“Worried about that cab that’s following us?” he asked.

He must have noticed my anxious looks behind. “Some of your New Orleans ladies seem to have jealous husbands,” I told him.

“That what it is?” I wasn’t certain but there might be a tinge of skepticism in his voice. Still, I thought it was a good subterfuge and I wasn’t going to abandon it too easily.

“You look like a man about town. You know how it is.”

“Want to know for sure?” he asked.

“Okay.”

He was a good driver. He didn’t make it obvious that he was trying to shake off pursuit but he increased and decreased speed in a way that could have been simply using gaps in the traffic and he made a couple of turns and reverted to his original route in a way that any experienced driver would use to avoid possible delays.

When traffic smoothed out, he glanced in his mirror. “He’s still there.”

“Do you know the driver of that cab?” I asked.

He looked back, shook his head. “No. I know a lot of them but I don’t know him.”

Who could be following me now? I was baffled. I had been convinced that it had been the unpredictable Larry Mortensen, either intent on avenging his brother’s death or following some mysterious path of his own. But someone else? Why was I making so many enemies in New Orleans? It seemed like such a nice city.

We made a few turns to accommodate the one-way system that the city favors so strongly. The other cab stayed back but kept a steady distance.

My driver had a slightly amused smile on his face. He was enjoying this, dam him. I was racking my brain for a solution. Well, two could play at this game.

“When you see a chance, pull into a street parking space,” I said. “Let him go by then follow him. See how he likes it.”

My driver grinned, showing even white teeth. We continued on an even course for a few blocks then he swung sharply into a parallel parking space and stopped on the proverbial dime.

The cab went on by and though I strained to see inside it, I could not make out anything more in the backseat than a silhouette of a figure that meant nothing.

“Good, now follow him,” I said.

We did so for about two blocks then he peeled off violently, inches in front of a vegetable truck that stopped with a screeching of tires, effectively blocking us from following.

My driver uttered a few choice words, accentuating them with angry thumps on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Where are we now?”

“Business District. Be in the French Quarter, five minutes.”

“All right. Carry on. Let me know if you see him behind us.”

It wasn’t long. “There he is. Son of a bitch is good.”

“Okay. As soon as we get in the French Quarter, find a place where you can squeeze in and let me off. Somewhere busy and packed. Make it difficult for him to get close. By the time the guy gets out, that’ll give me time to merge into a crowd.”

I counted out three tens. Eric Van Linn’s expense account could stand it. My driver did a good job. He turned into a narrow alley, vehicle-negotiable but only just. I didn’t see the name of it but for New Orleans that was par for the course. I scanned the building fronts: It was mostly restaurants, a few looking fairly classy but also quite a few of the others, ethnic and no doubt fun places to eat.

It was an awkward time for restaurants, right in between standard mealtimes. But New Orleans was clearly a go-go kind of town and several of the places were open.

“He’s turned in after us,” my driver called. He accelerated as much as the cramped street permitted, putting as much distance as possible between us and our pursuer. He stopped in front of a store that boasted
OVER 100,000 VINTAGE LP’S;
I crammed the bills into his hand and scrambled out.

“Watch out for those husbands, man!” was his final warning. “They can be murder!” Little did he know.

Some of those vintage LP’s were competing for airspace, booming out from stereo speakers. I identified one number as Herman’s Hermits, issuing their love for their “Ferry Cross the Mersey” while other blasts from the past tried to sink the ferry.

Smells of spicy food wafted along the alley. They were coming from the adjacent café. The door was open and I peered in. The tables were Formica-covered and the floor needed sweeping. My situation might be desperate but I had limits.

I glanced back; there were too many people to see clearly but I saw a smallish man in a dark suit among them. I hurried on. A man stood in a doorway singing “Amazing Grace.” His voice was tired and strained but he obviously loved to sing. A bunch of college students stopped to listen to him. In the next building was the “Doorway to the New Age.” The doorway itself was open and the “New Age” consisted of a very large lady in a purple dress sitting at a table shuffling cards. She looked up and saw what must look like an easy mark.

“Come on in, sweetheart!” she invited. “The Tarot tells all. Let me lead you into the future!”

Another time I would have accepted her offer, but if I didn’t shake off the man following me, my future might arrive all too soon. A good-sized restaurant was next, a wooden front with mullioned windows. It looked enticing and was surely big enough that I could find a back way out. I turned the doorknob—only to notice a sign saying,
CLOSED
.

Before my frustration could boil to the surface, I saw another sign near it:
CHEF INTERVIEWS TODAY, FIRST DOOR IN ALLEY
. The alley referred to was almost invisible, a right turn into a pedestrian thoroughfare narrow enough to touch the wall on both sides without needing much of a reach.

I dived into the alley, found the door and went in.

I
T WAS DARK AND
cramped when I closed the door behind me. Bolts were at the top and bottom and I took the liberty of pushing both of them. Maybe that would slow down the pursuit.

Pungent aromas of hot pepper sauces and cooking tomatoes brought with them more than a hint of garlic. I turned in that direction and a voice called out, “In here!” I went that way, passing a door into the kitchen and into a tiny office that had never been sullied with anything remotely resembling order or organization. Papers, files, letters, bills, books were everywhere. Shelves were stacked to overflowing and so was the table where a man sat.

He needed a shave and he had not spent a lot of time combing his hair. He was broad-shouldered and heavy. His face was jowly and he had bushy eyebrows. When he looked up at me, his eyes were bright but hard.

“I’m Jasper,” he said. I said nothing though he seemed to expect some word from me. “What d’you expect? You’re in Jasper’s Restaurant.”

“I came in by the side door, down the alley.”

“Have to,” he grunted, “front door’s locked.” He motioned to a chair. It was the only other one in the small room. I sat in it, by the door. He pushed some papers away and faced me.

“You’re here for the chef interview.”

“I am.”

He gave me a look that suggested I had lost the job already but he said abruptly, “Suppose a customer, a big man locally, wants a banquet—something special, something really different. What would you offer him?”

“Soft-shell crabs with crawfish sauce—”

“He doesn’t want seafood.”

“Leg of lamb with okra—”

“Not many people like lamb.”

I moved into another gear. “Stewed tripe with pig’s feet and—”

His eyes betrayed a flicker of interest but he said, “Offal’s not that popular.”

“Pork chops smothered in onions with—”

“Guy’s got a thing about trichinosis.”

“He’s hard to please, isn’t he?” I said conversationally.

“He’s a customer.”

“And they are always right. Even when they’re wrong. What about beef tongue with brown gravy and—”

“Never been able to persuade people here to eat tongue. Few of ’em think of it as food.”

“Venison, roasted, with juniper berries—”

“His wife’s favorite movie is
Bambi.
”

He was trying to get my goat but I knew better than to suggest that alternate meat, delicious as it may be as long as it is no more than ten weeks old.

“Wild goose with apricot-and-rice dressing,” I said.

“Where can you get wild goose here?”

“Go on a wild-goose chase—through the markets, that is.” I was getting a little annoyed with him but I didn’t want to be tossed into the dangerous world outside just yet. It might still be populated with pursuers. I smiled amiably. “You can get anything in this city.”

“What would you serve with it?”

“Roasted potatoes and yams.”

He leaned back a little farther. “You talk kinda funny.”

“Always have. Think I picked it up from my mother.”

“You’re not from these parts.” It sounded accusing, the way he said it.

“I’ve been around.”

“Yeah, but folks around here have got their own special likes. Know how to cook N’Awlins red beans and rice?”

“There are more recipes for that than there are Krewes at the Carnival,” I said. “What I’d do, I’d soak the beans overnight. I’d cook some country-smoked sausage and a hamhock in olive oil, then toss in garlic, onion, celery and parsley. I’d drain the beans and put them in, cook for a few minutes. I’d add seasonings—”

“What seasonings?” he demanded.

“Bay leaves, thyme, basil and Louisiana Hot Sauce with water and salt. I’d bring it to the boil, simmer about two hours at low temperature. Some people like it thick and creamy—if I knew they did, I’d take out about a quarter of the beans, mash them and put them back.”

I couldn’t tell from his expression how close my method came to whatever he considered as the ideal but he didn’t comment. I took the opportunity of the momentary break to listen for sounds of a door opening or anyone else in the restaurant, but I could hear nothing.

Jasper said, “Lots of folk like the traditional New Orleans way of serving red beans. Know what that is?”

“Opinions vary widely,” I said. “How about over fluffy steamed rice with buttered French bread and a tossed green salad? French dressing, of course.”

He was a tough interviewer. He gave me no clue from his reactions because he didn’t have any. Not a nod or even a grunt. As I wasn’t really looking for a job, I thought of tossing a few smart-aleck remarks his way but, in a way, I was enjoying this. He wasn’t finished, though, and he came at me again.

“Still get a lot of calls for fried chicken but all this talk about fat and cholesterol and such has made a lot of people leery of deep-frying. What do you say to that?”

“I’d put the chicken pieces in a marinade of eggs, milk, onions and hot sauce, leave it overnight. I’d crush a mixture of potato chips and corn flakes, season them with a blend of garlic, thyme, basil and oregano. I’d drain off the marinade, roll the chicken pieces in the mix and bake. They should be nicely golden brown in thirty to forty minutes.”

“What would you serve with it?”

“Creamed potatoes go great—I’d use yogurt in place of cream. A side dish of green peas would go well, too.”

I used his temporary silence to see if any other sounds were intruding on it but all was quiet. I began to feel a little guilty about pretending to be a candidate for the job when I had no intention of taking it but he didn’t look that busy anyway.

He solved the problem for me. “Got another guy coming in later. He’s had local experience.”

I felt better. A local man would know more than I did about Cajun and Creole cooking, white and black beans, bluefish and crawfish and pecan pie.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Got a phone number where I can reach you?”

“I’ll call you.” I didn’t preface it with
Don’t call me.

He nodded. I felt a slight disappointment that he hadn’t offered me a fabulous salary and insisted that I start that afternoon but, after all, a minute ago I had felt ashamed of myself for taking up his time. I was grateful for the shelter from my pursuer and made my own way to the door. I opened it cautiously and looked out. No one was near and the tiny alley went in the other direction as well. The street there looked just as busy so I went that way and caught a cruising cab. The ride back to the Hotel Monteleone was uneventful and frequent backward views were reassuring.

My first action upon being back in the room was to call Lieutenant Delancey. I was put through to his cell phone at once.

“What’s up?” he wanted to know.

“Somebody’s following me.”

“Yeah, it’s Larry Mortensen.”

“You know?”

“Sure.”

“How? … Oh, are you having me followed?”

“For your own protection. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you while you’re in our fair city. Scotland Yard would never forgive us.”

“They do tend to be a nonforgiving organization,” I agreed. “Are you learning anything?”

“Not much about you. You don’t go to many exciting places, do you? As for Mortensen, well, he’s getting more attention from me every day. He may have been in with his brother on this all along.”

“So he may lead me to the book? And you to the killer? I take it you’re assuming he didn’t kill his own brother?”

“For the moment. I did have a couple cases in New York with sisters, though … So what’s new your end?”

“While you’re having me watched, are you aware that Mortensen isn’t the only one following me?”