The accidental joe, p.5
The Accidental Joe, page 5
“Right. Good. Of course.”
“I ask only because of show logistics. I’ll need to replace you. Professionally.”
The SSO kept it all business. “Maybe Sheila will be out of rehab.”
“Ha. I officially no longer buy the rehab story. Come on. Too convenient an exit. Totally bogus, designed to make room for you. I call BS.”
“For someone new at this you’re good.”
“Lifetime skeptic, borderline cynic.”
“You’re more spy material than you think.” Nova eased to a stop outside our hotel. “Your ex-producer is enjoying a government-paid getaway at a resort spa in Sedona. As for me, day at a time.”
“Sure, sure. I just like to know what’s the next step.”
“For you? A good night’s sleep. I got notified your room’s been restored to baseline. Leave a fat tip for housekeeping. You’ve had a helluva day, Chef. Rest up.”
“I’m still kind of cranked. Feel like a nightcap?”
“Nightcap? What century is this?”
“That was me being ironic. But if you want the chambermaid to deliver some grog or a hot beef tea, Cameron, that could be arranged.”
She put the transmission back in drive. “Thanks anyway. I have things to do. Espy and I promised a plan tomorrow, remember?” When I came around to the sidewalk, she powered her window down. “Hey? Now it’s my turn.”
“To what?”
“I get to welcome you aboard.” I could still hear her laughing while I stood under the stone archway watching her taillights disappear into the night.
Naturally I figured I’d be tested on keeping the secret from my crew. But I never imagined how soon it would come. Before I reached the elevator, my phone pinged with a text from the Food Sarge. “I need to speak with you about something important. Tonight, alone—away from the other Globers.”
After three-plus seasons, Rayna Stanhope not only knew how to wrangle all things culinary for the show, from ingredients to appliances to food styling, she also knew my personal tastes. Such as where I liked to go when I wanted a no-nonsense cocktail in a city of aperitifs.
Rue Daunou was hopping at that hour. Hipster bars were at capacity, and the overflow spilled out into the street. Young urban comers milled around, fisting craft cocktails and beers the way London does happy hour. I strode past them all.
Near the end of the block, I pushed through a pair of swinging saloon doors and stepped into Harry’s New York Bar. How old-school is Harry’s? It’s the same watering hole where George Gershwin wrote An American in Paris. The Bloody Mary, the Sidecar, and the French 75 were all invented under its brown tin-stamped ceiling. The Sarge flagged me from a deuce she had claimed in the alcove at the top of the stairs above the piano lounge. I went for a Redbreast old-fashioned. Rayna had a head start and ordered a reload of her stinger. Saluts and first sips out of the way, she thanked me for calling off the next day’s production. “We all appreciate it. Compassionate of you.” She hoisted her rocks glass to me, then took another pull. A healthy one, I noticed.
“Enlightened self-interest,” I said. “Nobody, including your cordial host, would be doing their best work after what went down. Safe to say we are all pretty bugged.”
“Except maybe one of us.” She gave me a stagey nod, and I wondered if that was her second stinger or third.
“And so, we jump to your topic. Or do I not sense a ball getting teed up?”
“I’m not fooling around. This is a big deal. It’s about our Fearless Producer.”
“Hey, be nice.” Same as at the morning rehearsal, I couldn’t sanction her undercutting my producer.
“Nice?” She tipped back another swig. “I mean, did you see her today? After the guy got shot?” I almost answered no, but Rayna had something to spew. I let her run. “That beyotch was cold. Half of us are crying. Declan’s ralphing his croissant in the gutter. And what’s our Fearless—what’s Nova doing? Hovering around the body. Getting on her cell. Acting like it’s another day, lah-dee-dah.”
“First of all, no, I didn’t notice any of that. And second, people have all sorts of reactions to stressful situations.” I was having my own response to this particular one. Not only because I felt a visceral need to protect Cammie in absentia, but also the ribbing about her tardiness on the set had hit a new level. Then came a newer one.
“Uh-huh. See, I was afraid of this. The way you’re defending her.” She leaned back, displaying a hard smugness I’d never seen. “I was right.”
“About?”
“Can I say it?”
“I think you’re going to.”
“You’re into her. Our Fearless Producer.”
“What? That is a stretch. No, more than that. It’s petty.”
“Bullshit. I saw the two of you after the crew left the set today. I caught your little looks.”
Talk about absurd. So, I answered in kind. “Busted. Nothing stokes the libido like handing over your blood-soaked wardrobe.”
“Whatev. At least I know you won’t sleep with her.”
“Rayna—”
“With your moral compass, and all.” She shook the ice in her glass. “Unless this is different.”
I should probably explain. About two months after Astrid’s death, Rayna and I were friendly colleagues closing a Caracas bar, talking out our mutual lives’ shit shows when, later, she knocked on the door to my room wearing nothing but a smile and hotel bathrobe. Not only was I not ready for that (way too soon), the big firewall was the impropriety. Even before MeToo, going back to when I worked Manhattan restaurants, which were the sexual Wild West of workplace misconduct, I’d never hook up with an employee. Sure, I got tempted. Rayna’s approach might have been captivating some other time. But I’d never act on it. We talked it out that night. I took pains to make sure she didn’t feel humiliated for the invite, and we moved on. At least until Cammie Nova entered the picture. I decided the best course was to move off that topic, get the freaking check, and vamoose.
As benignly but clearly as I could put it, I said, “My moral compass remains true north. So let that ease your mind.” The Sarge looked anything but convinced. I needed to douse this with a fire extinguisher before she touched off a rumor that raced out of control. “Besides,” I said, “this goes no farther than this table, right?” I waited until she agreed. “Nova? No way.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Not a chance. Zip. Zero.” She seemed amused. I drove it home. “No magic. No chemistry. No there there.”
“None?”
“Too wonky.” Rayna seemed puzzled, so I helped her process. “As in earnest.”
Her torso rocked with a big, tipsy nod. “You mean cold, tight-ass beyotch?”
“I’m happy with wonky.” A hand from behind clamped down on my shoulder. I bolted to my feet and spun with my fists up.
“Ho, ho, easy.” A pear-shaped tourist took a step back, knocking into his wife. “Sorry to startle you, Chef Pike. Kelly and I are huge fans. We heard on the news what happened today. God-awful. Here I thought we were the only ones with random shootings. Can we buy you another of what you’re having?”
Their kindly midwestern faces made something crumble inside me. I managed to slap on my official smile. “Sorry for going into attack mode. A little jet-lagged, I guess.” I asked their names, autographed the coaster they held out, and said thanks for the offer, but I was just leaving. I caught the waiter’s attention and drew an invisible pen in the air.
Even though her glass was empty Rayna said, “I’m not done.” I sat while she continued. “Nova did more than walk around the body, checking him out. I saw her squat down and run her hands over him.”
“Like maybe doing first aid? Checking for a pulse?”
“Your producer friend shoved her hands in his pants pockets.” Rayna said it loud enough that I checked the other tables. Nobody seemed to have heard. “Ran through all of them like she was searching. Or trying to steal something.”
“I heard his wallet was still on him.”
“I don’t know what it was about, but it stuck with me all day, trying to make sense of it.” She planted her forearms on the table and leaned in to me. “Know what I think? She’s some kind of cop.”
“Come on—Nova?”
“Or a spy.”
“Oh, please.” I pooh-poohed it, then craned for that garçon with the check.
“Did you know she has a gun? That’s right. The other day when all our connecting flights met up in Brussels, she didn’t know it, but I was at the back of her security line. Three guards took her aside. When I moved up, I saw them behind a partition. Nova showed them some kind of document, and they handed a pistol case back to her. Pike, I think Cammie Nova is a cop. Or spy.”
Holy zamoli. Was this happening? Really? I made another check of our surroundings, mainly to buy time to think. I was warned not to share with the crew. So, I had to deny. And do it in a way that quelled the blaze. “We both have seen lots of people get pulled aside for a private search, right? And how do you know it was a pistol case and not…I dunno, jewelry or…some electronic production gadget.” God, I sucked at being a spy. Can I say that? All those Graham Greenes and John le Carrés I devoured, and there I sat grappling maniacally for purchase on a steep cliff of loose gravel.
“Then why the document?”
“That’s it. Probably some medical device with a doctor’s permit.” I needed to shut this down. “Sarge, know what I think? I think the trauma of this day has hit us all big-time. I’m not saying you didn’t see what you saw, but I’m going all in on a deep, cleansing breath. Let’s sleep on this. Maybe tomorrow, the feelings you have about Cammie might not be as raw. And won’t color what might have been checking her friend for a pulse or name of next of kin or something.”
“He was her friend? Well, I didn’t know that. I admit I do have a bias against the beyotch.”
“Like I said, sleep on it.” The waiter appeared with the bill. When I finished with the transaction on his portable, I stood. Rayna said she was going to hang there for one more. “Use the show’s credit card,” I said. “And Sarge, let’s not speculate about Nova with the others, OK? If you need to talk, talk to me.”
She rose unsteadily and gave me a hug. “You’re the best.”
“Shut up, you are.” And then I got the hell out of there.
Pain is a traveler. It’s been my companion so long I should sign it up for reward miles. I wish that were funny. There’s a term in substance recovery: taking a geographic. An itinerant cook I worked with who had a nose for blow told me that one. He learned it when his sponsor held up a mirror to tell him that no matter how many times he changed restaurants, cities, and coasts, his problems were portable. My friend pretended he got it. Later he used the mirror to do lines.
There is no geographic for me. This salaried traveler with royalty points in Hangry Globe has been outdistancing Carmen Sandiego for years, but the pain tags along. I needed to be alone when I returned from Harry’s to my restored hotel room, but pain waited up for me, coloring everything.
It even made Paris feel foreign. That may sound like an unintended joke, but I once declared myself an adopted son of that beloved city. And not based on visits. You’ve heard me mention Astrid. Well, when the two of us started getting serious, I rented a Left Bank apartment. The idea was that we share it during my series hiatus, a long break that coincided with her yacht being put up in dry dock for maintenance. By her yacht, I don’t mean she owned it. I mean the one she worked on. I can see I’m going to have to give you the highlights of how we met. It’s thrilling if you are into love at first sight. If you’re not, you can’t know my story if you miss this one.
I met Astrid on the pilot episode of Hangry Globe. This bad-boy chef was hell-bent on planting the black flag, creating a show where food and culture smacked heads, and what better opener than a leap into the profligate maw of rock-and-roll decadence? And where better than aboard the private luxury yacht owned by Europe’s wealthiest rocker? My crew and I boarded in Positano for a cruise along Italy’s Amalfi Coast hosted by Kogg, the macho superstar singer whose working-class upbringing infused his lyrics with harsh, street-level poetry. With obvious comparisons to the Boss, Kogg’s hardscrabble brand of rock excited a disenfranchised male blue-collar fan base with huge crossover appeal to women. And it made him a goddamned fortune.
Kogg put on a show for our cameras, leading me on our video tour of the Thumos, his 140-foot mega-yacht. Oligarchs would chuckle into their iced vodkas, but that skiff was tricked out. Strutting his decks in a packed Speedo, the rocker motioned to his toys with a bottle of Louis Roederer gripped by the neck: a pair of Kawasaki Jet Skis, a Zodiac MilPro, a Boston Whaler, three kayaks, stand-up paddleboards, and scuba gear for six. The appointments weren’t shabby, either. A whirlpool, a sundeck, an alfresco cinema, five staterooms for ten guests, Kogg’s master suite, and quarters for his crew of nine. He started counting them off for me: captain, engineer, first mate, bosun, deckhand…but it all went to a blur when we entered his galley and I laid eyes on the yacht’s executive chef.
My brain went to polenta. I remember fixating on the name stitched on her white tunic and uttering my first word to her. “Astrid.”
Your iconoclastic TV host fell hard for her right there on camera. The segment called for us to team-cook a lunch on the super-yacht, and by the time our scialatielli ai frutti di mare got served alongside a simple caprese with olive oil and fresh basil, I was too smitten to eat. She was too moony to do anything but.
Our romance lasted over that season in spite of travel obstacles. I was globe-trotting with my new series, and Astrid set sail for weeks at the whim of the most whimsical of rock egos. We managed to meet up for stolen weekends in her ports of call over the summer and autumn. But that winter, when my lengthy hiatus from shooting coincided with the yacht’s refitting, we took that apartment on Rue Jacob and became a couple.
Over seven weeks, when Astrid and I managed to leave the bedroom, we surrendered to the Paris trope and starred in our own rom-com montage. Mon Dieu, we ate good. I turned her on to Frenchie; she introduced me to Allard. We shopped fresh everything at the Rue Poncelet market for home-cooking date nights, picnics in Luxembourg Gardens, and day trips to Giverny. We did the zinc bars, the sidewalk cafés, the museums. We stayed in and read Dickens to one another. We even quarreled—all natural, especially for two alpha loners learning how to become a pair. But mostly, we walked, practicing the most Parisian of habits, flâneurie. Strolling was all about slowing down the motion and taking the time simply to be together in love. When the Thumos came out of dry dock and we were both about to go back to our jobs, I proposed. Astrid said yes. Actually, what she said was, “Please, sir, I want some more.” We held each other and laughed, then danced all night to our Anita Baker mix.
We parted as an engaged couple with our coming lifetime together peeking over the horizon. But things change. Sometimes they do more than change. They knock you sideways.
One morning I woke up in London, hustling to make the lobby crew call, when a Breaking News bulletin came on BBC: “Rock star and one other dead as dinghy explodes at Athens luxury mooring.”
How it went down:
Kogg had finished a sold-out concert at Peace and Friendship Stadium, and Astrid hitched a ride with him from the Athens Marina out to his mega-yacht to weigh anchor for his next gig in Istanbul. They never reached the Thumos. Forensic investigators determined Kogg had brought aboard a duffel bag packed with ingredients for making crystal meth using the “shake and bake” method, volatile chemicals combined inside two-liter soda bottles. Something screwed up. One of the bottles ignited. The flash fire set off four others, which detonated the Zodiac’s fuel bladder.
Devastating? Shattering? The word for what I felt hasn’t been coined in the English language, and believe me, I’ve hunted for it. But please spare me the condolences.
Please?
You see, there’s a secret reason I get pissed off about the sympathy blankets people bind me in. And now it’s you, dear reader, who’s going to get pissed because I won’t tell you why. I’ve never told anyone. I’ll offer only this much, but you can take it to the bank. In every tragedy there is an element of guilt. I live with it, I choke on it, I have formed my life around it. Whatever pain I am enduring reminds me that I have it coming.
I’m leaving it there for now.
At dawn I woke up still sore from the brawl with my intruder the night before. Sitting up in bed, I did some stretches to test myself out. Not too bad. I flipped my phone over to assess the incoming. Before I went to sleep, I’d turned it face down so the screen wouldn’t pester me every time it lamped up with the endless calls, texts, and emails from reporters seeking comment on the Victor Fabron killing. The morning haul was more of the same. On my way downstairs from the loft, I stopped at the landing to peek out the drape. Light rain was falling, and I felt glad I didn’t have to shoot a segment in that. I turned from the window, put one foot on the short flight to the living room, and startled.
A large man was sitting in the easy chair. He was relaxed, owning it like an athlete on the sideline bench. The picture of casual, except for the pistol resting on his lap.
nine
“Morning,” said the man with the gun. My eyes darted around for an escape. Upstairs was a dead end. The window. I’d be a sight climbing out of that in my skivvies. But forget that. I’d never breach the curtains before the man, or his bullet, got me. I held up my hands.
“Ah, that’s not necessary. I can see you’re cool. And I’m not here to hurt you. DSA Espy would frown on that.”
I gave him a long look. “I’ve seen you before. You skippered the police Zodiac last night.”
“Good eye. Really, you can lower your hands. Come on down.” He indicated the gun without picking it up. “This isn’t for you.” I took a seat on the bottom step. “Name’s Kurt Harrison. I’m not with the Paris police. I’m American. A security agent attached to DSA Espy’s cadre.”
