Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Read Free Book Online

hanging to her shoulders. She had an amusing smile on her face, and I immediately thought of Em. You could almost put up with a kitchen environment when this lovely lady was in the room.
    â€œInteresting crew, eh?” James appeared out of nowhere.
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œMrs. Fields.”
    â€œNot the cookie lady? Debbi Fields?”
    â€œNo.” James rolled his eyes. “Kelly Fields. Pastry chef. She brightens up the place, doesn’t she?”
    â€œYou know much about her?” I was intrigued.
    â€œApparently, she was one of the few people who really liked Amanda Wright.” He gazed at the baker. “Somehow we’ve got to talk to her.”
    â€œMaybe Em can get involved. We could find a way for the two of them—”
    â€œMaybe. But it wouldn’t hurt for me to talk to her, you know, just tell her I’d heard that she and Amanda were friends and I was sorry for the loss.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said.
    Eleven at night and I was whipped.
    Chef Jean had actually made an appearance in the kitchen with his equally short, stocky wife, Sophia. He’d shouted out a greeting to a couple of cooks, pulled Chef Marty aside, and had a serious talk with him. Then he came back to my station, saw the mess I was creating and he frowned. The little man walked away never to be seen again. The missus followed, with a sneer and huff. So much for his calming influence. So much for his wife’s demure. She stuck her head in a couple more times during the evening, always with a drink in her hand. Like a little ghost. I’d look up and there she was, watching me. I never saw approval in her expression.
    Bitterness rears its ugly head when things don’t go your way. I’d been bitter once or twice in my short life, and I was certain the reason was largely because things hadn’t gone according to my plan. My plan. But these plans were usually short-term goals. In the case of Sophia Bouvier, her future, the plans for Jean-Luc, her son, had not gone her way. Or his. And now someone had brutally murdered their candidate for head chef at their new South Beach bistro. I think she had a strong case for bitterness.
    â€œAmigo,” James walked up to me as I put the last tray into the washer. I turned and immediately saw his hands. They were adorned with three bandages, and he held them up as badges of courage.
    â€œWhat the hell did you do?”
    â€œI forgot. A chef and his knife become intimate, Skip.Damn, that thing is sharp. And as far as my cutting skills go, I’m a little rusty.”
    â€œThank goodness the knife isn’t. We’d have to get you a tetanus shot.”
    â€œSkip, Bouvier was here tonight.”
    â€œFor a minute.”
    â€œI noticed. But Sophia was here for several minutes. Did you get a look?”
    â€œWhat a team.”
    â€œThis is the future of American cooking, my friend.”
    James pointed his bandaged thumb in the direction that the couple had exited the restaurant. “Those two are the cream of the crop.” He paused, then said, “The cooks fixed a little dinner for the staff. You get anything?”
    â€œIt’s been a little busy back here, James. In case you haven’t noticed.”
    Sheepishly, he smiled.
    â€œYou did get a late start, pard. Let’s go back to the locker room.”
    So the cooks got a locker. The cooks had a dinner for the staff. The dishwasher guy got squat. It was no wonder that Juan had split and not returned.
    As we walked, he untied his apron, tossing it into a laundry bag in the corner. I followed suit.
    â€œYou get a chance to talk to anyone?”
    â€œI talked to one guy. Runner named Carlos. Aren’t they usually called busboys?”
    â€œAt L’Elfe, busboy is one step up from the runner. He takes the plates from the table, politely asks the customer if everything is to their liking. He replaces a dropped fork, a spoon, and keeps an eye on the