couldn't have told them, if asked, what shade his eyes were, or anything
else. With six different things going on, the man was a blur—like Patty
Hearst in those security camera photos from the bank job—perpetually
in motion, always on the way out the door.
I wasn't really very good at Italian food. I relied on Dimitri for most of
my recipes, though his experience at Mario's was almost entirely
Southern Italian red sauce and the like. But I got by nodding at whatever
high concept the Shadow had a hot nut for that week, my real value to
the organization becoming apparent after I had finally had enough and
cut loose the coke-dealing head of prep.
The Shadow and upper management were impressed by this. It showed
frugality: the man was deadwood after all; he had been absent from work
without explanation two Saturdays in a row, and truth be told, he couldn't
cook at all. I'd shown balls, too, firing their coke dealer, and they kinda
liked that. They couldn't have done it, as the bastard knew too much—
and I'd shown real talent and diplomatic skill in the way I'd done the
deed: the already financially comfortable prep chief was easily
convinced that this showing up at the restaurant thing was an
inconvenience, and a distraction from his real calling, and that he'd be
happier reverting to his former lifestyle, scooting around New York's
bars and nightclubs in expensive Italian automobiles selling drugs. When
I sorted out the Rodriguez, Garcia, Perez problem, unloaded a couple of
wise-ass slacker waitrons, and replaced some no-show cooks with
loyalists from Tom's and Work Progress, the Shadow saw in me my real
calling—which was hatchet man.
Not that I was happy with this mantle.
But I was off dope now . . . and comfortably sedated by methadone, I felt
free to visit the service bar numerous times a night, so that I could pack
my nose with cocaine. This gave me that lovably psychotic edge so
useful for mood swings, erratic bursts of rage, and the serious business