Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Page B

Dumpster. This is the knife.” He was grinning as he held it up.
    â€œCrocodile Dundee, James.”
    I could tell he remembered the scene. Where the teenaged punk pulls out a little knife when he’s going to rob Dundee. The Australian says, “That’s not a knife,” as he produces a huge Bowie knife.
    â€œThat’s a knife,” James said. “Wow, Maggie, thank you. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know.”
    Flashing her smile, her eyes sparkling, she said, “Honey, if I was fifteen years younger.”
    I swear he blushed.
    â€œHey, I know how it is. Those things are expensive.”
    She drove off and Em stood there shaking her pretty head.
    â€œYou guys are a constant source of amusement. A constant source.”
    â€œWe should have found the apron too,” James lamented.
    â€œLet’s get back to the restaurant.”
    â€œCan James walk?” she asked. “He stinks and, after all, this is a brand-new car.”
    James rode in the back and Em kept the windows down.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    James’s knife was missing.
    â€œSo what does that mean? Somebody stole your knife? Maybe you misplaced it, James.”
    â€œThat didn’t happen.”
    â€œMaybe somebody stole it, but this one, the one from the trash, isn’t yours? Or is it?” I was trying to make some sense out of it.
    â€œShould have carved my initials in the handle. This one, the one we found, I wish it was mine, but it’s not.”
    â€œThey look the same to me.”
    â€œNo nick in the blade. Mine had that tiny nick near the point.”
    â€œLet me take it to Ted.” Em reached for the plastic-wrapped knife.
    Ted again.
    â€œHe can at least check it for fingerprints.”
    â€œSee if you can get it back before tonight. I’ve got to have a knife. I can score some smaller knives, but I need the big one. I can’t cook without it.”
    Em nodded. “But think about this, James. Someone who had access to this kitchen apparently stole two knives from your locker.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd if you show up tonight using either of those knives, after they tossed this and possibly yours in the Dumpster, it’s going to tip them off that you are on to them.”
    He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not made of money, Emily. Just get it back, okay? To buy a new one would cost over one hundred dollars. And until we get paid for this gig, I don’t have ‘over’ one hundred dollars.”
    Juan Castro didn’t show up for work, so Chef Marty told James to call me. I refused at first, but after several threats and James begging a great deal, I said yes to one more night as dishwasher.
    This time I got fed. The meal is standard in upscale kitchens. It seems the cooks prepare a meal for the staff before the customers show up. It wasn’t the gourmet food that customers would be served, but it wasn’t half bad. According to Chef Marty it was a French beef stew with more vegetables than beef, but it was filling. And Bouvier showed up. After the last time, I hadn’t expected to be impressed, but having seen him half a dozen times on television, knowing his marketing influence and branding power, I have to admit I found him to live up to his hype. He seemed charged up, in broadcast form as he stood in front of the assembled kitchen staff. Smiling, his artificially whitened teeth glistening, he faced the staff.
    He addressed them by saying, “You people—you are what makes this thing happen. It’s not just me, it’s you. Don’t forget that.”
    I was reminded of Danny DeVito on steroids. He was short, somewhat rotund, with a fringe of hair around his ears. He bobbed and weaved as his hands did much of the talking.Wearing an apron that appeared to be somewhat soiled, he showed he was still a working man, yet he hadn’t cooked a thing. Either he didn’t wash his aprons, or he simply