FIVE STARS

A culinary mystery

FIVE STARS

A culinary mystery.

y first appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

Bill Scald stared at his computer screen trying to think of a synonym for piquant. Some clueless bottom feeder had written to point out that he’d used the word twice in his last review. Well whose fault was that? His or the copy editor’s? Scald typed “thesaurus.com.”

Mike’s Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Subscribed

“Hey Bill,” Sarah Sorenson the Fashion Editor said to him over the cubicle wall. “Nazz wants to see you.”

“Thank you, dear,” Scald said automatically shutting down and locking his computer. Internecine warfare was constant and ferocious at Metro Plus, the premiere magazine in the premiere city in the premiere country in the world, if one discounted the recent Liberty Index issued by an international consortium of non-profits dedicated to world government.

Scald rose, straightened his gray silk jacket and headed toward the plush offices of Editor and Publisher Nasmir Hamadi, aka “The Nazz,” a Lebanese Christian who’d purchased the rag out from under Leslie Brahmin for an undisclosed seven figure sum.

Scald paused at the men’s room where he washed his hands and straightened his bow-tie. Scald was a tall, middle-aged man with a luxurious head of silver hair and a colonial mustache who cultivated a genteel bohemian persona in manners, word and look. He kept a black and white photo of Cary Grant from His Girl Friday over his desk.

As Metro Plus’ restaurant reviewer, Scald had the power to make or break any of the twenty thousand restaurants in New York. Two hundred new restaurants had opened within the last twelve months, down from a high of 250 only because of the recession. Within his own little circle, Scald was a titan. He had been Metro Plus’ restaurant critic for fifteen years. More than one eating establishment had been badly burned by his “scalding” review.

As Scald smoothed his hair his nemesis, the oleaginous Joe Duva entered. Duva was what the stars of Jersey Shore would look like if they lived that long. Duva flashed his perfect white choppers at Scald, removed a comb from his hip pocket and swept through his long brown hair. He seemed to be perpetually auditioning for the road company of Grease.

“Bill! How’s it hangin’? You know about our special restaurant insert, right? I’m countin’ on you, babe.”

Scald shuddered. “Yes, well, best of luck with that.” Duva actually expected Scald to write a feature, “The Ten Best Restaurants in Manhattan.” Scald was tempted to write: McDonald’s, Arby’s, Burger King, Dairy Queen, Taco John, Taco Bell, KFC, Popeyes, Hardee’s and Jack in the Box.

“Nazz is lookin’ for ya,” the intolerable Duva said, admiring himself in the mirror.

“I’m on my way.”

Swiping a paper towel with which to grip the lavatory door handle, Scald couldn’t escape fast enough. He walked through the renovated loft with its fifteen foot ceilings and exposed duct work, framed cover art and hardwood floors toward the Nazz’ office at the front of the building overlooking 42^nd St. The door was open.

The Nazz, a fireplug of a man with a mop of blue/black hair looked up from his desk. “Bill! Close the door. Have a seat. Got a job for you.”

Scald closed the pebbled glass door and sat in the brown leather sofa with its front legs on the Persian rug that reached across the floor to Nazz’ 19^th century Queen Anne desk. Between them, a free-form maple coffee table supported all the dailies, weeklies, and monthlies churned out by a sedulous and frantic media. Mags and rags completely covered the table. Behind the editor a bay window looked out on the theater district five floors below.

The sofa creaked as Scald sat. The Nazz folded his hands and grinned at Scald like an excited school boy who knows the answer. “Guess what?”

Oh God, Scald thought. “What?”

“Great new restaurant in town.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. What is it and where is it?”

“Gargano’s in the Village.”

Scald grimaced. “I can’t do that. That’s a mob joint!”

The Nazz’ smile did not waver. “Nonsense. There is no mob. Ask the Justice Department. Ask the Italian American Anti-Defamation League.”

Scald leaned over the pile of newspapers, picked up the Post and held it toward the Nazz.

“MOB BOSS SHOT 5 TIMES IN FACE, DUMPED AT LANDFILL/Lucci Was Target of Fed Probe.”

“The Post is desperate,” the Nazz said. “They’ll do anything to boost circulation.”

Scald folded his arms across his chest. “What if the food’s bad? Do you really want to piss off the Mellina Crime Family?”

Sweat appeared on the Nazz’ forehead like pop rivets. “There’s no connection between the Mellina Crime Family and Gargano’s.”

“Islam means peace,” Scald snorted. “The stimulus worked.”

“Look, Bill, this is an assignment, okay? I want you to do this. I’m ordering you to do this. What makes you think it’s a mob joint?”

“I have friends in the industry, Nasmir. The Mellinas open up a new restaurant every couple of years to launder money. They don’t care what the food’s like. What’s going on?”

The Nazz rose to a towering five six and placed his meaty hands palm down on the desk. “Now look, Bill, I’m not asking you to give them a puff piece, I’m just asking you to do your job. I expect copy on my desk Monday morning, okay?”

Sighing, Scald heaved himself to his feet. “As you wish my sultan.”

“Take a friend,” the Nazz said to Scald’s back. “Have fun.”

Scald headed back toward his cubicle, a Level 3 headache gestating behind his left eye. He preferred to find his own restaurants without the assistance of the ad department. Like a dog sensing a treat, Duva appeared waving a sheet of paper. “Just sold a quarter page to Gargano’s!” he declared with the alacrity of a prime minister announcing armistice.

Scald ducked into his cubicle and busied himself with copy paper hoping Duva would pass by. No such luck. The guido stuck his head in the cubicle.

“Wouldn’t hurt if you’d write a review, broheem.”

As if Duva hadn’t arranged the entire sordid scenario.

“Mm-hmmm,” Scald said. Go away.

Duva mercifully withdrew firing his Carpathian shot. “Countin’ on you, broheem!”

Broheem.

At least Duva hadn’t called him pally.

Scald decided to go on and get it over with. It was Tuesday and Gargano’s was unlikely to be “mobbed.” He could slip in and out before anyone was the wiser. Scald hated any kind of confrontation. The Nazz’ suggestion that he take a guest was wise. Not only would the Nazz pay for it, it might be smart to have a witness on hand in the unlikely event Gargano’s recognized him.

Scald had striven for anonymity over the years, shunning photos and using his limited thespian skills to change his appearance from time to time. Long time staffers bet on when the next change would occur and what it would be.

No one knew he was bald. He’d started balding in college and promptly been dubbed “Bald Scald,” a sobriquet he hated and left behind in the small Iowa town from whence he sprang.

As he walked toward his co-op on West 26^th, Scald riffled through his mental rolodex of possible dining partners. There was Joy, of course. She’d been his escort to innumerable dreary functions such as exhibit openings and movie star sit-downs and he rewarded her by taking her to the finest restaurants on town. Scald and opportunity only knocked once. Even if he loved a place Scald never returned. There was simply too much turnover, new places clamoring for his attention.

Joy was a shouter. She’d yell things like, “Well that was delicious!” Or, “This salmon tastes like bull testicles!” He’d stopped taking her because she was giving the game away. He could only imagine what she was like in bed.

There was Scald’s sister Edna. And there was Edna’s son Dyson, a cage fighter. Dyson was a human pit bull with shaved skull, tribal tats and the flat eyes of a shark. Dyson’s favorite cuisine was buffalo wings, but he might be just the ticket to stave off Mellina muscle. Dyson was too stupid to know fear.

Dodging bicycle couriers and dog shit Scald arrived home. Bastienne the Cajun doorman held the door for him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Scald.”
“Bastienne.”

Scald used his key to open the mailbox in the foyer. Stuffed, as usual, with invitations, credit card offers and magazines such as Modern Food, Wine Country, Gourmet, Bon Appetit and Entertainment Weekly.

Scald walked up the age-stained stairs to the third floor inhaling deeply of the tobacco-soaked ambience. He unlocked the door to his unit and let himself in. A marmalade tabby began twining between his legs purring like a generator. Scald crouched to scratch the cat behind the ears.

“What’s up, Mr. Schermerhorn? Anything happen while I was out?”

The cat meowed loudly.

Scald went into his parquet-floored kitchen, iron pots hanging from an iron rail, and fixed himself a very dry martini with Boodle’s gin. He took it into the living room, sprawled on the purple velvet sofa and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed his sister Edna.

“Hellooooo?” she sang.

“Edna my dear, it’s Bill.”

“How are you? It’s been ages. I really should have you over to dinner.”

Scald’s stomach rumbled in protest. “That would be delightful. The reason I’m calling, I’m trying to reach Dyson.”

“Oh he’s right here. Dyyyyson!”

Scald heard furniture scraping. A moment later the lunk came on the line. “Whassup, Uncle Bill? Where’s it at?”

“Right here, Dyson. The reason I called, I wonder if you’d accompany me to a restaurant that I have to review. Do you have dinner plans?”

“I was gonna do a protein shake. I got a fight coming up.”

“Yes, well wouldn’t you rather dine on fine Italian cuisine? You have to keep up your strength.”

Dyson, who worked as a personal trainer at McCarthy’s Gym, gave it five seconds. “All right, what the hell. But why me? I ain’t got no food chops.”

“And that’s precisely the reason I want you to accompany me, nephew. I need a fresh point of view, someone who hasn’t been tainted by preconceived notions from watching nasty food dictators on television.”

Dyson agreed to meet Scald at the restaurant at seven. Scald caught a taxi and gave the Jamaican driver the address. Gargano’s was on Bleecker St., between an electronics wholesaler and a haberdashery. Dyson was waiting beneath the striped awning to the obvious discomfort of the maitre ‘d who glowered at him from the safety of the restaurant. Dyson wore blue jeans and a Tapout hoodie with the hood up.

Scald got out of the cab and paid the driver. “Nephew!”

Dyson sidled up, a mesomorph among mesomorphs. Dyson was six feet tall and weighed 240 lbs. A shaved skull shaped like a Howitzer shell presided over tiny, deep-set eyes that twinkled with amusement. His shirt that did little to conceal the elaborate tattoos that went to his wrists.

“How the hell are ya, Unk?” Dyson demanded, enclosing Scald in a bear hug. “Figured I might as well carb up since I’m running tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Shall we?”

The maitre d’ became all smiles as he held the door. “Welcome, Mr. Scald, welcome!”

Shit! Scald thought. How did they know? He peered at the tall, thin, specimen with slicked back black hair and a hairline mustache. “Have we met?”

“I saw you once on the Food Channel.”

Scald recalled giving a reporterette an interview at the International Grape Festival but had deemed his appearance too obscure to threaten his anonymity. Like hell.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Luigi,” Scald said reading the man’s brass name plate. “No fuss. I’m just another diner. It is of the utmost importance that you treat me just like any other customer or the review’s no good, you see?”

Luigi nodded enthusiastically. “I understand. I have a private table for you gentlemen in the back. No one will bother you.”

Luigi led the way through the dark room which was done up in industrial chic with faux zebrawood floor, curving bar, exposed duct work and tiny streamlined chrome lamps that hung from the ceiling in long lines. Garish splashes of color hung on the wall in simple black frames. At least Gargano’s avoided the usual pictures of St. Peter’s Basilica, the Colosseum and Naples.

Luigi led them up three shallow steps to an elevated deck, three tables and two black leather corner booths. They sidled into one of the booths from which they had a view of the main floor and the entrance. Luigi handed them heavy red leather menus on rough-surfaced ecru paper with gilt edges and a gold tassel. To mark one’s place.

Luigi clasped his hands and beamed like an indulgent parent. “Michelle will be your server tonight. The wine steward will be right up.”

Luigi withdrew. Dyson struggled to read the flowing script of the menu in the dim light. “Gee this place is hoity-toity, ain’t it?”

“Nothing but the best, nephew.” Scald reviewed the appetizers. The usual sampling of oysters, calamari, grilled scallops and shrimp cocktail. He had just turned the heavy page to entrees when the wine steward, a wizened homunculus in a black tux, white shirt and red bow-tie appeared, plucked the red-leather bound wine journal from its perch among the condiments and handed it to Scald.

“Gentlemen, tonight we are debuting a very subtle cabernet from the Verdi vineyards in Napa. We also have a droll and nutty merlot from Capretti in Capua.”

“What you got on tap?” Dyson said.

“Beck’s, St. Pauli Girl, Peroni, and Birra Moretti.”

“Jeez,” Dyson said frowning. “Don’tcha got like Bud Lite or anything like that?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t carry any domestic brews. May I recommend the Peroni? It’s a full-flavored lager I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

“Aw, what the hell.”

“Is that a yes, sir?”

“Sure. What the hell, I’ll try the guinea beer.”

Scald blanched. This would be a good test of the staff’s professionalism. Scald looked up. On the main floor near the front, Luigi was talking to a hulking gentleman in dark blue three-piece suit with light blue pinstripes, a black shirt and ivory tie. The man turned toward the back of the restaurant and stared.

Terrific. Now everybody knew. Now they would get the special treatment. Scald hated this corruption of the process. He fantasized ventilating Duva with a shish kebab skewer. The food would be adequate, he would suck it in and write a blandly approving review and move on. Worse things could happen.

“I’ll have a glass of the merlot,” Scald said.

Michelle was a long-stemmed rose with swinging chestnut hair, model’s cheekbones, and ruby red lips. She headed their way like a Dreamworks CGI effect.

“Shut your mouth, Dyson,” Scald whispered. “You’re drooling.”

Dyson used the white linen napkin to tidy up.

Michelle deployed a dazzling smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Michelle and I’ll be your waiter tonight. May I tell you about our specials?”

“By all means,” Scald said. Although he had no use for pretty women, he had no objection to them either.

“Chilean sea bass with mango chutney served on a bed of wild rice. That’s 29.99. Elk medallions in a reduced raspberry sauce with fresh asparagus. That’s 32.50. And finally, my favorite, grilled wild salmon with collard greens and a selection of beans in a light cream sauce for 32.50. Do you gentlemen need a few minutes to come to a decision?”

Dyson seemed to be in a trance staring at the waitress.

“Yes, give us a few,” Scald said. “In the meantime, would you bring me a bowl of the seafood bouillabaisse and my young friend here will have the grilled scallop appetizer.”

“Certainly, gentlemen. I’ll put those right in.” She twirled and strode off without setting pen to paper.

“Holy shit, Unk!” Dyson enthused. “I’d sure like to take her order!”

“Please don’t say anything to her. It might affect the service.”

Dyson made a zipping gesture over his lips. “My lips are sealed, Unk.” He buried his head in the menu. “Don’t they got no sandwiches?”

The wine steward returned with their drinks. He poured Dyson’s Peroni expertly into the glass, whipped out a corkscrew and opened the wine with an economical twisting motion and handed the cork to Scald. Scald passed the cork beneath his nose and nodded. The sommelier decanted a half inch of dark red into a glass and handed it to the critic.

Scald looked at Dyson over the rim of his glass. “The five esses--see, smell, sip, savor and swallow.” He ran that puppy under his nose. He sipped like a cat. He savored the wine. He swallowed and nodded, setting his glass on the white linen tablecloth. The wine steward filled the glass and placed the bottle on a cork base on the table.

Well the wine wasn’t bad. In fact it was a very cunning little merlot. What in Dante’s Inferno did elk have to do with Italian cuisine? There were no elk in Europe. Dyson drained off half his beer, wiped his mouth with his napkin and beamed. Dyson did a double-take toward the front. Scald followed his nephew’s gaze.

The very large gentleman in the three piece suit, black shirt and white tie advanced, surprisingly graceful for such a large man. He glided up to the table and clasped his hands behind his back. He had full smooth cheeks, a rosebud mouth, and steely gray hair that kinked back in waves.

“Mr. Scald,” he said in a Mike Tyson voice. “I’m Archie Mellina. Welcome to Gargano’s. I named it after my mother’s paternal grandfather. That man could cook.” Mellina held his fingers to his mouth, kissed and let fly. Poof!

“I’m the owner of this humble establishment. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant please don’t hesitate to ask.” Mellina turned to Dyson and stuck out a large pink hand adorned with several gold rings.

“Archie Mellina.”

Dyson set down his beer and took the hand. Their hands trembled with grippiness. Their knuckles turned white. They let go at once, grinning. “Dyson Hoskins, how ya doin’?”

Scald cleared his throat. “Mr. Mellina, I wished you hadn’t introduced yourself. I do everything in my power to insure that my restaurant reviews are fair and impartial and that obviously depends on your treating me like any other customer.”

Mellina held his palms out, fingers up. “Absolutely. No one has said a word to the wait staff. You’re right. I shouldn’t have introduced myself. Please forget this encounter ever took place.”

“’Eyyyy,” Dyson said. “Fuggedaboudit!” He barked like a dog.

Mellina raised his eyebrows. “Gentlemen.” He withdrew as silently as he had come. Scald sank a little further in his seat.

Michelle returned with the appetizers. She placed the scallops in front of the gob-struck Dyson and a steaming bowl of bouillabaisse in front of Scald as well as a tureen-like spoon. “Gentlemen, have you made up your minds?”

“How ‘bout your phone number, snooks?” Dyson said.

Michelle favored him with a dazzling smile. “My police officer boyfriend might object.”

“’Eyyyyy,” Dyson intoned. “I was just kiddin’. Fuggedaboudit!”

“Ouch!” Dyson exclaimed as Scald kicked him.

“I’ll have the sea bass,” Scald said. Dyson ordered the elk medallions. Michelle smilingly withdrew.

“What’d you kick me for?”

“I told you not to come on to the waitress. It could affect service!”

“I was just kidding,” Dyson pouted, reaching for a scallop.

Scald applied the same principles to the bouillabaisse as he did to wine. See, smell, sip and savor. And swallow. One must not forget to swallow. Tooling up the very generous spoon, which he liked, Scald inhaled the essence of a simple Italian dish that had become a symbol of Italian cuisine. Flakes of succulent white fish floated on the root beer-colored surface.

Scald decanted the spoon into his mouth. A hard object nearly broke a tooth. Scald froze, feeling the metallic shape resting against his bottom palate. It was smooth with a curving surface. Using a napkin to shield his actions, he leaned into the darkness and removed a brass cylinder. He brought it close to his eye. Written in curving letters on the base was “9 mm Luger.”

Scald was dumbfounded. What was a bullet casing doing in his soup? How slipshod was a kitchen that allowed such things? How was it even possible? He realized how.

Dyson was so heavily invested in his scallops he didn’t notice until he looked up. “What’s wrong, Unk? You look like you swallowed a mouse.” He barked like a dog.

“Nothing, dear boy. Nothing at all. How’re the scallops?”

“Excellent.”

Scald wasn’t listening. Cupping the casing in his hand he whipped out his Blackberry and did a lexis-nexis search on the Lucci rub-out. The Daily Post had the details: five 9 mm slugs removed from Lucci’s skull. Scald felt empowered. He’d resented the assignment to begin with. He now had license to let loose in a manner he hadn’t done since he’d been editor of The Dartmouth lo those many years ago and had inveighed against faculty, deans, policies, and curriculum in a manner most harsh.

Scald rubbed his hands at Michelle’s approach, hoping his meal would be awful. There was nothing as liberating as writing a scathing review.

Michelle set down the elk medallions and the Chilean sea bass. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Michelle, my dear,” Scald said reaching into his vest pocket. “I found this in the bouillabaisse. Would you be so kind as to call your boyfriend the policeman?”

Michelle stared dumbfounded at Scald’s cupped hand. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘0.’ She covered it with her hand. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll notify the manager right away.”

“Don’t do that. Call your boyfriend. Get him down here.”

“I don’t know if he can come—he might be on duty.”

“Try. And if he can’t make it, call some other cops.”

Dyson watched contentedly chewing elk. Michelle hurried away.

“Whatcha got, Unk?”

Holding his hand below the table, Scald showed the cartridge casing to his nephew. Dyson reached for it but Scald quickly closed his hand and withdrew.

“You found that in your soup?”

Scald nodded eyeing his dish. Unfortunately it smelled divine. Slipping the cylinder back into his vest pocket Scald took up the fork. It was the best sea bass he’d ever tasted, flavored with a hint of coriander and cilantro.

“How’s the elk?” Scald said between mouthfuls.

Dyson could only nod and chew. He made the ‘perfect’ sign with thumb and index finger. Scald looked down on the main floor. Michelle huddled with Mellina, who nodded in understanding.

Shit.

Scald reached for his blackberry. Problem. Should he dial 9-1-1? It wasn’t exactly an emergency. The proper thing to do would be to notify the police through non-urgent channels. He didn’t even know what precinct they were in. He dialed ‘0.’

“Hello and thank you for calling Trans-Global communications. Please listen carefully to the following options as our menus have changed. Si se hable espanol, empuja ‘1’ ahora.”

Scald looked up. Mellina loomed. Next to him stood a tall waiter in white jacket, face pock-marked like the moon staring at Scald from beneath a unibrow that stretched from cauliflower ear to cauliflower ear.

Mellina held out his hand. “Give me the casing.”

Dyson watched with interest stuffing his mouth with potato.

Scald shrugged. “What casing?”

“Don’t play around with me, Mr. Scald,” Mellina said softly in his high-pitched voice. “You’re not leaving this restaurant until you hand it over.”

“Aren’t you concerned with what I might write?”

“You’re not going to write anything with a dislocated shoulder,” said the unibrow.

Dyson’s fork, on its way to his gaping maw, stopped in mid-air. “Are you threatening my uncle?”

Mellina slowly shifted his gaze to Dyson as if spotting steak sauce on the carpet. It shifted back to Scald. “Nobody has to know about this. Your meal is on the house. Forget about the review. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for that cartridge right here, right now.”

Scald sat up straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “Dyson, we may require your assistance.”

“You got it, Unk.”

Dyson demonstrated why Sherdog had ranked him among the top twenty light heavyweights. He wasted no time. It looked as if Dyson were shunting himself under the table like a child after dinner. His right leg shot out, the heel connecting solidly on the waiter’s knee. There was a cracking sound like a bread stick and the pock-marked waiter fell to the ground screaming and clutching his knee.

Like some sinister whack-a-mole Dyson popped back up from beneath the table, stepped on the seat, sprang once on the table and flew through the air, planting his fork whose grip he had never relinquished in the side of Mellina’s tree-trunk neck.

Mellina staggered back with an unbelieving expression, reached for the fork and yanked it out. Blood followed.

“HEY RUBE!” bellowed the maitre d’, watching with keen interest from the top of the stairs. “THE BOSS IS IN TROUBLE!” Two waiters on the main floor deposited their trays on the nearest empty tables and ran for the stairs. A Chinese chef wearing a toque and carrying a cleaver rushed from the kitchen.

Dyson kicked Mellina in the balls and the big man doubled over. Dyson pumped a fist in the air. “I live for this shit!” Dyson leaped over the writhing waiter and rushed to the head of the stairs as the maitre d’ judiciously withdrew. First up was one of the waiters, a pretty boy with long brown hair in a pompadour clutching a set of tongs.

Dyson caught him with a spinning round kick that lifted the waiter into the air and deposited him at the foot of the stairs as the second waiter and the chef approached. The second waiter pulled his pal to one side. The chef pointed up the steps at Tyson with his left hand and flipped the cleaver with his right. It sailed end over end, right over Dyson’s ducked head.

“Come on, Unk! Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

Scald used this diversion to dip his mitt into a crème brule on the dessert tray, crude, but odds were they wouldn’t be serving for the rest of the evening.

The thugs were wary. Mellina and the pock-marked waiter were hors de combat. Customers on the main floor hurriedly decamped save for an elderly couple in a banquette who calmly ate spaghetti while watching the floor show.

The two waiters and the cook arrayed themselves in a semi-circle at the bottom of the stairs. Dyson reached over the hand rail, seized a heavy china dinner plate and sailed it Frisbee-like at the chef who goggled in disbelief and so forgot to duck. The plate made a G flat as it struck the cook between the eyes and shattered. The cook sat down hard on his ass.

The waiter rushed. Dyson faked a punch and went low, sweeping the waiter off his feet, shoving him toward the front of the restaurant and throwing him at a vacated table. Fruit cart! The waiter upended the table sending lobster, salad, and linguine flying.

Scald made a beeline for the door. At the last minute the maitre d’ blocked his way wearing a set of brass knuckles. “No you don’t, Mr. Scald.”

Where was Dyson? His nephew altercated with the kitchen crew.

Smacking the brass knucks into a palm, the grinning maitre d’ said, “Give me the cartridge.”

Scald whipped off his rug and threw it in the maitre d’s face. The maitre d’ staggered back groping futilely, smacked into the plate glass front door and broke through in a shower of shattered shards.

A police car whooped. Lights went on in the street directly in front of Gargano’s as the cop shop did a U-ey, pulling up in front of the shattered front door.

Scald followed his nephew like a Miata following a snowplow. As Dyson stepped over the door frame into the street, he said over his shoulder, “Holy shit, Unk. I didn’t know you were a skinhead! Ahmina buy you a tat!”

Scald pulled out his ostrich-skin wallet and laid a Benjamin on the greeter’s station. “For the meal.” He heard the sound of boots on wood, the tinkle of breaking glass from somewhere in the kitchen.

Two cops pushed by them and went through the door. Another cruiser pulled up behind them.

Scald approached one of the new arrivals, a cocoa-colored bear-shaped man wearing rectangular glasses. “Officer, I’m Bill Scald, restaurant reviewer for Metro Plus.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“I found this in my bouillabaisse.” Scald dipped into his vest pocket and proffered the nine mm casing.

“You what?” the cop said.

“I nearly lost a tooth on it. It was in the seafood chowder.”

The cop held out his mitt. “May I?”

Scald deposited the shell in the cop’s cupped hand. “I will be happy to testify as to how that casing came into my possession.”

“I’m gonna need an ambulance,” yelled a cop from the deck. “Fred, you wanna come up here, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

The cop turned to Scald. “Wait here.” He headed up the stairs. Scald followed.

On the raised deck a skinny cop stood next to the fallen waiter who moaned and clutched his knee. “It’s Numbnutz Farina.”

Fred did a double-take. “Numbnutz! We been lookin’ all over for ya! Where ya been?”

“Right here,” Numbnutz moaned. “Can I get an ice pack? That mofo broke my knee.”

Fred rounded on Scald. “I thought I told you to stay downstairs.”

“Officer, before I became restaurant reviewer I held the city desk at the old Telegraph. I was a crime reporter for twelve years and I can still turn a nice phrase. What did you say your name was?”

Fred dipped into a pocket and smiled. “Okay, wise guy, here’s my card. Question is, how did the casing get in the chowder?”

“I have a theory about that,” Scald said.

Fred held up his hand. “I got the same theory.” Fred mimed drawing his pistol, firing, and traced imaginary brass through the air with his finger until it plunked into a glass.

The police declared the restaurant a crime scene. Of those who had not fled, four were illegals with lengthy criminal records. Only the elderly couple emerged untainted, with warm memories to share with their grandchildren.

Archie Mellina flew the coop. In the kitchen ultra-violet revealed enough blood to drench a Roman spa. The restaurant closed its doors that night. When the police finally let Scald and Dyson go, Scald headed straight home to write his review.

The new Metro Plus hit the street three days later. Scald had three by-lines.

“HOW I SOLVED THE LUCCI KILLING,” by Bill Scald, exclusive to Metro Plus.

“WHY I FLIPPED MY WIG,” by Bill Scald, exclusive to the Metro Plus.

“GARGANO’S STANDS TALL, FALLS FAST,” by food reporter Bill Scald, exclusive to Metro Plus.

“First, the good news. Gargano’s in the village is—was one of the premiere Italian eateries in the city with a seafood bouillabaisse that is literally to die for…”