If Alomar was
in the least surprised that our host was receiving us from bed, he certainly
didn't let on. Miles began introductions even before Alomar had eased across
the room. "Senor Alomar," he began. "Please allow me to
introduce Mr. Leo Waterman, a local private investigator of considerable
renown."
No way around
it, the guy did have a knack for introductions.
"Mr.
Waterman . .. Senor Caesar Gustavus Alomar, president of Le Cuisine
Internationale."
Alomar held out
his hand; I took it. Rich Corinthian leather. He clapped his other mitt on top
of mine and began stroking my hand like a pet ferret. I hate a two-handed
shaker.
"My pleasure,"
I said.
"So gooood
to make your acquaintance," he said, suddenly releasing his grip. He had
an accent the ethnic derivation of which I couldn't begin to guess. Not
Hispanic, something Central European maybe. His courtly manner and exaggerated
charm seemed to suggest that meeting me was the highlight of his otherwise
tawdry day. I had some serious doubts.
As Rowcliffe
appeared in the doorway of the adjoining room, a padded wing chair held before
him, Sir Geoffrey began to speak.
"Mr.
Alomar, if you will permit me, I was just about to acquaint Mr. Waterman with
the nature of our problem and to solicit his assistance."
"Perhaps I
can be of some help," Alomar suggested.
Without so much
as a glance over his shoulder, Alomar pinched the front seams of his trousers
and sat precisely in the center of the chair, which at that moment had just
been thrust into position. The movement seemed to confirm that here was a
person for whom a chair would always be readily available.
Rowcliffe was
heading back toward the other room.
"I'll
stand," I said.
He stopped and
gazed quizzically back at his employer. Sir Geoffrey wagged an eyebrow and
focused once more on me. Rowcliffe closed the door behind him.
"As you
wish, Mr. Waterman," Sir Geoffrey said. "As I was saying, this is not
a bodyguard job per se. I must, of course, concur with your assessment that
anyone who is prepared to ignore any and all consequences of his act is capable
of killing anyone else at any time. That much is certainly manifest."
Alomar was
checking to see that his cuff links weren't smudged.
"As I am
sure you are aware, Le Cuisine Internationale is having its annual convention
here in Seattle. But what you may not be aware of, however, Mr. Waterman, is
the degree of wrangling required for this event to be held outside of Europe."
"The paper
said this is the first time," I offered.
A small sigh
escaped from Seflor Alomar. "And, quite possibly, the last," he said
quietly. Miles ignored him and continued.
"Certain
elements within the food community stallnchly resist the notion that anything
of consequence can take place outside the confines of the continent. These are
the type of myopic souls who, under the cloak of quality, actually stand in
opposition to any and all but themselves. These people need only the slightest
breach of etiquette to press their image of America as a wasteland of
mediocrity and poor taste. They consider themselves to be here under
duress."
"What kind
of duress?" I asked.
"The
threat of having their rating dirninished."
"What
rating?"
Miles and
Alomar shared a "poor soul" moment on my behalf.
"You may
be aware," said Sir Geoffrey, "that I sponsor a publication
which—" "The Register," I interrupted.
They seemed
relieved. "Ah, yes," Alomar said. "You have heard of The
Register."
As I understood
it, The Register was the final, worldwide authority on food. The publication
rated restaurants on a scale, of one to five stars. One star indicated that
livestock would be joining you for dinner. Five stars was a ticket to legend. A
paltry one hundred five-star designations were assigned each year and the
competition was intense. Fortunes and careers hinged upon the annual
publication of The Register Hundred.
"You
threatened to give them less stars if they boycotted?"
Sir Geoffrey's
upper lip twitched. "Suppose we say I intimated that to be a
possibility." I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.
"These
rogues would, after all, be voluntarily distancing themselves from the very
heart of the industry which has nurtured them. That type of unprofessional
estrangement would most certainly be noted by a publication such as The
Register. I do not believe it could be cogently argued that matters such as
this were not well within the ken of such a publication."
"Certainly
not," I agreed.
"I'm sure you
understand, Mr. Waterman, 77K Register is nearly two hundred years in its
existence. I am merely its present steward. Its founder, the Marquis de la
Maine, fought three duels in defense of his ratings; surely I can be expected
to do my small part."
"How'd he
do?"
"Who?"
"The
Marquis."
Miles pursed
his lips and tilted his head. "A regrettable two out of three. His last
opponent . . ." He searched his memory banks. "A Romanian sallcier
whose name escapes me at the moment put a musket ball through the Marquis's
right cheek. The poor sot survived but completely lost his sense of taste as a
result of the scarring."
Alomar and
Miles shared a moment of sensory lamentation.
"So some
of these people were coerced into coming to Seattle."
"No, no,
no," Alomar corrected quickly. "Coerced?" He wagged a stiff
palm. "Certainly not! Persuaded, perhaps. "Induced," indeed,
might also be more accurate. I would prefer to think that they had been
enlightened as to the importance of mamtaining a global-village type of
perspective."
"Sort of
like, it takes a village to raise a souffle."
Alomar eyed me.
"Perhaps," he reluctantly agreed.
Sir
Geoffrey
retrieved the thread. "So, Mr. Waterman, it is within this quite
contentious atmosphere that we begin this year's conference. Senor
Alomar and I
believe we have put together an outstanding conference program.
Superior to its predecessors in every way. I myself will be giving the
keynote address on
Friday evening and supervising the awards banquet," he crowed.
Alomar broke
in. "Such an honor, Sir Geoffrey." He turned to me. "Sir
Geoffrey has never consented to our repeated pleas. This is a groundbreaking
moment. This is—"
He would have
blubbered on, but Miles cut him short.
"We are
out on the proverbial limb here, Mr. Waterman. The last thing we can afford is
any sort of embarrassing spectacle to lend any credence whatsoever to our
detractors. Unfortunately . . ." He let it hang.
At last we were
at my area of expertise. Embarrassing Spectacles Are Us. "What is it I can
do for you, Sir Geoffrey?" I prodded.
He took a full
breath. "Here it is, then. You have here in this country two rival chains
of steak houses. One is called Del Fuego's FeedLot."
"Sure,"
I said. I knew Del Fuego's. Less than a month ago, while visiting
Portland, I'd wandered into one and put away a two-pound T-bone and a
baked potato the size
of an NFL football.
"The
operation is run by a pitiable creature who calls himself Jack Del Fuego."
' "I've seen him on television."
"With that
hat and the . . . what do you call it?"
"A cattle
prod."
He threw up his
hands. "What else can possibly be said?" I was fairly certain I was
about to find out. He went on. "His archrival is a woman named Abigail
Meyerson." "Abby's Angus," I said. "They're all over the
country." 'Torty-one locations," Alomar added. "And Del
Fuego?" Sir Geoffrey asked Alomar. "He's down to six, if you count
the new one." "Down to?" I repeated.
Alomar
explained. "Mr. Del Fuego has, over the past two years, experienced a
series of catastrophic setbacks and losses. A number of his establishments have
ceased operations and had their equipment allctioned off. Several have actually
been taken over by Ms. Meyerson and her corporation."
"Really,"
I said. "I thought the FeedLot was a nationwide thing."
"At one
time it was," Alomar said.
"Mr. Del
Fuego is in ruins. He blamed early losses on his staff and subsequently sacked
the lot of them, since which time his business decisions have become
increasingly more bizarre."
"And . -
." Alomar let the word hang. "Worst of all . . . Mr. Del Fuego finds
himself in direct competition with The Meyerson Corporation."
"Why's
that so bad?"
He drew a long
finger across his throat. "Assassins," he hissed. "Other than
your local Microsoft company, The Meyerson Corporation is perhaps the most avaricious
company in the United States."
"These two
. . ." Sir Geoffrey again searched for a word.
". . .
individuals," he declared charitably, "have a longstanding enmity
which goes far beyond the realm of commercial competition."
"Haven't
they been suing one another over something?" 1 asked.
"Ad nallseum,"
Miles said, holding up a finger. "Which is precisely where you come into
it, Mr. Waterman."
I waited as he
gathered his thoughts. "Their initial bone of contention was something
called The Golden Fork Club." He cocked his head at me.
"Never
heard of it," I said.
He wobbled the
raised finger from side to side. "But perhaps, just perhaps, you have, Mr.
Waterman," he said. I tried to look open-minded.
"The
Golden Fork Club has only one function," he continued, "which,
purportedly, is to rate the quality of America's steak houses."
"Okay."
I tried.
"A simple
enough proposition, I suppose, considering the complete lack of artistry
required to burn meat."
Miles and
Alomar shared another Maalox moment.
"Absolutely
aboriginal." Alomar sighed.
"This
seemingly innocuous calling is, however, greatly exacerbated by the simple fact
that the monthly Golden Fork Ratings appears in every airline magazine on every
flight of every airline throughout the world, and, as such, can be
statistically demonstrated to have raised the gross sales of its appointees by
as much as forty-five percent in any given rating period."
"That
much?"
"Indeed.
To be counted among the Ten Best Steak Houses in America is to have one's
short-term future virtually assured."
"You're
right," I said. "I have seen that ad. The list is inside this ornate
little black border, right? Looks like wrought iron."
"The
same," said Alomar.
"Mr. Del
Fuego's establishments have appeared, ranked in the top three, in every list
every month since its inception in 1991," Sir Geoffrey said.
' Alomar jumped
back in. "Ms. Meyerson has never made the list." "I take it
she's miffed," I said.
Sir Geoffrey
made a dismissive sound with his lips. "She's taken it all the way to your
Supreme Court, is where she's taken it, from whence a decision is expected
sometime late next year."
'Just because
she hasn't made the list?"
"Because,
apparently, Mr. Del Fuego owns the list," he said.
"How's
that possible?"
"Independent
investigation has shown The Golden Fork Club to be a one-man operation, run by
a gentleman named Mason Reese. Not coincidentally, Ms. Meyerson alleges, the
very same Mason Reese who, prior to the inception of The Golden Fork Club,
served as public relations manager for the FeedLot chain for nearly twenty-five
years." "How convenient."
"Ms.
Meyerson contends that the list constitutes fralld, false advertising and an
unfair commercial advantage."
"What does
Del Fuego say?" I asked.
"Mr. Del
Fuego at first denied any involvement whatsoever in the list. He acknowledged
that Mr. Reese used to work for him and thanked Mr. Reese for including him on
his list."
"You said,
'at first.' "
"Yes. Del
Fuego later recanted, saying that he had used his relationship with Mr. Reese
to further his ends and had indeed provided the seed money for the project. He
then took credit for what he claimed as a stroke of marketing genius."
I started to
speak, but Sir Geoffrey raised his voice. "Oh, no," he boomed.
"That's by no means the end of it, Mr. Waterman. No. No. That would be far
too tidy for our Mr. Del Fuego. He then flip-flopped again. Claiming that his
assumption of responsibility for The Golden Fork Club had merely been a
self-sacrificing attempt to alleviate some of the pressure from his old friend
Mr. Reese."
"And
Reese, what does Reese say?"
"Mr. Reese
has, until now, remained completely mute on the subject."
"Until
now?"