Chapter Text
“Norman, I am at a loss here. It’s the third time this month that you’ve tried selling me a fake. By this point, I don’t know if I should laugh, hand you over to the police or tell Joji to deal with you.”
“Mister Gates, I don’t understand what you mean. I told you God’s honest truth. My Grandma left it for me in her will.”
“Your Grandma, really?”
The elderly gentleman smiled and shook his head. He took a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and wiped the top of his head, looking at a scrawny lousily dressed teenager in front of him. The sun was blasting through the wooden jalousie, making everything look sticky and out of focus. The ceiling fan whirr was only good for the soothing background noise, for as much electricity as it used, it was barely able to cut through the humidity.
In the middle of it all a fly was buzzing while traversing the great oil plain of a painting in the boy’s hands. The rat tail under his nose was thin and twitchy, and Hal Gates couldn’t tell if the red spots on his face were pimples, chicken pox or mosquito bites. While his gaze and thoughts were stuck between the ratstache and the spots, a large drop of sweat that escaped his handkerchief earlier tickled his eyebrow and stung him in the eye.
“Son of a..!”
His fist landed on top of the desk. The wandering fly shuddered and took off.
“I’ve had enough of this. Joji, please!”
A tall brawny man stepped out of the shadow and picked up a sharp metal object off of the nearby table. As he approached the kid, he effortlessly flung the object open. It was a razor.
The rat tail started twitching even more violently.
“M-m-mister Gates? Mister Gates, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry to hear you’re sorry, Norman. But it’s time you learned your lesson.”
Joji approached slowly, each step resonating off of the lacquered wooden floors and wall panels with the clinking-clanking sound of his steel-toed boots. His well-kept fingers twirled the razor playfully, its silver blade casting golden sparkles made of sunlight into the darkest corners of the office.
The teenager glanced pleadingly at the older gentleman, but the plea crashed against the impenetrable reflection of the gentleman’s monocle. Boy’s knees offered no resistance when Joji’s hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him down into a chair. However, when that same hand tried to take the painting, the boy clutched onto it with a death grip.
The henchman turned to his boss.
“Norman…Let it go.”
The boy whimpered and shook his head.
“Come on, don’t make it more unpleasant than it needs to be.”
The frame slid out of the sweaty palms. The red spots were now so pale they were almost invisible.
Joji’s blade pierced the air.
One swift slash tore into the oil-crusted canvas, eating away at it and leaving oil paint crumbs on the floor. The tear revealed canvas underneath to be a cheap potato sackcloth.
Norman stared at it unblinkingly, afraid to move or breathe, entire body cramped up into one big terrified knot. Mister Gates stood up from his chair and took a few heavy steps, finally placing his hand down on the failed artist’s shoulder and slapping his cheeks lightly until the watery blue eyes finally focused on his face.
“Listen close, lad, cause I’m only gonna say this once. Stop wasting money on shitty booze. Buy better canvases and frames instead. Practice, practice every day if you want to produce a really expensive copy. And, most importantly - if eventually you become good enough to sell your product to someone, make sure it’s not my door you’re knocking on. Is that clear?”
The ratstache started slowly rocking up and down in agreement. Mister Gates smiled a warm and encouraging smile and ruffled the wispy ginger nest on top of the teenager’s head.
“Off you go now, then.”
Joji’s steel grip plucked the limp human cob out of his seat and accompanied him on his way to the door. Last thing mister Gates said to him almost didn’t reach his ears because of all the ringing in them:
“Oh, and I’ll tell your Grandma you said hello, when I see her in church again this Sunday.”
And just like that, embarrassed, unappreciated and unpaid, the artist known as Norman Rockwell was gone.
The henchman nodded at the door disapprovingly before turning to his boss:
“Back in Japan, we would have cut that little weasel’s hands off by now, you know.”
His boss laughed in amusement, the sound booming off the walls and disturbing the drowsy pool of dust and sunlight around him. Then he took out his monocle and gently wiped it with a silk mouchoir before putting them both back into an engraved leather case.
“It’s not his hands that are the problem, it’s his brain. Or the lack thereof. But he’s talented, he deserves one last chance to wise up.”
Before he could finish the thought, the last slice of juicy red steak sitting on a bronze tray at the side of the office table caught the gentleman’s attention. He picked up the slice with a fork and swallowed it with utmost gusto. A tiny moan of gastronomic delight escaped the man’s lips and immediately got lost in the fluff of his mutton chops. Then he glanced at his subordinate.
“Speaking of chances, what do you say we go check on that new chef of ours?”
—
Dead-still air inside the office stirred up and lazily shook the dull green of the flowerpots on both sides of the door, as Joji flung it open and followed his boss out. Both of them walked in silence along a pleasantly dark balcony corridor, glancing at the club lounge below.
Cool teal shades of the walls and the white glass of the lamps served a refreshing contrast to the stuffy atmosphere. The wall paint started peeling off here and there, the lacquer on the wooden handrails and pillars was almost entirely gone, and what was left of it was clearly remembering better days.
Still, the abundance of plants, in unison with oodles of posters, paintings and photographs everywhere made it a charming place full of energy. And if you just walked in through the front doors, it was easy not to notice the tired ways of the interior, because your eyes immediately went to the most impressive piece of decor - gorgeous stained glass panels in the middle of the ceiling.
Their footsteps muffled by the carpeted floors, the two men were going down the stairs, when mister Gates spotted a lone figure at a far away table. The man was wearing a faded brown three-piece suit, with no pocket square and a tie that was too boring and tightly knotted to make him seem like a casual day-drinker or dilly-dallier.
The older gentleman squinted at the stranger’s face, unable to see anything behind the blue gray veil of cigarette smoke all around it. His eyebrows still furrowed, he walked straight past the jazz band getting ready for their rehearsal and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors.
The bright lights there were almost blinding, and the cacophony of cooks and their assistants rushing around almost made it look like it was pure chaos. Hal paused for a while, observing and afraid to get in the way of anyone potentially dangerous enough to spill something hot and greasy onto his new white silk dickey.
He loved watching his kitchen staff because at first glance it always seemed as intense and insane as a beehive. But if he looked close and long enough, he would start noticing patterns and purposes for each and every bee. Like a fine tuned mechanism, they were an orchestra without music, creating rhapsodies out of food. And his favorite part was always talking to their queen bee, their very own Gershwin. This current one was hired just three days ago.
“Mister Harrow, hello!”
A man in white uniform, with a neatly trimmed pencil mustache and striking brown eyes turned around, startled by the greeting. Something that looked like a shadow of panic stifled his face, when he saw the boss and his gunman, but the next moment a twitch rippled across it, putting it back into motion. The man forced a one-sided smile and nodded his head politely.
“Mister Gates, good afternoon, sir. How are you?”
His speech was restrained, stumbling over the words a bit, and his voice was soft. Not at all what anyone would expect from a restaurant chef. Joji was watching him with budding suspicion.
“Me and Joji are very well, thank you, – chirped on his boss. – Albeit a bit busy. And how are you doing today?”
Richard Harrow looked over his shoulder to assess his orchestra. Right at that moment, one of the kitchen boys dropped a bowl of rice, after accidentally getting yelled at by the fry cook trying to put out a grease fire. The cook was demanding at the top of his lungs that the boy bring him a goddamn metal lid.
“It’s been somewhat busy here as well, mister Gates. I wasn’t expecting you, forgive me. Otherwise we would have been at our shiniest and sparkliest.”
"Nonsense, absolute nonsense, don’t mind me at all. I just came down here to tell you that pepper steak today was absolutely delicious."
“Well, thank you.”
A lopsided smile on the chef’s face once again irritated Joji’s nerves.
“Simply magical, no less,” his boss carried on.
“That’s mighty kind of you, sir.”
“In fact, could I possibly get the recipe for that one? I’d love to send it to my wife for our dinner party this Friday.”
“Consider it not a sign of rudeness, mister Gates, but I’m afraid I have to say “no”.
The older gentleman’s magnificent walrus whiskers fluttered slightly, as he briefly clenched his jaw. His eyes, all of a sudden sharp and unblinking, searched the chef’s face. The smile and the voice, however, were as cordial as ever.
“You know, I could actually ask Joji here to torture you for that recipe, if I wanted to.”
The joke that was only partially meant as a joke, however, landed flat. The chef’s poise didn’t falter when he glanced at the telling bump at the side of the henchman’s jacket. He met his boss’ piercing gaze with ease.
“You called my food magical, sir. And as you might know, a true magician never reveals his secrets, not even under torture. There are a good few Kaiser’s soldiers who knew me back in the day that can fully attest to that.”
Hal Gates’ expression softened from the sudden realization. It now became evident that the speech stumbles and face stiffness were far from being the result of a man stressing over a visit from his boss. Hal looked over his shoulder at Joji. The Japanese man’s chest was full and his back was even straighter than usual. Solemnly pressing his fist to his heart, Joji slightly bowed his head. The chef returned the gesture.
“Good to know that, mister Harrow, good to know. After all, loyalty is what it all boils down to at the end of the day, isn’t it?”
For a moment, the old man’s voice sounded distant and weak. But the moment passed, and mister Gates went back to his usual booming self.
“Yes, loyalty and, of course, some hearty food. How is our menu looking for tonight, by the way?”
The beehive kept on buzzing, accompanying the chef’s cuisine serenade. His boss was nodding, from time to time asking Joji to make a note of a particular dish. He was half-way through degustating some stir fry, when the kitchen back door opened and let in a massively tall and muscly young man with a square jaw. Mister Gates clocked his gaze immediately and waved his hand.
“Hold on, mister Harrow. Billy!? Come here. Try this.”
The young man approached and, carefully taking the fork out of the older man’s hand, bit into a steaming piece of glazed meat. His eyes watered from the heat and spices, while he stared at the pan full of meat almost in disbelief:
“Oh, that is good!”
“I’m trying something new with pork,” commented the chef. “Hopefully, our patrons like being surprised.”
“Well, as long as it’s not the pig stew, eh, Billy?”
A broad palm landed on Billy’s back with a loud slap and some roaring laughter, the man’s mutton chops shaking violently. Even Joji failed to suppress a quiet chuckle. The young man, however, wasn’t smiling.
Having calmed down, mister Gates turned to the chef, whose face was bearing a look of polite confusion.
“What can I say, we were all once victims of a new cook’s first day on the job. But I’m sure you’re gonna do great, mister Harrow. And we will now get out of your hair, so you can work that magic of yours, right?”
—
Back in the lounge the cacophony of the kitchen was immediately replaced by the shapeless sounds of a jazz rehearsal, mixed with the clicking and clacking of tapping shoes. All the food smells gave way to the aromas of old cypress wood, lemon pots, and cigars.
All but one.
The older gentleman pointed at the sausage Billy grabbed from the pan on his way out:
“Have a decent plate, would you, son?”
“No time, sir. The cargo is here.”
Mister Gates, who was about to light a cigar of his own, paused and looked up.
“Where?”
“About 40 minutes away from the harbor.”
“Is the shore clear?”
“Yes, I talked to Hornigold. He’s sending his men away on patrol.”
“Perfect. I was almost starting to worry about the opening.”
The boss licked his lips and tucked the cigar back into his vest pocket.
“We’ll need the vans. And a couple of loaders. I’ll tell DeGroot. And I want Dufresne to be there, as fast as possible.”
“I’ve already sent for him,” said Billy, finishing his snack and licking his fingers. “He’ll be at the spot with the ledgers in an hour.”
“Excellent. Now let’s hope we have everything we need to pair with the menu. Joji, where’s the list?”
The henchman produced the kitchen notes out of his jacket. He was about to give Billy a handkerchief, but the young man was already wiping his hands on his pants.
“We have just one small problem, though,” said Billy reluctantly, watching his boss mumble something, while quickly scanning the notes through his monocle.
The older gentleman’s face shot up.
“Don’t tell me. The Missus?”
“Yes. Still missing.”
“Blasted to all hell!” Hal cursed loudly and immediately looked around. All the lounge tables were empty, safe for the table in the window. A hat and a weakly smoking ashtray were still occupying it. “The Man won’t be too happy.”
“When is he ever?” scoffed Billy. “Over the years I think I haven’t seen him smile once.”
“I heard him laugh in his office when the Queen died,” said Joji.
“Made his day, really, yes,” Hal smirked. “Still, I wouldn’t want to be you when you break this news to him.”
“Me? Why me?!” cried out Billy.
Mister Gates chuckled and was about to reply, when he once again spotted the stranger he saw earlier surrounded by smoke. The guy was coming out of the restroom, and Hal could see his face very clear now.
And that was no stranger.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” cursed mister Gates into his whiskers.
He hurried over to the stage, followed by his confused retinue. He walked up to a pale man with flimsy gray hair and a turtle tattoo behind his ear. The man was in the middle of giving his opinion on jazz music to a Creole saxophonist.
“Mister De Groot?!”
The pale man turned around to meet his boss’ question.
“How long has that gentleman been sitting here?”
“The one by the window? Don’t know. An hour, maybe longer.”
The mutton chops shuddered with annoyance.
“Is there a problem, mister Gates?” asked De Groot, but his boss was already walking over to the table by the window, menacing and assured.
“I guess, we’re about to find out,” said Billy.
—
The man in a three-piece suit was clean shaven and wore his hair in a neat comb over, split on the left side. On the same side of his face, a long curvy scar trickled down like a grape vine from his eye all the way down to his chin.
He was about to light up a cigarette, when a cheerful voice interrupted him:
“Detective Rogers! What an unexpected, but pleasant surprise.”
The man glanced up at the three men walking up to him. The young guy had perched on the windowsill behind his back. The older gentleman sat down across the table and smiled at him. The third one, with his face as lively as a brick wall, stood hovering by him like a shadow.
The man smiled back.
“Mister Gates?”
“Haven’t seen you here in quite some time, detective. Though I’m afraid you’re too early. We open in the evening.”
“It’s all good, I kept myself entertained.”
“Enjoying the view?”
Hal pointed at the stage. Two women in white velvet vests, shorts, and derby hats had been rehearsing their tap dance performance. Golden frills on their hips jittered and jived to the rapid movements of long dark legs.
“You might say that,” said Rogers, watching the dancers for a while. “But I was mostly curious about the ballet of curious faces streaming in and out of your office all afternoon.”
“You mean my contractors? Haven’t noticed anything curious about them.”
“Really? What about that child stumbling out your doors with a slashed up painting?”
“I guess some artists just can’t handle criticism.”
The detective smiled and slightly shook his head. Then he took out a notepad and a fountain pen.
“You know, mister Gates, I would love to discuss your art expertise as well at some point. But today I’m here about something else.”
“Is that so?”
“Do you know what happened to Ned Low?”
Mister Gates paused and looked around at his subordinates. Their faces remained blank.
“I’m afraid I don’t. What’s more, I don’t know who that is.”
“Ned Low is a federal criminal who committed various crimes ranging from petty larceny and bar brawls to drug dealing and murder across several states.”
“Sounds like a big fish.”
“Yes, he was. We were about to catch him, when he was found slaughtered in the outskirts of New Orleans not three days ago.”
“Don’t get me wrong, detective, but since it’s New Orleans we’re talking about, I have to ask. Define ‘slaughtered’?”
“Decapitated.”
Mister Gates eyebrows shot up. He nodded. He looked almost impressed.
“It looks like that fish crossed paths with a shark after all. I’m surprised that it didn't make it to the papers.”
“I prevented it from leaking to the press. Muddles up the waters too much, makes fishing way harder.”
“The waters are never clear around the bayou, detective. I’m sure you knew that before you moved here. Remind me again, why was that?”
Woodes Rogers’ expression went a bit sour, but he ignored the question.
“And what about a certain criminal by the name of Charles Vane? I have the information that he used to be a frequent in this club a while ago.”
“It’s possible, of course. I don’t discriminate between my clientele.”
“So, you do know him then?”
Mister Gates shrugged.
“It’s a big pond, detective. Not all fish know each other.”
“Every fish should know the ones that could bite their head clean off.”
“Perhaps. But I’m not the person to tell you anything about those. I have a proper business here.”
He looked around the lounge. His gray-haired maitre d’hotel was talking to a stage worker in dirty denim overalls, yelling over the music. The bartender was lazily watching the interrogation by the window from his dark nook, absent-mindedly stroking his handlebar mustache. Having caught his boss’ glance, he immediately straightened up and pretended to be fumbling with the soda fountain.
“And the way I’ve managed to keep it up, – continued the club owner, – is that I pay my staff on time and have nothing to do with sharks.”
“Is that so?” smiled the policeman. “And what about your boss, Flint? Is he around?”
“Mister Flint is not my boss. He never was.”
“What would you call him then?”
“James Flint is my trusted business partner and friend of many years. He has been supplying this establishment in the best way possible.”
“What sort of supply would that be?”
“Oysters.”
“That’s interesting. And I have been informed that your business partner has spent the last two weeks in Havana. Is he harvesting oysters in Cuba now?”
“Weather has been kinda dry around these parts for quite some time, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Not ideal for oysters.”
“Dry” is certainly not how I would describe New Orleans.”
“Depends on which side of it you’re living.”
The detective laughed. Then he opened his pen and took a few notes on his pad. Billy automatically stretched out his neck trying to peak over his shoulder.
“Is that why your boss, sorry – your business partner – has been frequenting the head of the coastal guard? To lube up the weather?”
“Mister Hornigold is an old friend of mister Flint and I. The three of us share a love of good books and an occasional Cuban cigar. I didn’t know that was a crime.”
“Depends on the contents of the books.”
Jazz music stopped. The musicians were shuffling a bit, stretching their muscles and turning over the music sheets on the stands in front of them. The double act on the stage was starting from the top.
But Hal Gates was done.
“Tell me, detective Rogers, does that nice jacket of yours, by any chance, have two breast pockets? Because this conversation is starting to feel as if you are, after all, carrying another, much more “special” badge. If that’s the case, you’d better have something other than your personal curiosity to back up any further questioning. Otherwise, it’s just a poor waste of each other’s time.”
The detective looked around. Billy’s mouth jerked up to give a semblance of a smile and immediately fell down. Joji’s face looked bulletproof.
Smiling, the policeman threw up his hands in defeat. He closed the pen and put the stationery back into his pocket.
Then he took out his wallet.
“Here is my card, my office number’s on the back. Orleans is a big busy pond, but your club is just as busy, from what I’ve heard. Give us a call on the off chance you or your men see Charles Vane in that crowd of yours.”
Mister Gates gave a nod to Joji, who had been watching every single move during the entire conversation and immediately leaned in to take the business card.
“I’ll do you even better. Come by tonight and see for yourself. Our chef makes an extraordinary pepper steak.”
Detective Rogers stood up and picked up his hat.
“Thank you, but I’d much rather get a taste of those Cuban oysters.”
As the policeman started walking towards the exit, Billy also started getting up from the windowsill, when he saw mister Gates staring right at him. Billy instantly sat back down. Sometimes he would visit his boss’ house on the weekend to give him and his wife a ride to the beach. Sometimes he would also stay for dinner and a game of chess. That was the stare of strategic calculations.
All of a sudden, the club owner stood up as well.
“You know who also loves oysters? Miss Guthrie.”
Detective Rogers paused and glanced back.
“She does?”
“Oh, yes,” the older gentleman smiled reassuringly. “What’s more I’m sure that if you bring her with you, your chance of catching that big bad shark of yours might not be that much off.”
Detective’s face went stale and his jaw became sharper. He looked down at the hat in his hands and bit his lip, before he muttered:
“You don’t say…”
The second the door closed behind the guy, mister Gates dropped the smile and lunged into action.
“Billy, bring the car around. But first, tell DeGroot that we’ll only be pouring for our established patrons tonight. No fresh VIPs.”
“Got it.”
“Also, don’t say a word to the Man about that goddamn beagle sniffing around. I want a clean opening tonight.”
“What if Rogers shows up for the opening?”
“He won’t,” said mister Gates, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “He’ll be too busy tailing Eleanor for any traces of Vane. And even if he does, he’s got nothing on us, and I’m gonna make sure it stays that way.”
Billy nodded. He opened his jacket and checked the holsters underneath it. Then he took a swig from a flask from his trousers’ pocket and started making his way between the tables straight to the garage.
“But Billy?”
The young man paused and turned around. His boss walked up to him and lowered his voice.
“Tell Dufresne not to bring the ledgers.”