Paradime (5 page)

It still
is
desire, though, and there’s empirical (if ephemeral) evidence for it. But there’ll be no happy resolution here – not at 8 a.m., not with the caffeine rush and
Morning Edition
on the radio and the screeching baby next door and the looming ones and zeros on Kate’s laptop all so determinedly ranged against it. I wish I could transmit something of what I’m feeling to her, but I know it would get too complicated too fast and end up derailing her morning. So I just decamp. I give her a kiss as I leave – a rushed one, little more than a peck – and tell her I hope her assignment goes well.

Outside it’s sunny, but there’s already a thickening in the air. I walk briskly along 10th Street for several blocks, heading west, and turn right onto Broadway. This isn’t anything different from what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks, but it feels different. It feels like something fundamental has shifted, and I’m now faced with a choice – either I slide further into the shit, or I wake the fuck up and start looking for a job. Because even if I get my last pay cheque from Gideon, that’s it, there’ll be no more money coming in. So it’s really quite simple. I have to get my act together. I have to start scouring job sites and sending out copies of my résumé.

And I have to put Afghanistan behind me.

I stop at a bench in Union Square and sit down, the city swirling all around me, noise, traffic, streaks of colour . . . honking horns, snippets of conversation, dogs, dog walkers, ringtones, skin tones. Some days you don’t even notice this stuff, it washes over you, and others it becomes so dense, so distracting, it’s all you see. I close my eyes for a few seconds, dreading the prospect of actually having to look for work. The first time I ever compiled a résumé was for the Gideon job. Any other jobs I’ve had I got through referrals. That was how I got Mouzon. That was how I got the three or four jobs I’d worked back in Asheville. Someone gives your name out, they vouch for you, you go meet a guy, you talk, next thing you know you’re wearing checked pants and dicing carrots.

Old school, which, I guess, is called that for a reason.

I take out my phone and start searching for listings. It’d be easier to do this at home using the laptop, but I’m not at home and I want to get a move on. In any case, I have an app here that can record whatever notes, numbers or links I might possibly need. Looking down, I try to focus, to shut out all the surrounding distractions, the white noise, but less than a minute in and the fucking phone itself rings.

I stare at it for a moment, annoyed, but also uncertain. It’s a blocked number.

I answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Danny? Hi, it’s Phil Coover.’

Union Square tilts a little on its axis.

‘Oh . . . Phil.’

‘Hey, glad I caught you, I’m just heading to the airport and I wanted to talk. So. I sat down with Artie, and that thing? It’s sorted, no problem. Last cheque, plus a little extra thrown in. Call it severance.’

‘Jesus, Phil . . .’

‘It’s only fair, am I right? At least, that’s how
I
look at it.’

My stomach is churning. I glance up and see a small Asian woman gliding by with a dog that’s nearly bigger than she is. Then, passing in the other direction, two middle-aged guys in suits.

‘Phil, I don’t—’

‘And something else, Danny. I made a couple of calls. There’s a place on 44th Street, Barcadero. Get over there this morning and ask for Stanley. He’ll fix you up with some work.’

I close my eyes. ‘Phil, how . . . I don’t . . . how do I—’

‘No need. It’s my job. Which I’ll lose if I miss this flight. Okay, so you got that? Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street. Best of luck, Danny. Best of luck with everything.’

And that’s it, he’s gone.

Fuck
.

Opening my eyes, I lean back on the bench and gaze up at the sky, which is a hazy blue. What just happened? Another job referral? I’m excited about it, my heart is racing, but at the same time I feel uneasy. I sit forward again, and, as I look around, something occurs to me.
Am I still under surveillance?
There were those two guys in suits. And right now, in my direct line of vision, I see someone who could easily be watching me. The whole idea is pretty absurd, though. So maybe Coover had just said that as a way to spook me, to make me think it was true.

In which case it worked.

But again, if the outcome is what he said, if he actually delivers – the cheque, some form of severance, an actual job – who cares?

Kate, probably, but that’s not going to stop me.

I stand up and move away from the bench, then head back onto Broadway.

Next landmark, the Flatiron, but Coover said ‘this morning’, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. I know restaurants, however, I know their circadian rhythms, and for sure there are guys up there right now taking in deliveries – the crates of produce, the sacks of flour, the vacuum-packed slabs of meat. In the kitchen someone is halfway through zesting fifty lemons and someone else is hauling a twenty-quart container of chicken stock out of the walk-in. There’s a guy out by the loading dock having a cigarette and another one in the poky little backroom office tearing his hair out over prep lists. But it might still be too early for this Stanley individual. He’s probably at the gym doing kettlebell workouts. Either that or he’s at home slumped in front of his medicine cabinet, nursing a vicious hangover and trying to decide what pills he needs to get through the day.

I’ll stop off someplace, get coffee and a bagel, sit in a booth for a while. Look out the window, read a paper, then show up at around ten, ten thirty.

Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street.

I’ve got this.

The first striking thing about Barcadero is how high-end it is. Given its location, this shouldn’t come as any surprise, but it does. On my way there, I look it up and find out that it’s been open for more than two years. And that’s the second thing. Restaurants open and close all the time in New York, but if you pay attention to this stuff a joint like Barcadero would at least be on your radar. And it’s definitely not on mine.

Though who am I kidding? Not only have I been out of the loop for months, it’s not as if any loop I ever
was
in would mean I’d be hearing about a place like this. Anyway, with executive chef Jacques Marcotte running the kitchen, I’m guessing that Barcadero is conservative and pricy with the kind of atmosphere that food critics feel compelled to call ‘rarefied’.

One of the kitchen guys lets me into the vestibule area, and, as I’m waiting for Stanley to appear, I look out over the main room. Turns out I’m not wrong, and I quickly conclude that I’m wasting my time. I was happy to get the referral, and maybe it’ll kick-start something else, but I can’t see it – they’re not going to hire a guy whose last job was working at a military
chow hall
. Jesus. I mean, Mouzon was a nice place, okay, but it was small and very casual, and before that . . . ‘Danny?’

I turn. The man approaching me is short and wiry, though I’d say it’s more kettlebells than pills. He radiates such an immediate and intense energy that I’m almost afraid I’ll get electrocuted if I shake his hand.

‘Stanley Podnick,’ he says.

We shake. I survive.

‘Come on.’

He leads me into the dining area, pulls out a chair at the nearest two-seater and sits down. He indicates for me to do the same and places a cloth-bound notebook and a fountain pen in front of him. He looks at his watch.

‘Okay, Danny,’ he says, opening the notebook, ‘we have a situation this morning. A callout.’

I lean forward slightly, and swallow. ‘A callout?’

‘Yeah, one of my prep guys, Yannis, he says it’s an ulcer, peptic, perforated, I don’t know . . .’ He looks at me quickly, rolls his eyes, then goes back to the notebook. ‘What am I going to do, call him a liar? Anyway, I’ve tried all my covers, and no dice. Bottom line, I’m in a bit of a pickle.’ He looks at me again. ‘So how about it?’

‘I . . . I don’t—’

‘What? Is there somewhere you have to be?’

‘No, it’s just, I thought there’d be more of an interview process.’

Stanley Podnick looks at his watch again and picks up the fountain pen. ‘I don’t have the luxury. Besides, you come highly recommended.’ He taps his pen at the open page of his notebook. ‘Two years at Mouzon, the DFAC stuff. It’s clear you know your way round a kitchen.’

What the fuck? He’s got my résumé?

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s about the only thing I
do
know.’

‘So?’

I shrug. ‘Just like that?’

He leans in towards me, and whispers. ‘Danny, I’m in a bind. Plus, like I said, you come recommended.’ He pauses, holding my gaze. ‘What do you want? This is above my pay grade. For
now
. You fuck up in my kitchen, though? That’s a different story. Anyway, seeing as how you’d be prepping here but you worked the line at Mouzon, this would actually be a step down for you. In theory.’ He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the grandeur of the room. ‘Though not in reality, of course. In reality, this would be a fantastic opportunity for you.’ He flips the notebook closed and puts it under his arm. Shifting sideways in his chair, he looks at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Okay. Great. And thanks.’

‘Let’s just hope I’m the one thanking
you
in ten hours.’ He hops up. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’

The kitchen at Barcadero is pretty big, not chow-hall big but bigger than any regular place I’ve ever worked in. When I see the expanse of stainless-steel surfaces, the long station racks, the vent hoods, the enormous ovens, burners, gas ranges and cooling units, I realise that this is as close as I’ll probably ever get to my dream of working at a place like the Four Seasons. Stanley gets me an apron, a jacket and a pair of clogs. He conducts a lightning-fast tour of the kitchen and then introduces me to Pablo, one of the other prep guys. The place is still pretty quiet, so I have a chance to get my bearings.

I’ve met a hundred guys like Pablo – he’s late twenties, handsome in that chiselled, unshaven way, and barely speaks any English. But it becomes apparent within minutes that he’s not an asshole, which is good news for me. Because he easily could have been – protective of Yannis and ready to pound my balls non-stop for the whole shift. Instead, he lends me some knives and sets me up at a station peeling veg, easing me into it. And in his broken English he gives what turns out to be a pretty funny running commentary on the entire place as it slowly comes to life – as the dishwasher moves about, turning on all the equipment, as the sous chef arrives, followed by the line cooks, then the garde manger, then Jacques Marcotte himself, as the tasks multiply and the real cooking gets under way, and finally – too busy after that – as actual service begins.

Every time he does a pass through the kitchen, Stanley checks up on me, but there’s never a problem. If I’m finding it a challenge, it’s only in terms of volume and pacing. There’s a clear rhythm here, like in any kitchen, and you just have to learn it. But there’s nothing I can’t do, no task or procedure I’m unsure of or have to ask about.

At one point, I get a ten-minute break and go outside to the loading dock, where I turn on my phone and send a text to Kate: ‘Hope the assignment’s going well. Good news. Found work. Already halfway through my first shift.’

I stand there for a while and listen to the hum and roar of the city. I haven’t had time to think about any of this, about Phil Coover and the referral and Stanley Podnick having my details, or about the fact that I’m
working
. But it’s fine. I’m tired, and relieved, and there’ll be plenty of time to dissect all of this later on.

Kate replies: ‘Amazing!!! Can’t wait to hear x.’

Back inside, I go along the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. As I walk by the pick-up window, I glance out at the dining area, which is slammed at the moment, a sea of business suits, tanned faces and mostly grey hair. What are they all talking about? The food? I doubt it. It’ll more likely be money, how you get it, how you multiply it, how you keep it, a hundred variations on
that
conversation – a hundred out of the million that take place in restaurants all over the city every day.

Back at my prep station, I realise that from where I’m standing I have a direct line of sight into the dining area. It’s only a sliver, the rest of the view is blocked by a large vent hood on one side and a bank of refrigerators on the other – but still, it’s a welcome distraction. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, because I was concentrating so hard. It’s an angle on the room, a corner of it, one table, three people at the moment, but it could be four, a static shot, medium close, without sound – not much, but something to play around with when the monotony kicks in.

By the time my shift ends, I’m destroyed, mainly because I’m out of the habit – three and a half weeks of idleness is a long time in this game. Without Pablo, it would have been a lot harder, and I thank him.

And then Stanley thanks
me
. ‘That was impressive. You fit right in.’

I nod.

‘So, you up for this again tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’

‘And after that I guess it’ll depend on how Yannis is doing, but . . . you know, I have your number.’

I nod again and tell him I’m available.

Outside on the street, Pablo suggests going for a drink, but I know how that one usually plays out, so I pass and take the subway home.

When I come through the door, I see Kate at the table, laptop open in front of her, papers everywhere. She’s slumped forward a bit, her eyes are red, and she looks pretty much the way I feel.

But as I’m closing the door, she pulls her chair back and moves towards me. We meet halfway for a quick hug. Then she sits down again, I stand by the refrigerator, and we talk. For the first few minutes it’s all about
my
day – the work, how I came by it, Barcadero, what kind of place it is, what the prospects are.

Tell me, tell me.

And I do.

But not having mentioned anything yesterday about Phil Coover, I decide not to mention anything about him tonight. I have to improvise a detail or two, but I manage to pull it off and once I’m
at
the restaurant it’s easy: there’s the rarefied atmosphere to describe, there’s energetic Stanley, Yannis’s ulcer, the kitchen, Pablo, the routine, the food, plus the fact that this could turn out to be what Stanley called a fantastic opportunity . . .

Then I ask how her day went, how she got on with the coding assignment, and, when she looks up at me, I see that she’s got tears in her eyes. ‘Kate? What is it?’

She clenches her fist. ‘Nothing. It’s—’

‘
Kate
.’ I go over, pull out the chair next to hers and sit directly in front of her. ‘Kate, what’s wrong? Is it the assignment?’

‘No, I gave that up after twenty minutes—’

‘Well look, who cares, it doesn’t—’

‘No, I could
do
it, I
will
do it. I just couldn’t concentrate. Not today.’ She uses her sleeve to wipe away the tears. Then she looks straight at me. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my mind, Danny, that image . . .’

‘What—’

‘Those two guys lying dead on the floor of a freezer. With their heads smashed in? It’s . . . it’s
insane
.’ Her face crumples again.

‘Oh Jesus, Kate. I’m sorry.’

She takes a deep, gulping breath. ‘It’s not
your
fault. And you had to tell me. It’s just that . . . I don’t—’

She stops here, uncertain how to proceed, and looks away, over my shoulder, as if the rest of her sentence might be somewhere behind me, on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge, or scrawled across the wall. In blood.

‘Kate,’ I say, feeling sicker with each passing second, ‘
what?
’

She looks back at me. ‘I don’t think we can just . . .
unknow
this. It happened. You saw it. It was covered up, and that’s wrong.’

‘Kate . . .’

‘Kate
nothing
. I mean, you didn’t invent it, did you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, then. We have to
do
something.’

‘I thought we had this conversation yesterday. I don’t have any—’

‘Danny, look,’ – she reaches for a sheaf of papers beside her laptop – ‘I’ve been online all day, looking stuff up, printing articles. It’s crazy, I know, but just bear with me.’

As she flicks through the pages, I catch a glimpse of the Gideon logo on one of them, and my stomach sinks. She pulls a single page out and studies it for a second.

‘Okay, get this,’ she says. ‘Over the past fifteen years there have been nine separate whistle-blower cases involving Gideon – and we’re talking everything: fraud, contract violations, falsifying accounts, whatever, but also instances of sexual harassment and even human trafficking –
nine
, and those are just the ones that have come to trial. They’ve got pretty damn good at defending them too, because with the first couple they ended up incurring huge fines, but after that—’

‘Kate, stop.’

She does, but only for a second. ‘These people are unbelievable, Danny, and they’re getting away with it. I mean, Jesus, from what you told me, they’re literally getting away with murder.’

‘
Kate
. . .’

She turns to the laptop and clicks something. ‘Look at this.’

I look. It’s a YouTube video. She hits play, and as we wait the standard one or two seconds of dead time for it to start, I sigh loudly. But it comes out sounding more like a deep shiver. Of dread. Which is also how it feels. Kate doesn’t notice because she’s too intently focused on what’s about to appear on the screen. This turns out to be a talking head on some studio panel, a middle-aged guy, beardy, academic, bifocals on a chain.

‘So, these defence contractors,’ he’s saying, ‘they’ve developed quite an attitude. I mean, it’s not just that they think they’re above the law, which they often
are
, it’s that by aggressive lobbying, by packing government advisory committees, and by other frankly less than ethical means, they think they can actually make the laws, shape them, customise them to their own requirements. We’re talking about billions of taxpayer dollars being funnelled into a sector that isn’t accountable, that isn’t part of any chain of command, a sector that operates outside the jurisdiction of the United States and is therefore free to formulate what effectively amounts to its own foreign policy. So real reform is needed here, you know, and I think people should start demanding that reform, they should contact their elected representatives, they should get on the phone—’

‘Kate, who is this guy?’

‘—they should send emails, texts, tweets, whatever it takes, in order to—’

She taps the space bar to pause it. The beardy man freezes, silenced mid-sentence. Without looking at me, Kate says, ‘It’s Harold Brunker, he’s a law professor at NYU. He represented some of the Occupy people after that thing on the bridge. He’s—’

‘A law professor?’

She looks at me. ‘Yeah.’

‘And what’s this?’ I nod at the screen. ‘What’s he on? Some kind of news show?’

‘It’s . . . I don’t know, it’s just . . . a clip I came across, it’s—’

‘Great. A clip on the Internet.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A
clip
. On the
Internet
.’ If I wasn’t so tired, I’m sure I’d be able to do a better job of muffling the contempt in my voice. Shit, if I wasn’t so tired, I’m sure I wouldn’t even be talking.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means . . . learn how to code on the Internet, Kate, fine, that makes sense, maybe, but the law? You think you’re going to learn about the law by looking up random websites and watching fucking YouTube clips?’

‘
What?
’