the inner sanctum, for a private and serious discussion with the ultimate
leader. I stood up, puzzled, and left the room to meet in camera with
Pino.
He led me to his office, closed the door, sat back on his comfortable-
looking couch and threw one leg over the other.
"Anthony, do you have any . . . enemies?" he asked.
"Huh?" I stammered unintelligently, not having any idea what he could
be talking about.
"I received a call," he began slowly. "Someone . . . someone who . . .
doesn't like you, who saw the Times notice . . . Have you been stealing
sous-chefs?"
"I . . . I . . . no! . . . I don't know." I managed to squeak, my voice
constricting with terror.
"They say . . . this person says you are stealing sous-chefs. That you are .
. . a pothead. Who," he mused, inquisitively, "Who could hate you that
much?"
I was completely thrown. I denied, flat out, stealing any sous-chefs-
though, of course I'd been stealing every goddamn cook and dishwasher I
could lay my hands on. Later, much later, I recalled, during one of the
cattle calls, hearing an applicant for a floor job mention her boyfriend
was a sous-chef, and at a restaurant I knew. The chef there was someone
I thought to be an utter prick, and I might have said something about
why don't you have him give me a call. There might have been some
inappropriate ex parte communications between my representative
(Steven) and this person. And I later found out that the sous-chef in
question had simply used our presumed interest in his services to jack up
his current chef for a fat and not easily afforded raise. But at the time, all