No Reservations Required (6 page)

“Then I guess Margie saw an apparition this afternoon,” said Bram.

“Maybe she did.” It wouldn’t be the first time Margie had brought up Nathan just to sour her father’s mood.

“Oh, right,” said Margie, tossing her cigarette over the rail. “I’ve got twenty-twenty vision, you know. I know who I saw. But hey, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Dad, chill the hell out, okay? Sophie didn’t do anything wrong.”

Just what Sophie needed. Margie torpedoes the evening, then comes off looking like a saint by defending the guilty party.

Bram took a deep breath, then let it out. “Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry, Soph, but I just get a little crazy when that guy’s name is mentioned.”

“Kind of like Pavlov’s dog,” said Margie.

“You can shut up now,” said Bram.

The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Bram, grabbing the cordless off one of the glass tables. “Baldric.” He listened for a moment. Then, glancing at Sophie, he handed her the phone. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Who else? Your boyfriend.”

This couldn’t be happening. “Bram—”

“Take it!” he ordered, shoving the phone at her. “Margie, why don’t I buy you dinner. There’s a place I’ve been wanting you to see.”

“Bram, no,” pleaded Sophie. “This will just take a second.”

“Oh, no,” said Bram, opening the screen door and waiting until Margie walked through. “I wouldn’t dream of rushing you. And this way, you two will have complete privacy.”

“I don’t want privacy.”

“Well, you got it.”

10

Bram and Margie walked the six blocks to the Rookery Club in total silence. Margie tried to introduce a couple of subjects on the way down in the elevator, but Bram couldn’t concentrate on anything other than what had just happened. He loathed himself when he responded like a jealous jerk. He knew Sophie loved him, but what he didn’t know—what he’d
never
really known for sure—was how deep her feelings went for Nathan.

It was hard for Bram to shake the sense that Sophie wasn’t being totally honest with him. From what Bram could tell—and he’d talked to Nathan personally only a few times—he appeared to be everything Bram wasn’t. Rough around the edges, but appealingly rough. A poet in his youth who’d become the picture of the rugged outdoorsman. An internationally respected chef. And more to the point, Sophie’s first love. First loves, especially when they were never resolved, still had power. And it was that power, the lure and romance of unrequited love, that Bram feared.

As they passed Rice Park, Margie slipped her arm through Bram’s and said, “I hate Sophie for what she’s doing to you.”

“Don’t hate her, honey. We’ll work it out.”

“Why doesn’t she just make a clear decision about Nathan and then let it go?”

“She says she has.”

“Then why’s he always hanging around?”

“I don’t know that he is.”

“Well, I’ve seen him twice in the last week. That must mean something.”

“Was he with Sophie?”

“No. But why else would he come to the hotel?”

Why indeed, thought Bram. If he’d stuck around instead of blowing a gasket, he might not be so completely in the dark right now.

“I just think you deserve better.”

“I already have the best, honey. If I have to fight Nathan for her, I will.”

“God, that is so totally Neanderthal, Dad. You’re like a gorilla in a forest making
uhga uhga
sounds to prove you’re the alpha male.”

Bram laughed. “Nice image.”

“My father is more evolved than that.”

“Don’t kid yourself. When it comes to love and war, nobody’s evolved.”

They continued on in silence.

As they passed through the wrought-iron gate and headed up the steps to the club, Margie asked where they were.

“You’ve heard of the Rookery Club, right?”

“Not really.”

Bram briefly explained the history. Once inside, he stopped to talk to Sheldon Larr, the maître d’, to see if they could get a dinner reservation. Sheldon told him there would be a twenty-minute wait.

“Well,” said Bram, looking around, “do you want a drink or a guided tour of the building?”

Margie glanced into the Wackenhut room. “Omigod, there’s Mrs. Josefowicz. We did her daughter’s wedding last month.” She waved and plunged into the crowd. “Mrs. Josefowicz, hi! It’s Margie Baldric!”

Bram smiled. Margie was just like him—a born schmoozer.

Seeing that Margie was already talking up a storm, Bram decided to check out the action in the De Gustabus room, a large pantry off the kitchen that Vince Parillo had turned into a dining room.

Within the Rookery Club were smaller groups based on specific gastronomic interests. For instance, there was a wine club that met the third Wednesday of every month. Then there was a bread-making club, an Italian food lovers club, a coffee and tea tasting club, and on and on. The strangest group of all was De Gustabus. So strange in fact that it had only three members—two now that Bob Fabian was dead. The reason for the limited interest was the kind of cuisine De Gustabus pursued.

Bob Fabian, Lyle Boerichter, and Vince Parillo had met in Viet Nam. What drew them together years later was a love of, well, just plain weird food—food that most Americans would find not only disgusting but downright dangerous. All three men traced their love of odd cuisine to the years they spent in South-east Asia.

Bram had done a tour in Viet Nam himself, but he’d never much liked the local food. He had grown up eating tuna noodle casserole, hamburgers, and grilled cheese sandwiches. As a young army grunt, he was by no means a culinary adventurer, although he found that he was fascinated by it now. Not that he wanted to eat pygmy iguana paté, snake soup, or lamprey stew, but the menus never failed to intrigue him. So much so that he often dropped in on the De Gustabus room to see what new loathsome beast the men were eating.

Above the door to the small dining room, Vince had placed the sign NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED. That was obvious. There was no stampede to get a seat at the table, only to be served a chocolate cricket torte. Vince was not only the head chef at the club, he was also the culinary inspiration for most of the De Gustabus dishes. The “normal” club members forgave him his culinary idiosyncrasies because he was such a marvelous chef.

Tonight, when Bram entered, he found only one man present. Lyle Boerichter was an airline pilot for Sunrise Airlines. He was husky, maybe five-nine, with thinning red hair and a florid, bulldog face. The lights in the room were turned low. At the end of the long table was a picture frame with black crepe paper draped around it. Bram squinted to get a better look. It was a picture of Bob Fabian.

Lyle sat with a bottle of rye whiskey in front of him. His head rested on his hand, elbow on the table, and in the other hand, he held a shot glass. When he looked up and saw Bram standing in the doorway, he gave a faint smile. “Hey, Baldric. Sit down. Join me.” He lifted his glass.

“You and Vince not having dinner tonight?” It was Monday, their regular night to dine together—if you could call it dining.

“Vince is in the kitchen making us some sashimi. It was Bob’s favorite. We thought we’d eat, hoist a few rounds, wish him Godspeed on his heavenly journey, wherever the hell that is.”

Bram pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re not a religious man?”

“Nope. Not after what I’ve seen in my life. I don’t believe in heaven and I don’t believe in hell—unless you call this life hell.”

He seemed depressed. “I’m sorry about Bob. He was a great guy.”

“The best,” said Lyle, pouring himself another shot. “Now, Bobby, he believed in heaven. No doubt in his mind. He said Valerie was there just waiting for him to join her.” Tipping his head, he tossed back the drink. “God love him, I hope he was right.”

Vince burst into the room through the swinging kitchen door. He was carrying a small oriental platter. “Baldric, hi. You joining us tonight?”

Bram shrugged. He liked sashimi. Why the hell not. “Sure.”

“Cool,” said Vince, glancing at Lyle with an amused smile on his face. “You want a glass of wine? Beer?”

“I’m fine,” said Bram. He glanced at his watch. “I’m here with my daughter. We’ve got dinner reservations in a few minutes.”

“Well, then consider this your appetizer.” Like Vince’s, Lyle’s smile grew amused.

Bram wondered what the hell was so funny. “What’s the sauce?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t pulverized pig genitals.

“Soy sauce,” answered Vince. “Chopped chives and grated radish.”

Vince was one of these lean, sinewy types who could eat anything and never gain a pound. Bram hated him on principle. But Vince was also totally bald, his head shaped like a hundred-watt bulb. Bram’s hair, although starting to gray around the temples, was still thick and chocolate brown. Maybe that evened the score.

Vince grabbed a wine bottle off a small buffet table, pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and began to open it. “Did Lyle tell you we’re putting together a reward?”

“Reward?” repeated Bram.

“For information leading the cops to Bob’s murderer,” said Lyle. “Unless I find him first. In that case, the bastard’s history. His body will never be found.”

Vince shot him a cautionary look. “We’ve already got close to twenty-five thousand dollars. You want to donate, just let Sheldon Larr know. He’s keeping the kitty.”

“Sure,” said Bram. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I guess we were the last two people to see old Bobby alive,” said Lyle, his head sinking back down on his hand. “Except for the guy who gunned him down.”

“You were?” said Bram.

“We had a kind of spur-of-the-moment meal here at the club,” said Vince. “Nothing special. It was a hard night for Bob. It was the anniversary of Valerie’s death. He didn’t want to be alone, so he called Lyle and we arranged a dinner. If we’d just kept him here awhile longer, maybe—” Vince looked down at the bottle in his hand. He’d cut himself somehow. Blood oozed from a gash in his thumb.

“Shit,” said Vince. He pulled a work cloth off his apron and pressed it against the cut.

“Any idea who did it?” asked Bram.

Lyle grunted. “Police asked me the same question.”

“You talked to the police?”

“We both did,” said Vince. “We were the last people to see him that night, so that automatically made us ‘persons of interest.’ ”

“Jesus,” snapped Lyle. “All that new government terminology. We’ve turned into a friggin’ Fascist state, but nobody sees it. The St. Paul PD has been all over Vince and me. Like we would have shot Bob.
Us.
His best friends. I hate this government.”

“You’re ranting,” said Vince.

“So what if I am? What did they ever do for me?”

“They taught you how to fly.”

“Well, there is that, yeah.”

“Here,” said Vince, pushing the plate closer to Bram. “Try some.”

Bram dipped a piece of the sashimi in the sauce and took a bite. “It’s good. The fish is kind of chewy.”

“That’s because there’s no fat in it,” said Vince.

“What kind of fish is it?”

“Like we said, it was Bob’s favorite,” said Vince.

“But what
kind
is it?” Bram was getting a hinky feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Japanese,” said Lyle. “Actually, this one isn’t precisely Japanese, but it’s a hugely popular fish in Japan. A delicacy. In Tokyo alone, there are hundreds of restaurants that specialize in this dish—for those who can afford the price.”

Vince nodded. “Did I ever tell you that in my late twenties, I was trained as a chef in a Japanese restaurant? Big honor. They thought I had real talent. I used to go to the Haedomari Market in Shimonoseki every morning, where most of the country’s catch was sold. Boy, that was a trip.”

“No, you never told me,” said Bram, gazing warily at the plate. “You also haven’t given me the name of the fish.”

“It’s called fungu,” said Vince, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Fungus?”

“No,
fungu
,” said Lyle. “It’s a type of blowfish.”

“I thought blowfish were poisonous.”

“Some are,” said Lyle.

“But this one isn’t.”

“No,” said Vince. “It’s highly poisonous. That’s part of the allure. In Japan, fungu is the ultimate edible. In the wrong chef’s hands, this fish can kill you. It’s all in how you carve it up. See, the toxin starts by blocking nerve impulses, and then it quickly shuts down the entire nervous system. Death usually follows shortly thereafter. Kind of a horrific death, too, when you think about it. Lots of dizziness, nausea, stomach pain, then comes the convulsions and on and on. Actually, you know you’ve been poisoned when you feel a little numbness in your lips and the tip of your tongue.”

Bram was seized with dread. “How come you guys haven’t eaten any?”

“We were waiting to see if you had any reaction,” said Vince, casually sipping his wine.

Bram swallowed hard, then stared at them. “We’re being cautious,” said Lyle.

“Feel any tingling?” asked Vince.

“You guys are nuts!” said Bram.

“Millions of people eat this every year and never have a problem,” said Vince, scratching his bald head.

“Yup,” said Lyle. “I’ve eaten it dozens of times.”

“You have?” said Bram. Was that a tingle he felt in his upper lip?

“Sure. Here.” Vince took a big bite. “You passed the test, Baldric.”

Lyle lifted his shot glass. “You’re one of us now, pal. We die together, or we die alone.” He dropped one of the little rolls into his mouth. “We’ll expect to see you every Monday.”

“What’s on the menu next week?” asked Bram.

“Well,” said Vince, spreading a napkin in his lap, “we’re starting out with crudité and a peppery mealworm dip. And then the main course will be deep-fried field rat with rice pilaf and a hearty jellyfish salad. I think I might make some ground cricket sugar cookies if I get the time.”

“Oh, I love those,” said Lyle, stifling a burp.

Bram glanced at his watch. “I, ah—” He pushed away from the table and got up. “I’ll have to think about it. I better go now. My daughter will be wondering what happened to me.”

“Remember,” said Lyle, smiling up at him. “No reservations required. Come to think of it, that exactly sums up my philosophy of life. How about you, Vince?”

“Oh, yeah. Those are definitely words to live by.”