“Do you represent any of them?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure that doesn’t matter. We may not have a share of the legal business associated with the restaurants in the city but we have an excellent reputation.” He turned fractionally pompous and I cut him off at the pass.
“That’s good to hear, Mr. Purvis. Then there will be no conflict of interest.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He managed a professional smile. “One of my regular golfing companions is also an attorney and his firm happens to handle affairs for the Belvedere family, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? Is he with an esteemed firm?”
“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t know the name, they have been in New Orleans a long, long time.”
“Really old?”
“Quite old, Van Linn and Associates.”
I left Mr. Purvis a little confused. He had not expanded his knowledge of mad-cow disease or whether it threatened the economic future of the South. In fact, he had learned nothing of substance and what he had learned, I had had him swear to secrecy. Phrases like “a serious situation involving grave international problems” had been enlisted into my arsenal. A parting word about “stopping in Washington, D.C., on my way back” probably left him with a certain impression, as I didn’t add that the reason was to change planes.
On the other hand, I had gained a priceless nugget of knowledge. I knew that attorneys were usually adamant in their reluctant to disclose clients’ names, and that had been why I had pursued this circuitous route. It had paid off and I now speculated over it.
So, Van Linn was the Belvedere family lawyer. So Ambrose Belvedere was his client who had commissioned the search for the elusive chef’s book—the book, supposedly full of secrets, that two men had died for. Ambrose Belvedere wanted to recover the book that belonged to his own family. That must mean he knew what was in it.
I
T WAS LATE IN
the day when I got back to the hotel, and I needed a little thinking time. I watched some mindless TV which did not disrupt my thinking in the least, had a leisurely bath and then faced the pleasant task of deciding where to eat.
I was trying to alternate the meals at the restaurants belonging to the members of the Witches and those restaurants for which New Orleans is famous. Tonight should be one of the latter. After reviewing the myriad possibilities, I settled on Galatoire’s. One of the traditional old-line New Orleans restaurants, I had made a reservation in the newly renovated second-floor dining room. This was a recent improvement, I understood, for reservations had not previously been accepted, much to the chagrin of many diners.
The mirrored walls and the brightly lit room had the look and feel of a Paris brasserie and the service was smartly attired and efficient. I started with the Oysters en Brochette then had the Crabmeat Sardou, both perfectly prepared and presented. The filet mignon Béarnaise was not perhaps typical Creole but it was done exactly as I had ordered it. I was tempted by the dessert card but resisted and settled for an Irish coffee.
Next morning, when I decided the hour hand had reached the time for all good lawyers to be in their office, I called Van Linn. This time, I beat him to the punch. “Sorry I don’t have definite news yet but I thought you should know that another copy of the book has been offered for sale.”
“You said the copy you saw was a forgery.”
“I’m pretty sure that the other is a forgery also.”
He grunted dissatisfaction. “Did you get anything out of Gambrinus?”
“Nothing useful. He made Mortensen sound a shade unreliable. He could have been mixed up in it.”
“My client is getting extremely anxious,” Van Linn said. “As I told you, we are willing to increase your fee for an early and satisfactory result.”
“You told me,” I agreed. “You didn’t tell me everything, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I might be able to operate more efficiently if I were to be put in possession of all the facts,” I said, sounding stiff and huffy.
“I’ve told you all that is relevant—”
“No. You haven’t told me that your client is Ambrose Belvedere.”
I would have had a little gratification if he had paused or hesitated but I should have known that he was too smooth for that. Years in a courtroom had trained his mind to think on its feet—or whatever the expression is.
“I have no reason to believe that your task would be made any easier if you knew the name of my client,” he said, slick as olive oil in a hot pan.
“I think it would. This is a Belvedere matter. It might become clearer if a member of the Belvedere family were able to tell us what could be in the book that is of such vital importance.” I was trying to sound irate but I didn’t want to go too far. That “increased fee” had not yet been quantified …
“I have discussed this with the client—” The son of a gun still refused to name him! I let him go on. “—and I am assured that the Belvedere family has no knowledge of what is in the book. Let me remind you—Ambrose had no interest in going into the restaurant business in his youth. He rarely visited it when his grandfather and his father ran it. He knew nothing about its operations. He thinks he may have heard mention of a chef’s book, might even have seen it, but is not really sure. I see no way in which you might learn anything contributory.”
“I still think there might be something—perhaps without any realization of the existence of that knowledge—”
“I see no possibility of that.” Van Linn’s dogmatic and uncompromising tone left no room for further verbal maneuver.
I knew when to quit. “All right. I’ll be in touch.” I couldn’t resist one tiny face-saver. “If I do think of a question that he might be able to answer—” I could hear him preparing a negative and hurried to cut him off. “—I’ll call you and you can ask him.”
“Very well.” His tone was accommodating.
I had a little time before heading for the television studio so I did some local sightseeing. The Old U.S. Mint was first on my list. This, I learned, was built in the Greek Revival style and that made me want to see it—if for no other reason than to find out what Greek Revivalists built. Apparently it used to mint money for both the United States and the Confederacy, surely an open-handed policy.
The adjoining museum had a large exhibit featuring New Orleans jazz and it was inevitable that this should commence with Louis Armstrong’s first trumpet. I had missed Mardi Gras but I was able to see costumes and regalias worn then by famous “Krewes” and other memorabilia of Carnival traditions.
St. Louis Cathedral is the oldest operating cathedral in the U.S.A., it is said, and has some beautiful stained-glass windows and murals, though it is otherwise disappointingly ordinary. The Cabildo used to be where the Spanish government sat and is a comprehensive museum of life in early Louisiana. Its attractions include a death mask made of Napoleon by his doctor.
One area I particularly wanted to see was the French Market. Located somewhat naturally in the French Quarter, it has been there since the 1700s. It was a riot of color and aroma. Sheltered by its colonnade and its graceful pillars, the market glistened with the greens of avocados, lettuce, watercress, escarole, peas, string beans, broccoli and okra.
In contrast were the banks of grapefruit, lemons, oranges, limes, bananas, squash and carrots. Slashes of red came from peppers and radishes and melons were cut in half to expose their luscious pink interiors. Strings of garlic by the dozen dangled enticingly, flanked by shaggy brown coconuts, purple eggplant and knobby potatoes. Mirlitons were stacked high; they looked like oversized pears. Rows of fresh-cut herbs offered further temptation to the buyer. Racks of hot-pepper sauces from a score of producers filled shelf after shelf and their heat intensity ranged, so the labels claimed, from “hot” to “devilish” to “hellish.”
Next to it was the Flea Market, tables of jewelry, gleaming silver and gold ornaments, souvenirs, T-shirts, even life-sized wooden Indians and alligators. One whole section had colored beads and I watched one couple slipping necklace after necklace of these around the necks of two giant mastiffs. The two animals appeared to be watching each other to make sure they were not being outdone.
These inevitably triggered considerations of lunch, and one of the many friendly shopkeepers recommended the Quarter Scene restaurant on Dumaine Street.
I found it casual and unassuming, only a block off busy Bourbon Street and with wide windows for watching the passing scene. The walls were covered with old lithographs and paintings depicting scenes of early Louisiana while other walls had works by contemporary local artists. It all indicated Southern hospitality. I was seated just in time to hear the waiter explaining to people at the next table that it had been the favorite eating place of Tennessee Williams when he had lived just up the block.
Many favorite local dishes were on the menu and I decided to go strictly homemade Louisiana. I was learning, though, that even the so-called “strictly Louisiana” restaurants incorporated into some of their dishes influences of Caribbean flavors. Jamaican jerk dishes were the most popular of these and the tuna steak prepared this way and topped with tropical fruit salsa caught my eye briefly.
Ginger, bay leaf, allspice, garlic, thyme, cinnamon and chiles are the principal jerk spices and are blended with soy sauce, orange juice and vinegar to produce a very pungent marinade and sauce. Properly prepared, it is said to be so good that Jamaicans put it on everything including eggs.
Still, I concluded that, while in New Orleans, I should keep to Louisiana-style food so I ordered the catfish, encrusted with pecans and served with a crawfish sauce. It proved to be an excellent choice and I was even successful in preventing the waiter from explaining to me why those deep-fried, golfball-sized dark-brown accompaniments to it were called “hush puppies.” That explanation must have been heard around the world by now.
Having had only the one course, I felt justified in having the Bread Pudding with Praline Sauce, a homemade house specialty. It was a real treat.
The television studios at WKNO were fizzing with eager young communications tycoons and a large number of young men and women pursuing mysterious and indefinable tasks. After I had received my badge, I was conducted through the building and marveled at the degree to which the public is absorbed with news and weather. Studio after studio was dispensing one or the other.
My experience of weather forecasting was that it was not much more reliable than betting on horse races. The most fascinating activities in this medium were those where the presenter was in one studio and the large screen showing the changing weather pattern was in another. The sight of the attractive girl pointing to an empty screen and telling us to watch out for “this cold front” or “this storm area” was surely the basis for a comedy show.
When I finally reached the studio where the Cajun-Creole confrontation was to take place, Elsa Goddard was already bawling out a hapless underling who must have been seeing her hopes of being the next Connie Chung fading rapidly. Elsa saw me, gave a wave and continued her harangue. The stage was being set with two rows of chairs half facing each other while microphone lines were being strung and pushed out of sight.
A dozen fifteen-inch television monitors sat on a shelf on each of two walls. Several different programs emanating from WKNO’s numerous studios were showing on one bank and the other bank displayed programs from competing networks and cable stations—either to inspire or emulate. Ceiling-height black screens formed the walls and could be moved around. Noises from behind them suggested that other shows were being prepared.
In our area, a man in an outfit that looked like a musical-comedy version of a forest ranger accosted me. “You in this here show?”
I admitted it.
“You must be Georgie Redding,” he said. “Howdy.”
Before I could correct him, he was continuing. “Bird’s my name—Eugene C. Bird from Greensboro, North Carolina. Originally, that is. New Orleans the last twenty years. Heard you was goin’ to be with us. Glad to have ya aboard. Gonna have a lot of fun.”
A dowager lady with a great deal of hair and a purposeful demeanor joined us. “Which team you two on?”
“Team?” I asked.
“Cajuns, o’ course,” said Eugene C. Bird.
“Me too,” said the lady. She gave me a nod that included me in the “team.”
Another woman joined us. I had seen her trying to get Elsa Goddard’s attention and failing. The unfortunate assistant was wilting by the minute. “You all Creoles?” demanded the woman who was small and thin and wore a dark red dress with gold shoes.
Eugene C. Bird looked at her as if she had accused him of being a child molester. “We’re Cajuns,” he said ominously.
A gray-haired, gray-faced skinny man picked his way through the cables. “I’m a Creole,” he said in a piping voice. “Lester Levison, from Burnside, Louisiana.” He gave us a feisty glare as if challenging us to contradict him. I was beginning to think that New Orleans folk were fiercely parochial, especially on this matter of origin.
Elsa Goddard’s assistant had almost melted into a puddle of unresisting flesh and had been pushed off into some remote recess of the studio. Her vanquisher, the queen of the airwaves herself, came to greet us, checking us over. “Someone’s not here,” she announced accusingly.
“Tess Natoches,” said Lester Levison promptly. “Her niece is in hospital in Biloxi.”
“She could have told me.” Elsa Goddard was appalled that her universe was being disturbed.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the thin lady in the red dress. “We’ve got three Creoles.” She waved a hand that encompassed herself, Lester Levison and me.
“I’m not a—” I began, but the dowager lady pointed to me.
“He’s Georgie Redding, he’s a Cajun.”
“I’m not Redding, I’m—”
“Of course you’re ready. We all are,” said Elsa Goddard, smiling her professional smile, the one that smoothed out all difficulties as being trivial. “Don’t worry. We go on in ten minutes.”
Seats were taken, Cajuns on one side and Creoles on the other. I tried to distance myself from both of them but space was cramped. Makeup people dabbed here and there, throat mikes were clipped on, tests were made and then Elsa’s radiant personality beamed out over Louisiana. She introduced herself and the show then went on to speak about today’s program.