Killer Chef

Two

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” LaRue began, “this meal can be eaten with both world leaders and factory workers. Everyone from farmers and faith healers can enjoy this. I know this, my friends, because I have enjoyed this meal with them all. I’ve often been called The Host of The World, but” he stopped and smiled that smile that he had flashed so often, his gray flecked strawberry blonde hair bounced back and forth. “But,” he continued as he held a glass of red wine in a salute gesture, “I am only gotten to be the Host of The World because you, my friends, have allowed me to become the Guest of the World, first.” He took a small sip and set the glass down.

            LaRue stood. His gray eyes sparkled. “This is the final show before I go on holiday. Although I regret that I will not be spending time with you each day, I always come back with recipe ideas and a renewed fire to showcase each dish. So until we see each other again, I’ll keep a place set for you.” He continued to smile after the director called ‘Cut.’ Regardless of how long he did this, the cooking, the restaurants, the shows, he always enjoyed them. He was still in many ways the same kid who had first met Tommy all those years ago.

            It was only when he thought of Tommy that his mood changed. Anger flashed briefly behind his eyes. For the last thirty years of his life, Tommy would call LaRue at every hour of the day or night, each time with an assignment. He hadn’t heard from Tommy for a few weeks, a rarity. As his special phone began to ring, he assumed not only a friendly greeting but a promise to grab a meal together in some remote part of the world.

            “Hey Doc,” Emily began. LaRue looked up. For over twenty years now, Emily always knew he needed. She handed him an expresso with a slice of pineapple. “Some guy on 3 I don’t recognize.”

            Line three was only the line Tommy used.

            While he cut up the pineapple into bite size pieces, he picked up line three.

            “Is this you, Chef?” a strange voice on the phone began. LaRue was rarely called ‘Chef’ anymore.

            “This is Chef Devon LaRue. What’s your name, friend?”

            “Chef LaRue, this is Special Agent Russell McCoy. I have worked with Special Agent Donald Thomas. I think you called him Tommy.”

            “Tommy?”

            “Can you meet me tonight; we need to discuss Special Agent Thomas.”

            LaRue had spent hundreds of hours in training. He knew to never trust strangers and could kill them anyone he needed to in a variety of quick or painful ways. He would had never agreed to meet McCoy if he had not mentioned Tommy’s name. The truth was, Tommy was the only real friend LaRue had and he wanted to see him. Maybe McCoy could help set up the meeting.

            “Anything wrong, Doc?”

            “Set up a reservation with Brad at #1. I’m not sure who that was, but he’s connected to Tommy. I’m gonna be working on the set here for a couple of hours.”

            “What time will you be home?”

            “It might be late, depending on this meeting. I hope I won’t be past ten. I’ll send you some notes later to add to the files.”

            Another drink arrived. This time a Woodford with a shot of grapefruit juice.

            LaRue knew Emily had ordered it before the taping began. He held up the shot in a salute and drank it. “Thank you, Em. I’ll see you at home.”

            The lights in the studio were off, except for the ones over the stove and prep areas. As he mindlessly prepared a Ratatouille, he remembered his first assignment: LaRue never knew his name. He made it a point to never learn the names of any of his assignments. It seemed to be easier.

He did some of his best thinking while cooking. He finished chopping the mushrooms and carrots and moved on to the tomatoes. For his first assignment, all he had to do that first time was break into a house, a two-story ranch in a gated community, and suffocate the old man in the bedroom at the top of the stairs while he slept. Tommy would not tell his protégé that the ‘old man’ was Judge Willard Davis. Judge Davis had attempted to stop Tommy and his use of proteges to kill the long list of enemies that Tommy had. Judge Davis had been the first, but many more had soon followed.

As he ate the ratatouille an hour later, he reflected on this first murder. He was still a kid then, barely twenty-two, and had tried to follow Tommy’s instructions to the letter. He had left his Honda scooter a mile back. He had hidden it well, with branches, leaves and dirt. The jog didn’t even wind him. He had put his gloves on as he approached the house. He felt invigorated as he crawled through the small basement window that had a broken lock. He could still smell the garlic that hung in the air from the spaghetti the Judge had cooked a few hours earlier. As he worked his way up the staircase, he knew which steps had squeaks, he also knew where to put his foot on those steps to avoid the squeaks.

He pushed his plate aside with the familiar tingle behind his eyes just beginning. From the hidden pocket inside the cuff of his right shirt sleeve, he produced a needle. Just as he did with everything else, he had invented his own drug cocktail. Currently, he used a mixture of heroin and vitamin C, which he called his ‘sunrise solution’. LaRue rolled up his sleeve, found a vein and injected the pale yellow solution. The itch slowly faded. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the euphoria that followed.

With still an hour before his meeting, he worked his way back to his office. Beneath the false bottom of his center desk drawer were multiple vials. His ten-percent solution of heroin was added first, followed by vitamin A, his ‘healthy hit.’ Putting everything back, LaRue stood. Although he was sure he wouldn’t need it, he grabbed an old .25 caliber that Tommy had given him.

            During the cab ride, LaRue remembered how he stood at the side of the Judge’s bed for a long time. He wasn’t trying to find the courage to do the job, he was ready. He wasn’t arguing with his conscience, as he didn’t seem to really care he was about to take a life. He stood there because he wanted to savor this. He had chosen to become a chef, but LaRue sensed that this might become the profession he loved. Hands that had just hours before had prepared the finest omelet in his class now held a pillow of the Judge. It was over quickly. LaRue would have enjoyed it more if the strangling had lasted longer.

            He wondered why he had not heard from Tommy. Even when there were no assignments, the two would meet. Even when Tommy was on special assignment in Israel and he was on a book tour, they still managed an hour for a cigar and a drink.

            Brought back to the present, the cab was just stopping in front of LaRue’s first restaurant. This was where Special Agent McCoy had wanted to meet. The meeting would change everything LaRue thought he knew.

            “Thank you for meeting me, Chef.”

            LaRue hadn’t been sure what to expect from the voice on the phone, but Special Agent McCoy did not look like the picture that LaRue had in his head of him. McCoy had the appearance and attitude of a surfer. His shoulder length blonde hair was parted neatly down the middle. McCoy looked very uncomfortable in his suit and tie.

            LaRue motioned Matt, the waiter over. “Matt, please bring me an espresso with almond milk. I also want two lemon slices and a pineapple slice.” Matt scampered off quickly to turn the boss’ order in. McCoy watched the interaction smiling, shaking his head slightly.

            “I thought my wife ordered weird at restaurants.”

            LaRue snapped out of his daydream. “You want to see me at one of my restaurants, then you insult me?” His voice remained low, but crackled with anger. “Not that I owe you a damn thing, but almond milk adds an extra flavor to the drink with no more calories. The pineapple gives me the sugar hit that I need to get rid of my headache.”

            McCoy waited for the remainder. He received silence from the other end of the table. “The lemon?” he asked, coaxing a response.

            LaRue smiled. “If I don’t kill you, I may tell you later.”

            McCoy gave LaRue a sly smile. “Tommy was right about you. He said you didn’t make small talk well and you probably kill more people than eat with them.”

            “Which will it be with you?” LaRue asked. “Do I kill you or eat with you?”

            McCoy wanted to laugh, to break the tension. However, he had a vision of LaRue jumping across the table to strangle him. Restaurant staff and guests be damned. “Hopefully, eat with me.”

            Brad returned with LaRue’s order, easing the tension.

            LaRue unwrapped his silverware, taking the steak knife from inside the napkin. He cut the pineapple slice into quarters, grabbing the saltshaker, he added two small shakes. LaRue popped a piece of the citrus in his mouth, then squeezed his lemon into his hot drink.

            McCoy raised an eyebrow.

            With the bite of fruit in him, LaRue seemed to calm down. He put the fork down and smiled at McCoy. “Ok, you said news about Tommy.”

            McCoy cleared his throat. “Special Agent Donald J. Thomas, Jr. was murdered earlier today. A lot of details are not known yet, but it appears the killers were waiting in his car.”

            LaRue didn’t know how to react. Tommy had been his mentor. He had gotten him out of jail, given him his life’s work and had been closer to him than his Dad had ever been. “Going out like that was always a possibility,” he finally said. During the pause, LaRue went through his mental file to ensure Tommy had nothing in his home that could be used to blackmail him later. There was one item. He hoped he could retrieve it before The Agency could find it.

            He took another bite of pineapple and took a sip on his cup.

            McCoy had been resting his right elbow on a file. LaRue had gotten used to seeing files like that and presumed it was his next assignment. “Is that for me?” he asked. He was keeping his anger in check. Tommy would never have manhandled a file in that manner.

             McCoy had hesitated about giving the file to LaRue. “The boy’s got anger issues,” Tommy had told him on one of the few times they had talked ‘real business.’ “The boy would do anything I told him to, but I have to keep him on a leash. If he ever turns on me, he will kill me slowly.”

            “How does it work with this one?” McCoy asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, most of your others you just pick up the phone and the poor little shits are at their homes or their mindless jobs. Chef LaRue could be anywhere in the world hobnobbing with literally anyone. Why would he drop that to talk to you?”

            “I own him.”

            Those three words sent a shiver down McCoy’s spine. It was then he decided to tell LaRue the truth. He started gathering as much as intel as he could from LaRue’s master file. Some things he copied from Tommy’s file, some things he recorded as he wore a wire and throughout the course of multiple conversations had been able to compile three full hours of audio. The tape containing the audio was in the front of the file now in LaRue’s possession.

            “What’s this?” LaRue asked.

            “Come on, Chef, you know those files contain background. This is background on you that I pulled from Tommy’s file.” It was a subtle change, but McCoy sensed a change. A little color had drained from LaRue’s face.

            “I don’t need to read this, I know what Tommy thought of me,” LaRue said, a confident lie. That was something he had been taught to do well. He would read it and re-read it many times.

            LaRue took the file but made the point of not opening it until he was alone. He knew what Tommy had been. He had been LaRue’s pusher, his contact, his assignment coordinator. But he was also LaRue’s friend. Probably the only friend he ever had. He was quite sure he did not want to read what the file contained.

            He would be proven right.