= Bad for Business
  by Anthony Neil Smith

The rumor was the Times-Picayune critic would visit the restaurant that night incognito, which was the last thing Gill needed with Jessie upstairs hiding from the Feds. Gill's had opened two months ago on the fringe of the French Quarter and quickly built a rep -- laid back post-cybercafe, Creole inspired menu, walls covered with bright neo-outsider art. This was where the young and cool New Orleans came for client lunches, romantic dinners, couple of after work drinks on the red-brick garden patio. Gill needed to impress The Critic to stay afloat, because buzz came and went quicker than seasons changed. Then Jessie showed up desperate and three years late, wrecking Gill's concentration and making his heart beat fast again.

It was a strong night, nearly full at eight, booked solid during peak hours. Good atmosphere for The Critic, wherever she was. One of the waiters told Gill he'd seen The Critic a couple of times, when she visited other places he had worked. He was sure to recognize her again, disguise and all ("The glasses. She's nearly blind," he said), and would alert the staff.

Gill stood at the front awhile with Veronica, his hostess and girlfriend. She was Brazilian, skin a deep chocolate, wearing black slacks and a white silk blouse. Gill wore a khaki suit, his best brown shoes. The hair was perfect, blond and gelled. He walked around, talked to diners, schmoozed some celebs: teen actors Gill didn't know named Sarah and Seth and Reese; the guitar player for Bruce Springsteen, Nils Lofgren, there with Jimmie Vaughn; and a table of literary types, known in the circles. But Gill wanted stars, not flashlights.

One of the waiters waved him over, huddled close and said, "We've got a couple of guys over there, say they'd like to talk to you."

"Problem?"

The waiter shrugged. "They haven't even ordered. Just water and bread. Came in, said something to Veronica I couldn't hear, so she bumped a reservation and seated them."

"My luck, she probably bumped The Critic."

"She won't get by us. The net's up."

"These two, are they stars?"

"None I know."

Gill fell into step behind the waiter, who gave a point halfway to the table before taking a sharp left out of the way. These two were probably late thirties, both white, both in black suits, both in good shape. The one with curly hair sipped water, while his mostly bald partner leaned back.

Gill smiled, his hands behind him. "I'm Gill Pinot, the owner? How's everything tonight, gentlemen?"

"Just fine. Haven't ordered yet," the bald one said.

"I was told you wanted to speak with me."

"We have a few questions." The bald one pulled an ID wallet from his inside pocket, laid it open on the table. "Special Agent Harker," a point across the table, "Special Agent Yancey. Federal Bureau of Investigations. We were told you're the ex-husband of Jessie Little."

"Sort of."

Yancey grinned. "And that was a 'yes or no' question."

Gill reached behind him for an empty chair, pulled it to the agents' table and sat with the back in front of him, leaned his elbows on top. "We did the papers, set the date, all that. I showed up at the church. She didn't. We had a few phone calls after that, and she signed 'Mrs. Gill Pinot' on some things -- car loan, charged some clothes. I sued in small claims. She didn't show for that either, but she stopped signing, too. Last I saw her was the day before the wedding."

Harker said, "We've been looking for her a few days now. Now we're sure she's in New Orleans. She made a call from the airplane to your home number earlier today."

"Somebody answered?"

"Must have."

Gill thought a moment while the agents shared a Got Him Now look.

"Maybe the machine picked up. I've been here since eight this morning. Busy, haven't called home for messages. Tonight's pretty important for us."

Yancey looked around. "It's a nice place. Not my usual type of hangout. Guess I'm the falling-apart-blues-and-cheap-beer type. No frills."

"Shut up, Yancey," Harker said. "You sound like some TV cop."

The younger agent took another sip of water, but Gill could tell he was hurt.

"Won't take much of your time, Mr. Pinot. If she comes around, let us know. We'll be watching, just in case. I take it there's no love lost, right? Nothing to gain by helping her?"

"Nothing I can think of." Except keeping my business. And maybe some intimate affection. Gill cleared his throat. "We hear there's a restaurant critic supposed to stop by tonight. Have to be on our toes. What's Jessie done wrong, anyway?"

Yancey answered. "Has to do with drugs. We've been watching her a long time, think she's tied directly into a major pipeline operation. Heroin and cocaine."

Harker pulled out a card and handed it to Gill. "Like I said, just in case. Can we get some menus?"

"Sure. And a couple of glasses of Merlot, on the house. Enjoy yourselves." Gill replaced the chair, shook the agents' hands, and turned around in time to see the top of Jessie's head peeking out from behind the kitchen doors -- short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

He started for the doors, past a table for two enjoying the Grilled Swordfish, past another table for five relaxing with wine after their sauteed shrimp entree, before pushing through and nearly breaking Jessie's nose. He pushed her back against a wall, fingers spread on her chest. She watched him half a second with scared eyes before squinting to mad.

"You won't touch me. You'll regret it, especially with all the knives handy," Jessie said. Her usual Amazon warrior crap.

Gill gave another push as she tried to squirm away. "Listen, for once in your whole pathetic life, listen to me. I just talked to a couple of FBI guys who came looking for you. You made a call. They traced the call. They traced it to my place."

"Didn't want to surprise you."

"You didn't call the restaurant next."

She shrugged. "Surprised?"

Gill put fists on his hips. Jessie stopped trying to escape. Some of the kitchen staff ceased their chopping and cooking to watch until Gill threw a glance over his shoulder, started the work up again.

"Stay in the office. Don't do anything except play solitaire on the computer."

"This is a great-looking restaurant. Really magical, really popular. I heard about the place while I was on the West Coast. It's what you always wanted."

It got him to grin, one he tried to fight. She grinned back, crossed her arms. "I just wanted to see the crowd," she said.

"It's sink or swim night."

"I miss this town, and this energy, and that smell." Jessie lifted her nose, closed her eyes. It was in the air, fresh vegetables, spice, crawfish and shrimp and fish, sauces. Overwhelming, addictive. Which reminded Gill of something else.

"You gave it up to run drugs for somebody else."

"Don't pin that on me." She jabbed him in the chest with a rigid finger, the nail nearly breaking skin. "It was all I knew. You were talking about giving it up."

"That was just talk. You know I'm still a big gun."

"But not forever, right? And then I'm supposed to give up the travel and sit at home, wait for you every night. Screw that, Gill."

Gill dropped his face, smoothed his eyebrows with his fingertips. He said quietly, "Upstairs. We'll talk later."

He watched Jessie walk through the kitchen, ass full and round in tight jeans, and she was moving it just for him, regardless of the stares she got from cooks with sharp knives and hot pots in their hands.

* * *

Gill walked around the dining room, stopping by tables at random, fake smile on his face while he tried to clear his foggy head. Jessie bringing up the old days, well, that stung. Gill's had begun as a money laundering front for the drug trafficking. But instead of mixing it up with the standard players in the New Orleans trade, he'd dealt with a friend in Brazil. Good price, good stuff, so all he had to do was get it into the States.

He'd baited his beautiful fiancee Jessie into making the rounds, figuring she could sweet talk guards and customs agents. Gill told her to be eager for help. They'd never suspect.

He'd cleaned the money through some currency trades and NASDAQ daytrading and put earnings back into the restaurant. Then he bought the place and called in the renovators, the investors, the decorators. Even thought it might be time to ease up on the drugs and go legit. But the trips were Jessie's first taste of the jet set lifestyle, and she wasn't willing to give it up so easily. She left Gill standing at the altar.

Coming back was a smart move. The threat of blackmail in exchange for the last place anyone would think to look for Jessie. But she shouldn't have called his house. Now the wolves were knocking on the door. Gill looked over at the agents waiting for the main course, wine glasses half-drained. The celebrity factor was dim that night, but except for the agents, he could smell wealth all over the patrons. The Critic would mention it, and then the real flood would begin. If he could keep Gill's strong for another season, he would be able to open another place Uptown. The start of the next New Orleans dynasty, give the Brennans some competition.

A glance towards the front caught Veronica speaking with a familiar black man in a navy suit. It took a moment for Gill to remember, but this was a cop. Some detective -- name, name? Landry? The guy who had suspicions about Jessie early on, right after she left. He'd come around digging for evidence to use against them unless they turned their source. Since he didn't have proof to begin with, Gill was able to shut him down. Still, Landry had that look in his eye -- knew perfectly well that those two were guilty.

Gill sidled up to Veronica, didn't put on the greeting smile for Landry. "Here for dinner, detective?"

"Good to see you again. But this is business. Besides, I didn't make a reservation."

"Doesn't seem to be a problem," Gill said as he patted Veronica's hand.

Landry pulled a warrant from his jacket, held it loosely. "We'll be needing to search the place, but we won't get in your way much. I'll do a walk-through of the dining rooms with the FBI gentlemen. Could you show me to their table, please?"

Gill led the way without a word, Landry whispering to him, "Oh, yeah, she's here. Stupid of her, calling you like that. What she should've done, see, is marry your sorry ass, lay low a few years, then leave after collecting more dirt on you. But this 'left you at the altar' bit, might as well write it in the sky."

"Gee, thanks."

"No, I'm sorry you had to go through that, embarrassing and all, but face it -- you're too much of a boring white boy for Jessie. She likes her men dangerous. Soon as you thought of quitting, she got bored. But from the looks of the place, you've gotten over her, I guess. Like that girl up front, Veronica? You getting into my neighborhood now? Some brown sugar?"

Gill stopped walking, turned his face just a hair. "You want to talk about me, even Jessie, fine. But you disrespect my employees--"

Landry held up apology palms. "Out of line. I take that back."

Such a short walk seemed too long. At the table, the agents nodded to Landry. Gill thought they must have planned this in advance.

"Just the three of you for the whole place?"

"There's a team out back. We thought it would be less stressful for your diners if we let them in through the kitchen," Landry said.

"Thanks."

Harker said, "But we want you in sight at all times. No slipping away. Walk with us."

The agents rose and started for the kitchen, Gill in step, smiling at patrons along the way, catching the eyes of a few waiters to imply: Everything's cool, keep flowing. Landry handed the warrant to Gill, who pretended to read. He played cool, hoping Veronica got the signal. But still, this was bad for business.

* * *

Two Feds, three detectives, and ten uniforms didn't find Jessie. They searched every face in the dining room, every face in the kitchen, every upstairs room, the bar, all the nooks and crannies. No sign. After searching Gill's office, Harker, Yancey, and Landry all gave him a serious glare, but all they got was a shrug.

"I told you, I haven't heard from her. If you want me to check the machine, I can do that from here." Gill lifted his phone and dialed three numbers before Landry waved him off.

"Not now. I can't believe you were telling us the truth. Something's up."

"Nothing," Gill pulled his cuffs like a magician. "We had a bad break-up, you know."

Landry sat on the leather chair behind the desk, rubbed his eyes and spun a letter opener, said, "Where would she go, then? We have to check her parents' place, old friends, all that, and still keep an eye on this joint."

"We can put it off an hour or two. Come on, our food should be at the table by now, if you'd like to join us, detective," Harker said.

Gill perked up. "What did you order?"

"I'm trying barbecued shrimp, but Yancey went for the rabbit jambalaya."

"Good choices. Shall I walk you down?"

"No need. You've got work to do. Thanks for your cooperation." Yancey said, learning quickly from his partner. They shared a look of pity for Landry, who was all deep sighs and face tics. Gill lingered behind for a minute after they left, wondering how Veronica had done it. Then a laugh, a head shake, and he decided to go ask her.

In the kitchen, his chef was complaining. Somebody had lost the meat thermometer.

"What's it look like?" Gill said.

The chef held his fingers about six inches apart. "Metal spike about this long, black thermometer on one end."

"What do you need it for?"

"Required. Food safety, all that. If we had a surprise inspection, Gill, we're up a creek."

"Improvise."

"No, you don't get it. I can do without it. They can't." The chef swung his arm in a wide arc, indicating the assistants.

Gill muttered about a gnat in the Vaseline, told the chef to send someone for another one, then made his way out front to find Veronica. Her nod told him the critic was in-house. She flicked her eyes right. Sure enough, at a center table with an older bald guy, sat a woman with an obvious blonde wig and thick-lensed glasses. The waiter was right. No way to hide those.

"She ordered?"

"Yes, but they did ask about the cops, didn't like them at all. I said they were looking for a drifter."

"What?"

"Sneaked in through the kitchen. They didn't find him, though."

Another couple came in, and Veronica took their names, handed them off to another hostess.

Gill said, "I wondered about that, them not finding the guy. Must have been hiding in a good spot."

"The best." Veronica smiled and slipped her hand into his. "So, you almost married her, really?"

Gill covered his heart with the other hand. "Love of my life."

"What a bitch."

They walked together to the patio and took one of the tables by the fountain, bubbling water in high notes. They leaned and put their heads close.

"She knows about you," Gill said.

"Damn right she should."

"Really, though, where is she?"

"We did some shifting. Kept her upstairs at first, then moved her down here when the first wave came up. Dressed her up like an assistant, mustache and all, put her to work chopping peppers." Veronica shook her head. "She didn't like that one bit."

Gill grinned, then kissed her and lingered, waited for her to kiss back. She did. The breeze was warm and right. He said, "This is why I love you and not her. But I do need to go put an end to this."

"Sneak her out back?"

"If she'll go quietly. Give me twenty minutes, I'll let you know."

Veronica crossed her arms as Gill left the table. "Lot you can do in twenty minutes."

Gill shrugged, said "Trust me," and walked back inside.

* * *

He found her Jessie among the assistant cooks and took her up to the office. She was a sweaty mess, angry instead of thankful for the disguise. She sat on the edge of the desk, legs and arms around Gill as he peeled her mustache off and aimed a kiss at her lips. She took it greedily and rubbed her hand up his back. She tasted like bell peppers and smelled like a gumbo. Jessie broke the kiss and slid her tongue across Gill's neck while loosening his tie.

"Why do you do this to me?" she said. "I can't get away from you."

"We're no good together. But it still feels good."

"We can't go through with this. Let me go."

Gill rubbed her back and listened to her moan in response, then opened his eyes, pushed back his computer's keyboard. She pushed him away hard, but he kept on her. Then he felt the punch and burn in his shoulder. He jerked back, grabbed one of her wrists tight, then reached over his shoulder where the meat thermometer stuck in him.

"What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?"

"I said no, did you hear? You won't hurt me again." Jessie slapped at him with her free hand, but he caught that wrist as well. He pinned her legs against the desk so she couldn't kick.

"Hurt? I was the one at church that day."

"Oh, I didn't want you. God, no. You are dull, man, dull. No, I wanted what all those people downstairs come for -- to be seen and talked about. I want that life. I come back here thinking you'd be sweet and stupid, swallow my story again, make it all better like you did before. But you dress me up like a cook and let that tramp push me around. You bring me up here, nearly rape me--"

Gill slapped her hard across the face. She sucked air, then growled and bit his hand. He let go without thinking, and she kicked him. He backed up, hit the wall, felt the meat thermometer drive deeper, like fire burning. Jessie went behind the desk and pulled open drawers -- "Where is it, where is it?" -- tossed papers, folders, and pens aside until she came up with Gill's pistol, a .380 she had given him for a birthday once. She two-handed and straight-armed it, and there was a shot. But the gun didn't fire. Gill flinched, felt cold needles all over before realizing he was fine. Jessie dropped like someone had cut her strings. She dropped the gun, and it clattered on the floor.

Landry stepped into the office, gun held ready, looked at Gill, then Jessie. He said, "You all right?"

Gill leaned forward, showed his back. "God, I'm dying."

"It's in your shoulder. You'll be fine."

"I can't think straight."

"Don't pull it out. We'll get an ambulance here in a minute." Landry walked over to Jessie and knelt. He checked her pulse, held his hand in front of her nose. "She's dead. I'll say she was coming at me, all right? She surprised you. You didn't know she was here."

"Exactly." Gill shrugged and took in a deep breath. Didn't help.

Landry tossed over a handkerchief, said, "Wipe the lipstick off best you can. If you don't get it all, smear a little blood on it."

"Why the change? You've got me, you know."

The detective stood, went over to Gill, helped him to the couch. "I just had a great meal downstairs, and I wanted to let you know. I like this place, and I want to come back. Always on the house, right?"

Gill saluted. "Spot on."

"But you still owe me. And don't give me that 'going legit' crap. You're going to cut me in on the operation. I look the other way, I help out running interference with the competition. And I get paid."

Gill grimaced and shook his head. "You know what you're asking me to do?"

Landry pointed at Jessie's body and said, "That should be the least of your worries right now. This could be a misunderstanding, just between you and me. She's gone, you're free, and I get my cut." He took a closer look at Gill's shoulder, then walked to the office door. "I'll get the Feds, call nine one one. Sit tight."

When he was gone, Gill laughed, but it hurt. Jessie dead on his office floor, cop's bullet in her. Another free pass -- not like he'd wanted, but close enough. He thought how much Jessie must have despised him. At least Gill would have waited until after The Critic left to kill her. He imagined the headline -- Gill's offers great cuisine, but the atmosphere is deadly.

In May, ANTHONY NEIL SMITH will receive his Ph.D. in English from the University of Southern Mississippi. After that, good luck finding him for a while as he'll take off on a Indiana Jones style adventure into the desert or mountains or something. Or you might find him at Wal-Mart. Anyway, he has work forthcoming in Connecticut Review and Cooweescowee, and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Barcelona Review, Blue Murder, and many others.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Anthony Neil Smith

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