Topped Chef(80)

“Not a peep from you,” he said under his breath. “If you say anything, I’ll shoot you right here.”

“But—”

“Not one word. It won’t matter to me either way.”

With one hand gripping my shoulder and the other shoving the gun in my ribs, he force-marched me down the block. Fear washed over me like a rogue wave, as I finally grasped the niggling thought that had surfaced as he told me about his sailing background. And then his love for costumes. Peter knew Sam Rizzoli well enough to play dress-up. They’d done this together in the past. And Peter was a sailor, knew his way around winches and rigging.

Peter was the killer, not Randy. Not anyone else. Peter was the man who’d had the strength and know-how to hoist Sam Rizzoli up the mast.

He’d murdered the man, dressed him up, and hung him on his own mast. And then I thought of Turtle, beaten half to death. Another loose end shifted into focus: Derek wasn’t the only man with a white beard—Peter had one, too. I hadn’t cast my mental net wide enough to consider that.

With two men, one dead, one nearly dead, notched on his belt, he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me.

I tried to force my sluggish mind to churn through the options. The truth was if I went anywhere with him, I was as good as dead. He was at least a foot taller than me, and carried twice my bulk. One day at the gym would not help my chances of overpowering him. But if I shouted for help, I believed he would shoot me. The only option seemed to be to continue along Duval and hope to god I saw someone I knew. Or a cop, best of all.

“Where’s your bike?”

“Petronia Street,” I squeaked.

Reaching the corner, we turned up the darkened street and walked to the rack where my bike was parked. With the crowd left behind on Duval Street, Peter abandoned the pretense of needing my help. I pointed to my silver scooter and he jerked me roughly toward it. “You first, I’ll get on behind.”

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Could you hand me my helmet?”

His only answer was a sharp jab in my back that almost knocked the breath out of me. I threw my leg over and fired the scooter up. And he slid onto the seat behind me.

“Left on Whitehead and then over to Truman,” he said.

Hands shaking and mind racing, I drove as instructed. To my dismay, I’d started to cry and the tears blurred my vision.

“Take a left when you get to Reynolds and head toward the cemetery. I’d prefer not to hurt you but I will if I have to.”

The scooter jiggled as we hit the first block of Truman Avenue that had been under repair for the last few weeks. The danger lights on the sawhorses that had been placed over open manholes flickered in the gloaming. Peter’s grip on my waist loosened, but he grabbed me again and prodded my back with his gun. I thought of Miss Gloria’s comment—sooner or later someone was going to wipe out on the road’s shoddy temporary construction. Maybe then the contractors would get working. The scooter slipped on the loose stones.

“Idiot!” he said. “Pay attention to what you’re doing.”

With a surge of angry desperation, I realized this was probably my only way out. Lucky for me, the night had been cool enough that I had changed out of my dress into the jeans and sneakers and a sweater that I kept stashed in the office. I stepped on the gas and swerved toward the gravel and the sawhorses and the yawning holes in the pavement.

“What the hell?” Peter yelled.

The bike’s tires skidded and like a slow-motion video, we began to slide sideways, finally tipping over and scraping along the pavement until the scooter crashed into the barricades by the side of the road. Peter flew off the back and slammed into the plate glass window of the convenience store on the corner. A large yellow caution sign blinked above me, illuminating the gash on Peter’s head in garish Technicolor. Then the pain from my left ankle and my raw skin rushed in and I blacked out.





27


It’s an unintentional master class in how to say waxy and embalming things about fresh food.

—Dwight Garner



The Aqua nightclub sat on Duval, a stone’s throw from Angela Street. The door was propped open and the shutters on the windows had been folded back to reveal the oval-shaped bar, enticing customers who passed by. Though tonight it appeared that most every seat in the house was occupied. A rousing rendition of Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You, Babe” bounced out onto the sidewalk. A few young coeds carrying plastic cups of beer stood by the windows peering in.

I adjusted the air cast on my right ankle, squared my shoulders, summoned my courage, and marched in. As I edged past Gassy Winds, the same tall drag queen that I’d seen the night I was here with Wally and Danielle, she glared at me. A thunk-your-head moment: I realized she was Randy’s friend—the one who’d been thrown off the set on the last day of taping. In a deep bass, she growled unintelligible lines from the “Sonny” side of the duet.