Читать книгу A Brisket, A Casket: - Delia Rosen - Страница 9

Around eight o’clock that morning, I was at the deli heading downstairs from my office, the Passover photo of Uncle Murray and me tucked under my arm, a hammer and box of nails in my hand. I’d found the hammer in the top drawer of my desk and the nails in its paper clip organizer.

I was sure Murray could have found a better place to keep them, but you didn’t see many bare-chested Jewish Mr. Fixits with low-slung tool belts around their hips. Of course, Jewish country-and-western performers were even less common sights, and my uncle had shown plenty of chutzpah and determination bucking that particular stereotype.

Meanwhile, I guess that I still had Lucky Charms on my brain, because I’d removed the picture from the wall thinking I needed some kind charm to reverse my karma. I had a new location in mind that seemed just right. It would be far more potent—and appropriate—there than a green marshmallow shamrock.

Though I’d entered the building through the side entrance, and hadn’t yet stepped into the dining room, I had known Newt and his kitchen staffers were hard at work…and would have been long before my arrival, since they always came in early to prepare for lunch. Not even the tin ceiling under my floorboards could keep the aromas of knishes baking in the oven, chicken matzo ball soup on the range, and especially our traditional Saturday cholent from wafting up to my office.

For a while, I had sat there just sniffing and savoring the delicious smells. A house specialty, the cholent was a Jewish version of poor boy stew developed in fifteenth-century Eastern Europe using readily available ingredients—beans, barley, potatoes, onions and beef, simmered with garlic, paprika, and other seasonings. As Murray had told me once upon a time, observant Jews were prohibited from lighting cooking fires on the Sabbath under religious law, so they’d gotten imaginative and developed a warm winter meal they could start before sundown on Sabbath Eve and let stand overnight on a low flame.

The secret of Murray’s cholent was a secret combination of added herbs and a unique cooking method that went back hundreds of years to the dish’s peasant beginnings. Far as I knew, he’d shared the full recipe and process with only two people—Newt and me. That meant not even Thomasina was privy to it.

Right now, its scent had imparted a sense of inner calm that I hadn’t felt since my plunge into Kosher Karaoke night hell…or possibly since the coming of its wicked messenger, Crispy the Pig. It had also stirred my appetite despite the expanded clumps of Cocoa Puffs in my tireless tummy. As the originator and sole devotee of the Gwen Silver Smoker’s Diet, I knew the cigarette I’d had while driving in would have accelerated my metabolism—and thus my caloric burn rate—enough to allow for a forkful or two of the cholent, and perhaps a wee sampling of chicken soup. It would be a personal act of defiance, refuting the whispers of possible food contamination A.J. had heard from Lover Cop. And hey, if I could make stuffing my face a matter of principle, why not? Was there ever a better cause for rationalization?

But first things first. I had wanted that picture from my office hung in its perfect new spot.

I was about to push through the double doors into the restaurant when I heard someone singing along to the accompaniment of an acoustic guitar. After a split second, I recognized Luke’s voice.

This I hadn’t expected. My lunch servers wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour, and Luke had been scheduled for the dinner shift. Also, we didn’t offer entertainment with our food, karaoke night being the lone, currently lamentable, exception. Luke’s singing and guitar strumming, if not his stone-washed denim butt-huggers, were reserved for club gigs and auditions. All of which were gyrated—ah, I mean, performed—on his own time.

I opened the door partway and stood listening to him.

A self-made man wearin’ bootheels of leather,

Come up from nowhere on roads windin’ an’ weathered.

Died too young, but stayed true to his song,

Till he dropped down dead ’fore anyone knew what was wrong.

Now I’m standin’ outside his big truck ’n auto lot,

A wonderin’ how many more tomorrows it got.

There’s a lonesome Dodge pickup with a dusty tag in the window,

A slick Toyota hybrid sittin’ in limbo.

Buyers and sellers, I watch ’em all grieve,

Then after a while, see them turn round an’ leave.

It’s hit ’em where it hurts, hit ’em hard one by one:

Without good ol’ Sarge givin’ orders, ain’t no sales gettin’ done.

Lord, my heart’s a V8 engine, and its cylinders are achin’,

There’s an emptiness inside like a parkin’ spot vacant.

All them rubber tires gone still, them quiet chassis of steel,

How’re they gonna get sold without Buster’s fair an’ honest deals?

“Enough!” I pushed open the doors from the kitchen and saw Luke sitting on a chair near one of the tables, the guitar across his lap. “What’s that song you’re playing?”

As he glanced up from his fret board, I realized the kid was in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. And that he hadn’t shaved or combed his hair.

“’Morning, Nash,” he said. “I’m almost done with a new ballad. Figure I might call it ‘Salute to the Sarge.’ Or somethin’ simple like “Good-bye Buster.’ You care to hear the rest?”

“No.”

Luke just stared at me. He seemed totally blind to my look of prune-faced annoyance. Maybe it was the eyelid lifter and super concealer. “I sure could use your opinion. They’re holdin’ open calls for Nashville’s Hottest, that new singer-songwriter contest they got on television. I figured the tune would show my sensitive side so people can see I ain’t just a shakin’ hunk of beefcake. And bein’ topical, it could give me an edge over the competition—”

“Don’t you dare even consider it, Luke.”

“You thinkin’ the song’s no good?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What’re you doing here at this hour anyway?”

“Stuck around until the police finished their work and I could lock up,” Luke said. “By then it was past two in the morning. I felt too pooped to drive home and decided I’d crash here.”

I abruptly regretted my snippiness. It had occurred to me that Luke probably hadn’t spoken to A.J. since last night, and had no idea why the cops had taken their food samples. He wasn’t dumb. Immature, yep. Prone to recurrent bouts of self-absorption and madly in love with his mirror, check. But I didn’t know anybody who was quicker to do me a favor…and his staying behind to close the place had been a huge one.

“I don’t think cylinders really ache,” I said contritely. “And the line about your heart being an engine with an empty parking spot’s a mixed metaphor.”

“A what?”

“I’ll explain later. Meanwhile, follow me…I need a little assist.”

I led the way up front and around the counter. On the wall behind the cash register—mounted slightly to one side—was a collection of rave newspaper and magazine reviews of the deli, a clear acrylic block showcasing the first bill that Uncle Murray took in, our liquor license, and the obligatory health department notices on the Heimlich maneuver and drinking alcoholic beverages during pregnancy. I looked at the diagram and momentarily imagined Buster Sergeant’s face superimposed on the figure of the choking victim in the Heimlich diagram. Then I frowned and shifted my attention to a collage of photos showing Murray with the dozens of legendary country and rockabilly performers who’d been his pals and regular diners: Conway Twitty, Ronnie Milsap, The Blue Moon Boys, Buck Owens, Wanda Jackson (he’d had a crush on her all his life, and was really beaming in that shot), Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton…it seemed he’d known and fed every superstar who’d ever walked along Music Row.

I stood facing the register, my eyes on a bare section of wall directly above it. Whether by fate, coincidence, or some combination of the two, that space had been there the very first time I entered the deli.

It was perfect, all right. Perfection defined.

“The picture goes here.” I stretched to hold the frame up where I wanted it. “Right here.”

Luke studied the photo. “That’s you with Murray, ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s great. I seen it in the office. He must’ve had it up there forever.”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to put it on the wall? I’m taller’n you.”

No kidding. So was Ms. Pac-Man. I kept the thought to myself and shook my head no. “You go back in the aisle and make sure I hang it straight—”

The telephone next to the cash register rang. Early for customers, I thought. Still holding up the photo with both hands, I glanced over my shoulder as Luke answered.

“Murray’s Deli,” he said. “Yeah, right. Hang on. I’ll see if she’s in.” He covered the mouthpiece, gave me a guarded look. “It’s a lawyer, Nash.”

Uh-oh. I’d flashed back on Cazzie’s advice about liability protection.

“He or she give you a name?” I whispered.

“He,” Luke said with a nod. “It’s Liar-somethin’.”

We exchanged glances, and he nodded to indicate he hadn’t made that up. I carefully set the picture frame down on the counter and took the receiver from him.

“Yes?” I said.

“Good morning, Ms. Silver,” a voice said in my ear. “You are Gwendolyn Silver, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Wonderful. I’m Cyrus Liarson. My law firm represents—”

“What was your second name again?”

“Liarson…an unfortunate familial legacy for someone in my profession.” He gave a rote-sounding chuckle. “I once considered shortening it, but that simply would have left me a ‘Liar.’”

I caught the pun but didn’t say anything.

“All humor aside, Ms. Silver, I represent—”

Buster Sergeant, I thought with a catch in my breath.

“Ramsey Holdings,” he said.

“Ramsey who?”

“Not who, what,” Liarson said. “It is the most prominent real-estate firm in central Tennessee…surely you are familiar with the name.”

Actually, I wasn’t. Nor was I impressed by Liarson’s mention of it, as his tone suggested I ought to be. I did, however, feel like sighing with relief. Whatever he wanted, it presumably wasn’t connected to Buster Sergeant’s death.

“I’m pleased to have you on the phone at long last,” he went on. “Having tried to reach you for weeks—”

“Reach me how?”

“Well, I left several messages—”

“Mr. Liarson, I don’t mean to keep interrupting. But I haven’t gotten any messages from you.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, sorry.”

“Hmm. That’s odd.” He paused. “I must have called three or four times.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember with whom you spoke?”

“Yes. In fact, I made definite note of it…give me one second while I check my calendar notes.” I heard him tap away at a computer keyboard. “Here we are…it was your manager. Thomasina Jackson, is that correct?”

“Yes…”

“Then there’s been no confusion on my part,” Liarson said. “I’d assumed you were tied up with your reopening and unable to return my calls.”

I noticed a questioning look on Luke’s face as I reached into my purse for a cigarette. He seemed curious about what had gotten me so aggravated. Not more curious than I was about Thomasina, though. She hadn’t uttered a peep about those calls.

“In any event,” Liarson said into the silence, “I’ve been eager to have a conversation with you. On behalf of Mr. Ramsey.”

“Mister? I thought you just told me you’re the attorney for—”

“Ramsey Holdings is the name of a corporation whose president and major shareholder is Royce Ramsey,” Liarson said. “Technically I manage his personal affairs. But I will on occasion handle his more important commercial ventures.”

My eyebrow shot higher up my forehead. Granted, I was overtired, irritable, and admittedly ready to pounce. But Liarson’s pushiness had been getting on my nerves…and finding out Thom was keeping secrets bugged me to no end.

“Look,” I said, “I’m busy, so can you get to the point?”

“Absolutely,” Liarson said. “I would like to make arrangements between you and my client—”

“What for?”

“A meeting.”

“About?”

“Mr. Ramsey would rather tell you in person.”

“And I’d rather hear it from you over the phone.”

A pause. Liarson cleared his throat. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “I read about the incident at your restaurant in today’s paper. Our community has suffered a profound loss. But as an attorney, I’ve seen opportunity arise from the worst of tragedies. It turns out Mr. Ramsey has prepared a generous offer for your property at precisely the right moment to divest yourself of a financial albatross—”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, the cigarette hanging from my mouth. “Are you saying your boss wants to buy my deli?”

“He isn’t my boss, Ms. Silver…our relationship is that of an attorney and client,” Liarson said, betraying the faintest hint of peevishness. “Also, I’d make a distinction between the restaurant and its location. It’s the second that primarily interests Mr. Ramsey despite its low market value.”

“Hang on. You’re joking, right? We’re in the busiest part of town.”

“In a passé sense, perhaps—”

“Passé, schmassé,” I said. “The convention center’s practically across the street. Bridgestone Arena’s right over on Fourth—”

“Yes, yes. And in a sense that’s my point.”

“How so?”

“My client is best suited to explain, which is why he would prefer meeting with you face-to-face,” Liarson said. “In the meantime, suffice it to say trends change…even downtown. Mr. Ramsey has built his reputation on foresight, vision, and maximizing his acquired assets. He has the resources to absorb current and near-future losses and look toward eventual redevelopment. Your neighbors came to understand this to their considerable gain.”

That raised my curiosity. It also raised my eyebrow some more. In fact, I was thinking that if it got any higher, it would probably reach the top of my head and start down the other side.

“What neighbors?” I said, taking his bait.

“It isn’t my place to say, but as a newcomer to the Metro area you might want to make some inquiries,” Liarson replied in a cryptic tone. “Ms. Silver, kosher dining has never been the vogue in Nashville. But my employer respects your restaurant’s longevity…its niche popularity. As a generous quid pro quo, therefore, he has made it plain he’s willing to consider a singular, mutually attractive arrangement.”

I frowned. “Actually he hasn’t made anything plain, since we’ve never even spoken—”

“And again, he would like to remedy that as soon as possible,” Liarson said. “You may find this offer comes at an opportune juncture.”

“You’re repeating yourself—”

“Last night’s incident aside, I mean,” Liarson said. “Our market surveys indicate Murray’s Delicatessen was an owner-driven establishment. Which is to say your uncle’s personality gave it a unique stamp of appeal—and drew its clientele. Upon his death, it instantly became a fading landmark.”

That made me bristle. “Last time I looked, your boss wasn’t privy to my cash receipts.”

“Ms. Silver, if you would please listen to me—”

“Forget it.” I’d nestled the receiver between my chin and shoulder and was waving my Pall Mall around in the air. “I think your attitude’s condescending and insulting…”

“Ms. Silver—”

I heard a beep in my ear, glanced at the telephone, and noticed a second button light up on the console. A call was coming in on another line.

Enough was enough. Disconnecting Liarson with a jab of my finger, I pushed the flashing button. “Murray’s.”

“Ms. Silver?”

Déjà vu. Or maybe not so much. I’d recognized the voice and it didn’t resemble the attorney’s a bit. “Detective McClintock?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t certain what time you’d be at the restaurant. We need to talk.”

I shoved the Pall Mall back in my mouth. His tone bothered me. It sounded…I don’t know. Loaded. But plucky native New Yorker that I was, my first instinct was to tackle whatever he had to say head-on—

Okay, I’m lying. Maybe it’s the post-traumatic stress of seeing my fraud of an ex-hub led out of our apartment in handcuffs, but dealing with the cops always makes me want to dive into a rabbit hole.

“I’m a million kinds of busy right now,” I said, figuring the same remark, more or less, had worked to put Liarson in a defensive position. “How about you call back this afternoon—?”

“I need you at the station, Ms. Silver.”

My heart knocked. “When?”

“The sooner, the better. As I said, there are things we need to discuss.”

I took a deep, long breath and almost sucked my cigarette down my windpipe. “What sort of things?”

McClintock didn’t answer. I hung on, waiting.

“Look, I’ll give you a heads-up, although I probably shouldn’t,” he finally said in a low voice. “Keep this in your pocket all right?”

Knock-knock-knock. “All right,” I said.

“The medical examiner’s turned in a preliminary lab workup,” McClintock said. “They don’t usually come this fast. But Buster Sergeant’s a VIP, and that tends to speed along the process.” His voice dropped another notch. “I’m the first to see the report and it isn’t good.”

I scanned the floor for that hole I felt like bolting into. No go. “What’s it say?”

“It indicates Sergeant was deliberately poisoned at your restaurant,” McClintock said.

“Poi—how?”

“Ms. Silver, we can discuss it when you get here. I’m right up the street. The precinct’s right in the tower at Bridgestone. Take the elevator to the third floor—”

“I know where to find it,” I said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

McClintock grunted. “I’ll be in my office,” he said.