there were simply two different kitchen doors leading to two different
dining rooms. The chef, a mincing, freakish-looking albino, was
apparently quite capably taking care of business without me—and he let
me know so immediately. After grudgingly introducing me to the
kitchen crew who, it was immediately clear, held him in high regard, he
took me aside and said, "I don't care what the Shadow fucking told you,
this is my kitchen . . . and you ain't doing nothing more than picking
spinach as long as I'm here—which is forever!"
No way was I going to be stuck in a corner, in a hostile kitchen, working
under this geek. I'd been promised a chef's job—my own kitchen, with
all that implied—and the idea of two chefs sharing responsibility for one
crew was ridiculous, even if the albino had been willing. And I didn't
care to pick spinach, even for a thousand dollars a week.
I left immediately, calling the Shadow from a pay-phone.
"What have you done to me?" I inquired, pissed off. "They'd rather rub
shit in their hair over there than let me in! You have a chef already!"
"No problem," replied the Shadow, as if he'd just now remembered that
the two restaurants shared a kitchen. "They really need you in Baltimore.
Go down to Gino's on the waterfront, see the GM; he'll fill you in and
give you some expense money."
Which is how I found myself on the TurboLiner to Baltimore, junk-sick,
confused, with an overnight bag, and no idea of my mission.
Baltimore sucks.
If you haven't been there, it's a fairly quaint excuse for a city. (At the
time I was there it was undergoing massive rehabilitation; an entire
neighborhood by the waterfront was being "restored" into a sort of red-
brick and cobblestone theme park.) Bars close at 1 A.M. they start