Jacob was on the street again. It was dark, thank God that day of fear shuddering to an end.
The gunman had disappeared in the confusion and the room was quickly evacuated. As Jacob descended the flight of wooden steps, armed security men from the downstairs lobby barged past. Julia took his arm there, thanked him for trying to protect her, asked him to keep Wednesday free.
'I'll be in touch before then. Okay?'
'Jesus! What just happened? What about the police?'
Jacob was breathless, the long night and startling day placing massive stresses on his heart.
'Just get away, Jacob. You don't need to be seen by the police. Am I right?'
'You're right,' he said, rubbing at his wrists. 'I didn't see the shooter anyway. Did you? Did you know him?'
'I didn't see anything. All I know is that a harmless old man has been cruelly murdered,' Julia said, her voice cracking. 'It's awful.'
Jacob felt an urge to kiss her cheek, so he did. She smiled at him and he went for the elevator, sharing it down with about ten more pale, silent people, their eyes full of fear and loss, the loss of a golden moment, a little shaft of pleasure in a world gone mad.
Outside. The gas fumes had had the day to accumulate, so the air burned Jacob's throat. The traffic noise also seemed a few decibels higher, or it could have been the gunshots still ringing, bouncing around his queasy brain. His iPhone chimed. The auction house.
'Mr Johnson, your payment has cleared and you may collect your purchase at any time. The collections department is open until five today if that suits.'
Christ, what was I thinking?
'Oh. Okay. Thank you.'
'And you will bring photo ID?'
'Of course.'
'Goodbye and thank you for your custom.'
Sophie. That's what I was thinking.
Some direction at least, figured Jacob. Something to do. Keep moving forward. Bring it to Sophie? Nah, she'd be working. Always working.
He strolled the twelve blocks to the auction house. Over the first couple of blocks, the adrenaline wore off and the latent tang of the Chateau Margaux dissipated.
His physical energy, his actual ability to maintain motion fading fast, Jacob reached Christie's at a quarter before five. Some viewings were concluding, good interest in an upcoming auction of Oriental art, massive growth area. This reminded him about the cover story. Jacob concluded his business quickly. The Nostradamus cookbook was shown to him, with its yellowing paper, its frayed bindings, its ink of soot, turpentine and walnut oil, its calling from the Dark Ages. Jacob swore he felt a hum, a crackle of electricity from it when he gently touched the cover. This contact, this buzz, this was why he loved his work. The book was placed between layers of bubble wrap, secured in a cardboard document box and finally placed in a leather briefcase, combination lock activated.
'The case is with our compliments, sir. Code is two-seven-three.'
A fifty dollar briefcase from your twenty grand commission. Easy. 'Thanks.'
'Enjoy your purchase, sir.'
Back on the street, autumn evening closing, sidewalks writhing, city pulsing. Only this time, Jacob had a book worth over a hundred thousand dollars in his hand. How many of these random strangers would kill me for this briefcase? He started to walk uptown, not with any sense of purpose, just so he wouldn't appear aimless or confused or vulnerable.
Because he was all of these things.
So he didn't spot the man who stood half a block away, the P226 pistol in his coat pocket, the handle gripped like it would break, only half a magazine left.
I'm calling Sophie.
He felt like back when he was fifteen years old, way down in Florida, just far enough from the beach, just close enough to the swamp, and he'd saved up to buy a pretty ring for a girl on Valentine's Day. Sterling silver, Claddagh design, hallmarked. Pretty. He didn't tell mom or dad, they wouldn't understand. But waiting to see her, to see Emma, he felt like his heart would just explode.
So he called Sophie and was surprised when she answered.
'Hi Soph. How are you?'
'At work. Busy.' She paused. 'Not busy really.'
'I'd love to see you.'
'Can you come over now? We could eat?'
Rod could deal with dinner service, he was on a roll. She needed to stop. To just get out of the kitchen.
'I'd love that. I'm only a few blocks away. I'll grab a cab. See you in maybe ten?'
'Can you give me a little more time to get cleaned up?'
'That's fine. I feel a cigar coming on.'
'Great,' she said, her mind already on the dress that had been hanging in her office for weeks, wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic.
Great. It was as though something had happened somewhere in the city, an event that had pulled the customers home, lots of cancellations. So she asked Rod if he could keep up the good work. He was beyond enthusiastic, even offered to cover for her over the weekend.
'You've, like, never had a weekend off, Sophie. Come on.'
'I don't know what's wrong with me, Rod.'
She didn't. She stood on the thick rubber mat, stared straight ahead as she mechanically diced a chunk of blue cheese for some dressing. The knife sliced into the index finger of her left hand, just below the fingernail. A quiet rivulet of red streamed into the cheese. Rod couldn't take his eyes off it.
'Okay Sophie, that's it. Get back to the office and clean that wound. Then get changed and sit down for some dinner with your friend. And I'd like to see you on Monday, your head back together. Okay?'
'Okay.' Never cut towards yourself.
'So what's the order that needs the dressing?' he asked, putting the bowl of bloody cheese to one side, frantically wondering how he could get hold of fresh human flesh and fat and blood tonight and what he could do with the cheese right now.
Jacob needed a double espresso, so he passed on Starbucks and enjoyed a stiff Colombian in a warm Cuban cafe near Radio City. Salsa music, exotic waitress, warm and sunny smells, multiple Che Guevara images, all boxes ticked. He took a little table under a palm tree in the smoking garden and ordered his coffee, a good rum and a cigar, a simple corona. The waitress brought his order on a silver tray and sat beside him. She cut off the end of the cigar, advised Jacob that it was Cuban, but perfectly legal in that it was hand-made by Cubans in Miami. She lit it for him using an odourless match.
Jacob sat and puffed and drank, keeping his briefcase between his legs, enjoying the ambience of the place and the leathery, earthy smoke and the chocolaty coffee and the sweet and oaky and cocunutty rum, all the flavours dancing around his mouth and lungs and organs. For a few minutes at least, Jacob felt like a king. The waitress caught his eye, flashed her sunset lips and moonlight teeth. It doesn't get too much better than this. On balance, maybe it wasn’t such a bad day.
He attempted to process recent events, but kept running into brick walls. No chance of getting his apartment back for maybe a couple of days - the cops would get back to him - and the risk, however remote, of being convicted of a heinous crime, lurked in the background of every thought, ready to mug any positive emotions. Circumstantial evidence only, but genuinely so. Is it smart to see Sophie now? No, but changing his natural behaviour patterns would likely point more towards some kind of guilt.
Anyway, the gift had to be passed to its intended recipient. A hundred and five plus tax! Jesus, Jacob, you'd better secure that Champagne.
Another sip of rum, the empty glass waved at that waitress. So he finished his second rum, stubbed out the cigar and drained the coffee. A ten dollar tip.
On the street again, looking like any other tired businessman with his briefcase and the smell of cigars and booze on his breath, looking for the next buzz, the next tiny victory of temporary escape from mundane existence. Such a messy day today, honey. But no home to end up in, just a fuzzy image of a monotonous hotel room, lurking somewhere downtown, ready to wrap his weariness in anonymity.
Paying the cabdriver, Jacob suddenly realised that he was almost out of cash. His account was in tatters, thanks to the book, so he would survive on credit cards until the Champagne deal. He couldn't remember even paying the last card bills, so he'd need to make some calls before he wound up in any more awkward situations. The Champagne auction took on a dread sense of importance, like his life depended on it.
Where did it all go wrong?
Sophie was waiting for him at the best table in the house. She looked fab, an elegant turquoise dress, her blond hair slicked back off her face, a smile, red lipstick and freckled skin. What are you hiding, Soph? But always that vague unease behind it all, like she was ready to be knocked back. He kissed her cheek, took back her smell.
‘Hi. You look amazing. How do you stay so thin in this place?’
‘You don’t want to know. Good to see you.’
'This is for you, Sophie,' handing her the briefcase.
'Really? A briefcase?'
'Look inside. Number's two-seven-three.'
She thumbed the wheels and opened the case, gently unwrapping the book.
'Wow. Nostradamus? This looks really old. Original?'
'It is.'
'And rare.'
'Very.'
'And expensive.'
'No comment. I thought you'd enjoy it. It's said that Nostradamus wrote the best recipe for cherry jam. It's never been bettered.'
'I love cherries.'
'This I know. Maybe you'll make me some jam one of these days?'
She cleaned her hands with the linen napkin, positioned the book on the perfect white tablecloth, then carefully turned every page. Her French was good enough to understand most of the language. But the print quality was astounding, rich and striking, these pages laid down almost half a millennium ago, the printers in Lyon toiling late into the night, checking registration by candlelight.
'Nutmeg oil, plague medicine, ooh, look at this one, "a lovers' sexual potion as used by the ancients." Hmmm.'
'Sounds good. What's in it?'
She ignored him, carried on through the book.
'How to make hair blond. I could save a fortune with this.' You’re crazy. What were you thinking?
'It pays for itself.' Right. 'What else, what's in the food section?'
'Jam, quince, sugar candy, preserved pears, marzipan. I'll be trying all those.' She put the book aside then. 'Enough of that for now, but thanks again. I love it. And I have something for you,’ she said rummaging in her little handbag. ‘A Dalí.’ She turned her hand to reveal a Chupa Chups lollipop, strawberries and cream. Logo designed by the artist in 1969. Chupar, Spanish. One of Jacob’s favourite stories. ‘Now what would you like to drink? This is on me.'
'I love it, thanks. I shall enjoy a good suck later. Drink? Well, I had a sip of Chateau Margaux 2000 earlier. Rudely interrupted, unfortunately. Then I had a couple of rums and a pseudo-Cuban cigar - '
'I can smell that. So how was the Margaux?'
'Divine. Like an angel's tears of joy when God said she could have the day off from watching over miserable humans.'
Sophie laughed, her spirit lifting. This was a good idea.
'Why not take a look at your menu first and we can choose the wine after.' She nodded to George the waiter, a big Italian-American from New Jersey who was tired of all the Tony Soprano jokes, drove a yellow cab on his nights off. He was standing nearby, nervous, the boss didn't normally eat at a table. 'A couple of frozen margaritas please, George. Heavy on the tequila.'
'What an amazing idea, Sophie. Love it. So, what do you recommend?'
'Rod had a prawn linguini on for lunch today, seems to have gone down really well. I'm sure he could rustle it up if you'd like. Tonight's specials are ethically-produced foie gras, some sublime roasted monkfish, an interesting, slow-cooked Irish stew,' Now there’s a coincidence, thought Sophie, ‘and melt-in-the-mouth venison from upstate.’
'That's lovely, dear.'
They laughed and looked over the menu. The steaks in all their fashions, the Irish lamb, the pork chops, the Maine lobster, the mashed Idaho potato, real onion rings in beer batter, all the simple, old-fashioned, incredible food. Then there were the pesto dishes, the pasta cornucopia, the roast vegetables, the Mediterranean wonders. Steak tartare even sounded good. And there was a multitude of salads, this being New York. Jacob simply ignored those.
‘Don’t forget my deconstructed Spanish paella, a nod to elBulli. I simply have to get to the foundation, to taste, to learn to love it all. Ferran Adrià? Greatest chef in the world. Ever. God.’
‘What’s in it? Your paella, I mean.’
‘Let’s just say it includes prawn air.’
'You know what? I just need something simple, comfort food. Meat. Red wine. You choose.'
George got back with the margaritas, wide frosty glasses, salted rims, the smell of limes and memories of vacations, the sun so unforgiving it would strip the skin from the back of your neck before you'd drained the glass.
Clink.
So Sophie ordered the fillets, medium rare, paprika-dusted fries, onion rings and a little side salad to share, just greens, cherry tomatoes and red onion with some extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Few things better. She also decided on a bottle of Screaming Eagle, a Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley. The 2004 was the most expensive American wine ever sold. She went for an 08.
'I'm impressed,' said Jacob. 'What's the occasion?'
'I think we both need something special. And,' she said in a gentle voice, leaning across the table to touch his hand, 'to say thank you for the book. It's really something.' You could’ve just got me a class at elBulli.
'You're welcome,' draining the salty glass.
A waiter arrived with two more margaritas.
'The service here is wonderful,' she said.
'It's the kitchen staff that excite me.'
Sophie slouched back into her seat, swirled her drink with the straw.
'Jacob,' a hint of a slur, lot of tequila hiding in there, 'I was in your apartment today.'
'Well, you do still have a key.' Then he snapped back into his grim reality. 'Oh. Oh. What for?'
'I know what happened. I think I was arriving just as you were being taken away. God. The police called me in to see if the guy was a chef or a surgeon or a random lunatic.'
'And?'
'I thought a chef.'
'Did you tell them that I couldn't cook to save my life?'
'Of course.'
'Jesus, that must have been weird for you.'
'Seeing your bed brought me back, yeah.'
'Well I'm evicted from my own home until they catch the guy.'
'That's hardly fair.'
They finished the drinks in silence, the developments sinking in, the re-emergence of the history of intimacy between them, the memory that could never be overlooked and, like a corpse in the Hudson, could bob to the surface again at any time.
Rod prepared their mains, thinking about that scene in Fight Club, where they steal body fat from a lipo clinic.
Sophie took a brief call from Sam. His daughter was stable and he would be staying at her bedside. Though he had virtually cut her from his life, it looked good in the press.
Anyway, she was his daughter.
'So where are you staying, Jacob?'
'I don't know. A hotel I guess.'
'Why don't you stay at my place for the weekend?'
His heart swooned.
'Could I? Really?'
'Why not? No funny business, mind.'
Damn.
'Sure. I've got a lot of work to get through, an article to be finished for Monday morning.'
'Well, let me cook for you and take care of you and thank you for the gift.'
He took her hand then, sincerely. 'Sophie, thanks. I mean it.'
'De nada.'
The steaks arrived, breaking the physical contact. Under the table, Jacob rubbed his hand where they'd touched, pressing her warmth into him.
'Oh,' said Jacob. 'What about Nigella?'
'Your allergies?' One of the reasons their relationship couldn't progress. 'She stays outside now. And I got one of those Dysons for animals.'
'Outstanding. My God. Look at this plate before me.'
'Rod's pretty good when I give him a chance. Great support team makes all the difference. He just -'
She paused, used the mill to sprinkle black and pink pepper across her plate.
'He just?'
'I don't know. Nothing. Let's just enjoy this, yeah?'
The bottle of red had been uncorked and poured. Sophie didn't go for the sip-testing thing either. They toasted.
'To us, here, now,' she said.
'To this day starting well, going rapidly downhill, plumbing the depths, then ending on a high,' he said. He didn't mention the shooting, made a mental note to follow that up on the web later.
The wine was intense, with flavours of blackcurrants and elderberries and the smell of the blood-red earth of California. The steaks had just enough cow's blood for pools to form in the plates, turning the fries and onion rings pinky red.
Odd for a Friday, the restaurant was never more than half-full and, when Sophie and Jacob got ready to leave at about nine, Rod had let most of the kitchen and floor staff go, one eye always on the wage bill. The waiters and busboys divided up their tips, the busboys popping in to the guy in the dish room who cleared the plates and separated the dishes and silver and glassware into big plastic basins for washing so they wouldn't have to. They paid him five dollars each per shift.
So Rod came to their table and accepted the compliments. Jacob had that lazy smile and chatty streak that comes with a heavy, fat-laden dinner swimming in a lake of alcohol. Sophie thanked her business partner for the break. He said not to worry, just go, eager to get service finished, add up the takings, then follow up on his lead for some fresh meat and flesh for Saturday. Lunch was strong and dinner was booked out.
Sophie had a slice of New York cheesecake, then excused herself while Jacob finished a brandy. She went to the bathroom and made herself throw up.
They got a cab right outside, lucky to beat the theatre crowd. My God, thought Sophie, it was almost twenty-four hours ago that all this mess started. Jacob stared at the blurry Broadway lights, his eyes foggy, unaware of the cab that stayed close behind, followed them downtown, right to Sophie's place.
Later, service long finished and the cleaners getting started on the kitchen, Rod sat and savoured a tall vodka tonic. He was tired, deep in his muscles, but the buzz of what he’d accomplished kept the grin on his perfectly-moisturised face. The audacity of feeding human fat to Manhattan’s elite. Brilliant. He’d worked through his options and had a plan forming when Pedro the sous chef approached.
‘Chef?’
‘Yes, Pedro.’
‘I just wanted to say you did great tonight.’
‘Thanks, Pedro. You’re last out as usual. Done now?’
‘Yeah.’ He turned to go to the changing rooms, stopped himself. ‘Just one thing, chef.’
Rod looked up at him, thinking Just go home, will you?
‘Yeah?’
‘I saw you put something in the dishes from a tube or something. What was that?’
Rod put down his drink, stood quickly.
‘Come over here a minute, Pedro. I’ll explain what’s what.’
Rod walked over to the lobster tank, a big beauty, maybe ten feet across, back-lit to show off the Maine lobsters, flown in fresh every other day. There were seven big lobsters in the tank, their meaty pincers locked tight with thick rubber bands. They had learned to fear humans during their short stay in the tank. They didn’t know why they feared us, it was just some kind of animal instinct told them that it wasn’t good to leave the tank whenever a human stuck his hand in.
‘Look at these guys,’ said Rod, glancing towards the kitchen, happy that nobody was watching. ‘Just waiting, but they don’t know what they’re waiting for. A lot like us, really.’
‘Chef, I -’
Rod didn’t give him time to finish his sentence, grabbing him hard by the chin and under the crotch. Then Pedro’s light frame was hoisted up, up and over the edge of the lobster tank. His face went into the water, the lobsters scuttling to the corners, and Rod held him there for a good twenty seconds. Pedro splashed and grunted but the cleaners were playing Nirvana on their iPod boombox so they didn’t hear. Besides, they were high, always high.
Rod eased the pressure and let Pedro drop to the floor, panting and coughing.
‘What the fuck, man? What the fuck?’
‘You didn’t see anything unusual tonight, you understand me?’
‘Okay, okay. Jesus!’
‘This never happened,’ gesturing to the lobster tank. They were still cowering in there. ‘And I’m going to talk to Sophie when she gets back, see about getting you a raise. How does an extra hundred a week sound?’
‘That sounds good, chef.’
‘Good, you deserve it,’ said Rod, offering his hand.
‘Okay, thanks,’ taking the hand, getting back on his feet.
‘Now, a couple of things. Stick to your job in future and don’t worry about me, yeah? And two, go take a shower,’ a thumb jerked towards the tank, ‘these little fuckers are full of disease, the ozone bubbles just keep it in check.’
Rod sterilised his hands at a sink in the kitchen. Then he made a fresh drink, sat in his office and made a few calls.
Saturday’s lunch service was only eleven hours away.