Recipe for Success?

            by Leanne Brotsky

 

 “Hello?”

            “Mr. Hank Reeves?”

            “Speaking,” Hank replied.

            “This is Detective Edgewood from the Berkeley Police Department.  I was wondering if you might be able to come down to the police station today and answer a few questions for us?”  Hank stopped pacing and sat down on a chair to his right.

            “Um, all right Detective.  May I ask what this is about?”

            “We can discuss that when you arrive.  How soon can you talk to us?”

            “I can come to the station later this evening.  Is everything okay?”
            “Yes, we just need to ask you some questions.  I’ll talk to you soon.  Goodbye.”

            Hank hung the phone back up in its cradle and stared at it for several minutes.  He racked his brains, trying to come up with some reason why the police needed him for questioning.  He turned on the TV and flipped to the news.  There was a pileup on the freeway, a fire in a neighboring county, and a new study suggesting puzzles could mitigate the effects of Alzheimer’s.  None of the stories had anything to do with Hank.

            A few hours later, Hank arrived at the police station for questioning.  He gave his name to an officer in uniform and took a seat on a worn out bench near the door.  A few minutes later, a man wearing a white buttoned up shirt under a black sport coat approached Hank.

            “Mr. Reeves?  I’m Detective Edgewood.  We spoke on the phone earlier?”

            “Yes, hello.  Look, is everything alright?”
            “Please follow me.  I’ll just need a few minutes of your time.”  Hank followed the detective into a small room with a mirror on one wall.  He sat down across from the detective at the large table in the center of the room.

            “Mr. Reeves, do you know a Mr. James Colt?”

            “Yeah, we went to culinary school together,” Hank said, jiggling his foot under the table.  “We’re pretty friendly, not really close.”
            “And when was the last time you saw Mr. Colt?”

            “Yesterday afternoon.  He works at a restaurant around the corner from my apartment building.  I saw him when I was coming home from work.”

“And what is it that you do, Mr. Reeves?”

“I work at Noah’s Bagels.  I haven’t exactly broken into the food world like James has.  Is he all right?”

            “Mr. Colt was found murdered in his apartment this morning.”  Hank stopped fidgeting and stared at Detective Edgewood.

            “You’re kidding.  That’s impossible!  When I talked to him he had plans to go out with friends, a bunch of guys from school.  I can’t believe this!”

            “Do you know which friends he was seeing?”

            “I think he said Cole Sawyer and David Caldwell.  They’re all sous chefs at restaurants next door to each other.”

            “Was Mr. Colt getting along with these men?”

            “Yeah, I think so,” Hank nodded.  “Well, they’ve always been competitive with each other.  Cole was jealous ‘cause James had a better job and a hotter girlfriend.  But he couldn’t have done that!  Could he?”

            “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.  Thank you for your time, Mr. Reeves.  We have a lot of people to interview today, so I’m going to have to excuse myself.  But I’ll be in touch.”

            “Okay…thank you, Detective.  Let me know if there’s anything I can do.  James was such a great guy.  I just can’t believe it!”

            Hank left the police station and walked back to his apartment in a fog.  So many thoughts were racing through his head that he barely remembered to set his alarm for work the next morning.  That night, Hank dreamt of James.  James was standing in his kitchen, making an omelet, when a man burst through the door and stabbed him with a kitchen knife.  Hank woke up to the sound of his alarm, drenched in a cold sweat.

            After getting dressed, he left his apartment and rounded the corner into the section of downtown Berkeley that made up the Gourmet Ghetto.  To Hank’s right sat Chez Panisse, one of the best-known restaurants in the country, and James’s former workplace.  He stared at the eatery, thinking about James, about how excited he had been to land such a coveted position.  Shaking his head, Hank crossed the street to the French Hotel, a bustling café whose surly barista made coffee into works of art.  Hank ordered his usual, coffee black and a butter croissant, and walked outside to buy a newspaper from the news rack.  He skimmed the front page as he maneuvered past people toward the bus stop.

            Hank got off the bus at Solano Avenue, a long street full of restaurants and stores that drew all sorts of people from the surrounding city.  He walked into Noah’s Bagels and put on an apron.  After an hour of making bagels, Hank had his first customer.

            “How may I help you?”

            “I’d like to pick up a dozen bagels.”

            “All right, what kind would you like?”

            “Well…what’s the difference between egg bagels and plain bagels?” 

Hank stifled a groan and forced a smile.  “The egg bagels have egg in their dough, and the plain bagels don’t,” Hank said through gritted teeth.

            “Oh, all right.  I’ll take a dozen plain,” the customer said, reaching into his wallet.  Hank put the bagels in a bag and rang the customer’s order up.  As the man left the store, Hank rolled his eyes.

            “I can’t believe those guys got jobs at real restaurants and I’m serving morons at a bagel place!” Hank said to his coworker, Andrew.

            “That’s rough, man,” Andrew agreed, scratching his tattooed arm.

            That night, Hank got to his apartment and pushed the flashing button on his answering machine.

            “Hank, it’s Cole Sawyer, from school.  I’m sure you heard about James earlier.  I don’t even know how to say this…David Caldwell was found dead in his apartment a few hours ago.  I’m getting scared, I dunno, paranoid I guess.  Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.  Gimme a call…867-5309.”

Hank sat down and put his head in his hands.  He stared at the floor, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.  Slowly, he picked up the phone and began to dial Cole’s number.  After the first few rings, Hank hung up, shaking his head.  He knew there was nothing to say to Cole, nothing to erase what had happened or make it any less terrifying.  The clock on the wall only read eight-thirty, but it felt like well after midnight.  Hank walked to his room, put on his pajamas, and got into bed.  That night he had another dream.  This time, David was walking home when suddenly a man jumped out of the shadows and stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife.  Hank woke up dizzy and out of breath.

            Pushing the covers off his body with shaking arms, Hank got up and walked to the bathroom.  He filled a cup of water and stared at his reflection in the mirror.  His shaggy brown hair was sticking up in all directions.  The black Strokes t-shirt he had slept in was wet with sweat, and there were goose bumps all over his skinny, pale arms.  Hank splashed some cold water on his face and turned off the light in his bathroom.  He walked slowly over to the bookshelf next to his bed.  He pulled out the yearbook from his last year at the California Culinary Academy and flipped through it until he found the page with James and David.  In his photo, James was wearing a goofy smile and giving the camera a thumbs-up.  Typical James, thought Hank; never taking anything seriously, ever.  Under the photo was a blurb about James’s plans after graduation.  It talked about his new job at Chez Panisse and how he was looking forward to working near David and Cole. 

Hank traced his finger over the photos in the row until it settled on the picture of David.  His body was turned to the side and he was looking over his shoulder at the camera with a somber expression.  Typical David, too, Hank thought with a small laugh.  Under “future plans”, David had written about his new job at César, another very prestigious restaurant in the Gourmet Ghetto.  He also mentioned working near James and Cole.

Hank flipped the pages of the yearbook until he got to the page with Cole’s photo.  Cole was giving the camera a smug smile and had his head cocked to one side.  His future plans talked about his job at Taste, a restaurant and wine bar in the Epicurious Garden, the latest gourmet addition to the Ghetto.  He didn’t mention James or David, but Cole rarely talked about people beside himself.  Hank shook his head as he remembered how Cole refused to share an apartment with the other two, saying that roommates would cramp his style.  He was with a new girl almost every night, but that didn’t stop him from lusting after James’s girlfriend, Rebecca.  Everyone knew how much it bothered James when Cole asked if Rebecca was going to be single anytime soon.  Hank looked at Cole’s picture again, wondering if the police had questioned him yet.

Before closing the yearbook, Hank flipped to the page with his picture on it.  He was staring right into the camera with a slight smile stretched across his lips.  In his own “future plans”, he had written a sentence about exploring the Bay Area.  Hank groaned and shut the book.  He’d had absolutely no job offers after graduation.  The other chefs were mildly supportive, telling him that something was going to come along soon.  But they all talked with that self-assured tone of people who knew what they were doing, who didn’t have to worry about rent or food.  With one final glance at the yearbook’s blue and silver cover, Hank tossed it to the floor and kicked it under his bed.

By that time, it was eight in the morning and time to go to work.  Hank got dressed, walked out of his apartment, crossed the street, and arrived at the back door of Cheeseboard Pizza.  A few months earlier, Hank had realized that working at Noah’s wouldn’t be enough to pay his rent.  He was lucky enough to find a job at the Cheeseboard Collective, a combination bakery and pizzeria that was a favorite among locals and tourists alike.  Unlike at Noah’s, at the Cheeseboard, he was actually making food.  Hank pulled on an apron and joined his coworker, Mike, at the oven in the back of the store.

“How’s it going, man?” Mike asked.

“Actually, not too good,” Hank mumbled.

“Oh right, you knew those two guys who worked across the street.  I’m sorry dude, that must be rough.”

“It is,” Hank replied, kneading dough.

“Hey, that reminds me.  There were a couple people in here earlier looking for you.  Cole someone, and this cop.  He left his card.  It’s over there,” Mike said, gesturing with his elbow to a small table near the front door.  Hank wiped his hands and walked over to the business card.  It was from Detective Edgewood.  On the back, he had written, “Call me as soon as you get this.”  Hank pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number on the front of the card.

“Edgewood,” the detective said curtly.

“Detective, this is Hank Reeves.  I just got your message.  What’s up?”

“I assume by now you’ve heard about Mr. Caldwell,” Detective Edgewood paused.

“Yes, sir.  I can’t believe it.  Do you know who could have done this?”

“We’re working on it, Mr. Reeves.  Do you have time to come by and answer some more questions for us today?”

“I’m sorry, Detective, I’m at work all day today.  I could maybe stop by tomorrow?”  Hank asked, staring out the window at Chez Panisse and César.

“That would be fine.  Thank you, Mr. Reeves.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” the detective said, hanging up abruptly.

“Is everything okay, man?” Mike yelled over the noise of the oven warming up.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Hank said slowly, scratching his head.

By midafternoon, Hank had a huge stomachache.  He was paler than usual and his hands were so clammy that he didn’t want to touch any food.

“Hey Mike, I’m feeling horrible.  Is it cool if I take off early?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, sure.  It’s been a rough couple days for you.  Take all the time you need.  I have everything covered.”

“Thanks,” Hank said gratefully.

Later that night, Hank didn’t feel any better.  He tried calling Cole, but only got his machine.  Hank crawled into bed and turned out the light, but couldn’t fall asleep.  He tossed and turned, thinking about James, David, Cole, and his meeting with the detective the next day.  When Hank finally fell asleep, he had another dream.  In it, Cole arrived at the front door of his apartment and found a man standing there.  The man stabbed Cole with a kitchen knife and disappeared down the stairs of the apartment building.  Hank woke with a start to the sound of the phone ringing.

“Hello?” Hank said, snatching the phone off the cradle.

“Mr. Reeves, it’s Detective Edgewood.”

“Detective?  What time is it?” Hank asked, getting out of bed and walking into the kitchen.

“It’s eight in the morning, Mr. Reeves.  I need you to come down to the station as soon as possible,” the detective said quickly.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Hank said, putting on rubber gloves and turning on the water in the sink.

“There have been some new developments in the case,” the detective replied.

“What kind of developments?  Is everything alright?”

“I can’t discuss these details over the phone.  I need you to come down to the station immediately.”
            “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t come this morning,” Hank apologized, picking up a dirty kitchen knife from the counter.  “I have a really important job interview.  Would it be possible for me to come down later this afternoon?  Say around two?” Hank asked, watching blood run off the knife and down the drain.

“Yes, two would be alright.  And Mr. Reeves, please be careful.  We have reason to believe that you might be in some danger.  You’re sure you can’t come to the station right away?”

“I can’t, Detective.  This interview is so important to my career.  Thank you very much for the warning.  I’ll be careful.  Talk to you soon,” Hank said, hanging up the phone.  He put the knife in the drying rack, turned off the water, and peeled off his rubber gloves.  He walked back into his bedroom and put on a crisp white shirt and ironed black pants.  As he tied his shoes, he began humming under his breath.  After one last look in the mirror, Hank walked out of his apartment, around the corner, and up the stairs to the front door of Chez Panisse.