III.

There were good years on rack. Huge wheels of cheese and a wall of cookbooks added comfort to the gloom. A guy could waste some month of Sundays down here. I checked my watch while filling a goblet with vintage merlot. Half past nine. It was too quiet. I wound fresh film into the Brownie and slid shoes towards a slick set of rosewood shelves, scanning the spines of gourmet journals. One title caught my eye right off the bat.

A harsh greet sealed my little trip to the library. “Who are you? How did you get down here?”

Here we go, I thought. You can’t take a picture of failure and get paid. I turned to see the house chef, a shard of blubber tipping the scales just shy of a good day’s haul at the docks. He sported a stovepipe hat and an apron as white as anyone else in the neighborhood. I raised the merlot and toasted him.

“Here’s to you and yours, Boyardee.” He didn’t take to the salutation, so I sweetened it with my snubnose. The gun got his eye. “Sorry, sudden change in menu. Lose the garb.”

Chef stripped down. A few swigs of wine added to the burlesque act. Good stuff, not too thick on the tongue. Before long Boyardee was bound up in the corner and I had a new profession.

Dressed like a meat jockey, I left the cellar and made my way through an arched brick hallway. Noise drifted down a nearby stairwell. Had to be the banquet. I climbed the steps and pushed back a thick oaken door, lugging my payload of vino from the cellar. Clinking glasses were thirsty for it.

“More Chianti? Excellent, fellow. Over there.” Penguins as far as the eye could see. This one was slapping me on the back to make sure I dressed the main table with grape juice. I took it they didn’t tip much. Once I dropped the crate off, I could fade back and spy for dirt to snap.

Wine went down; I looked up. Until now, I had kept cool well enough. But this scene was the big ugly. And my client was the centerpiece.

The dining table was an impressive number; at least thirty feet long with red silk napkins and a carving knife the size of Ohio glittering under the chandelier. Bowls chocked full of bread were flanked by saucers of bouillon. Leslie was the silver platter, hands tied behind her back, kneeled over with an apple wedged in her mouth. Tuxedos were laying out forks.

Cannibals. All of ‘em Stinking Rich. Small wonder this crowd counted the Donner Party journal as a cookbook; they just couldn’t wait for winter to carve a steak from two legs with a Harvard education. I had to get out of this one fast, or not at all. I favored my snubnose over the Brownie.

My first shot hit the chandelier, which is always good for fireworks. Glass rained down as the lights blew. That threw the gig into a panic. As good a cover as any. I sank the last batch of lead on my way to the main course. Penguins fell like bowling pins.

Leslie was smart; she had taken advantage of the mess and was already off the menu and sprinting with me back towards the cellar door. I grabbed the rest of the merlot on our way out. The gate suits were jumping the doorbell and didn’t see us ‘till we hit the street.

Not bad.