Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online Page A

I felt myself begin to flush and I brushed my long curly hair off of my hot neck.
    Just my luck, I would get discovered and be on the brink of my big break just as I was on the verge of being thrown in prison for breaking federal game-show statute 509 or some such number. And, of course,much as I resisted everyone else’s infernal dream about a career in front of the camera, I suppose it would be preferable to fifty years in the slammer.
    Howie was waiting for my answer.
    “What sort of thing did you have in mind?” I asked, annoyed to realize my voice did not sound anywhere near as skeptical as I had surely intended it to.
    “Listen to Chef Howie,” he said, referring to himself in the third person. If that wasn’t a clear signal to stop listening, I’d never heard one. And yet, I continued to listen. I have no excuse. I just wanted to hear what he thought I might be able to do. Just in case this game-show writing gig was about to be flushed down the tubes due to my exceeding stupidity regarding closing doors.
    “I think you should sing, Madeline,” he said, with a completely straight face. “You could become the singing chef. It would be a sensation.”
    Yes. Right. I’m afraid with ideas like that one, I had better see what I could do to salvage the writing gig after all.

Chapter 5
    S tella, Nellie, Susan, and Chef Howie waited for my response.
    “That’s not why I’m here working on Food Freak,” I said modestly. “I may be the one person in Hollywood who has no Hollywood dream.”
    “Really?” Chef Howie asked, teasing.
    “Really. I have no desire to be discovered,” I said, smiling. “And, truth be known, I don’t sing. At all. But that’s awfully nice. Thanks anyway, Howie.”
    “No, no!” Stell and Nell insisted in unison.
    I was startled at their insistence. Me? A singing chef? It was really…
    Stell said, “It’s Chef Howe.”
    “What?”
    Nell continued in a lowered voice, “We all say Chef Howie.”
    “All his fans call him Chef Howie,” Stella explained. “It’s simpler.”
    “Oh,” I said. “You’re not joking.”
    Howie, with a dashing smile, winked at me. Yes indeedy. Chef Howie. Right.
    The door banged open and we all looked up, expecting Greta. But this time, a tall, snaky-thin womanentered. She wore black leather jeans and a zebra print halter top, not actually appropriate for office attire, but then again, not actually appropriate for any kind of attire after, say, 1983. She had the sort of skin that had no doubt spent many a summer slathered in cocoa butter. It had the leathery look for which one pays extra when buying expensive luggage.
    “Chef Howie,” she said, her voice like a cheese grater. “What the hell are you doing here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
    “Hey,” Howie said, “chill. I’m waiting for Greta.”
    Susan did her introduction thing. Susan was indispensable. “Fate Finkelberg, meet Madeline Bean, our newest writer.”
    “Fay, nice to meet you,” I said.
    “I’m Fate, ” she corrected. “F-A-T-E.”
    I avoided a spontaneous smirk and congratulated my self-control.
    “A new writer?” Fate turned to Susan and her lips curled downward. “You mean Greta replaced Timmy Stock already? Shame on her!” Fate exuded disapproval and dissatisfaction, elevating the concept of negative energy to an art form.
    “Madeline is just helping us out. It’s temporary,” Susan explained.
    I checked out Fate Finkelberg, who was frankly wearing too much jewelry and exposing too much old skin to be taken very seriously. She might have been something twenty-five years back, but by now it was difficult to tell what. She was trying to pull off that disco look and I shuddered to imagine that she had been stuck in those platform shoes for the better part of three decades. I took in her streaked blond hair, cutin the same shaggy style that Rod Stewart used to wear long ago. I turned to study Howie again. He looked to be young thirties and I did the