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PHOTO COURTESY OF COFFEE AND CIGARETTES, A 2004 JIM JARMUSCH FILM

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A Taste for MurderA missing gourmand leads Sid Moran, private dick, on a sordid journeythrough Missoula's restaurant scene. By Bill Vaughn

SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD OF THE LIVING my cell whined like a frightened nun. I gropedaround in the carnage under my bed and grabbed the damn thing. “Yeah?” “Mr. Sid Moran?” The guy’s voice oozed with that slimy Brahmin accent John Kerry useswhen he was trying to impress somebody. “Yeah?”“Mr. Moran, this is Anthony Hodgkins calling from Boston. I’m terribly sorry to disturb youon a Saturday, but this is an extremely urgent matter that requires immediate attention.”I rubbed the guck from my eyes with the back of my hand and looked at my watch. It was

2:18. This was probably 2:18 in thePM because the sun was shiningbetween my dusty blinds. Hodgkinssounded like a bill collector, but Icouldn’t remember if I owed anyone inBean Town money. “A matter in thenature of what?” “I’m the editor of Epicure Monthly,Mr. Moran.” He paused to see if I wasimpressed. I wasn’t. “Um, two weeks ago we dispatchedour restaurant reviewer, Mr. NedSingleton, to Montana for ourcontinuing series about the regionalcuisine of America. You may befamiliar with Mr. Singleton’s work.” “I only take the Sporting Digest.” “Aha. Well, we haven’t heard aword from Mr. Singleton in over aweek. And a check with his hotel inMissoula, the Holiday Inn at the Park,revealed that his room doesn’t appearto have been occupied for severaldays.” “And you want me to find him.” “Please.” “Hodgkins, why don’t you go to thecops” “Two reasons, actually. First, thepolice—especially your localauthorities—are painfully slow in

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authorities—are painfully slow inmatters of this sort. Of course wefervently hope that nothing untowardhas happened to Mr. Singleton, but hedoes have a deadline. Second, EpicureMonthly is an immensely respectedinstitution among, shall we say, a

certain demographic. Anything even hinting of misconduct on his part would tarnish thereputation of the magazine.” “Does this guy have a history of, uh, misconducting?” “Not at all. He’s always been very discreet.” “You mean he’s gay.” “We have a million loyal readers to consider.” The only thing I was considering was my bank balance. Adding in the loose change onthe night table from my usual Friday night binge at Red’s with nightcaps at Al and Vick’s, Ialmost had enough to pay the rent on my room. “I don’t come cheap,” I lied. “I suspected as much, Mr. Moran. Therefore I have taken the liberty of Fedexing you a$1000 retainer. There’s also a contract stating that you will receive another $1000 when Mr.Singleton is located. And a rare photograph of the man we ask that you show to as fewpeople as possible.” “Gurg,” I said, choking on my own schnapps-flavored spit. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Moran?” “Sorry. Heartburn. What’s the deal with the photo?” “For professional reasons Mr. Singleton is very sensitive about his identity. If arestaurateur were to recognize him he could inflate the normal quality of the cuisine andservice, producing a distorted picture of the establishment. For that reason Mr. Singletonavoids publicity and often wears disguises.” “One picture’s not a lot to go on.” “I realize that. But I trust that you’re the only private detective in Missoula who can findNed Singleton.” Things were looking up. “Now why do you say that?” “Mr. Moran, you’re the only private detective in Missoula.”

LOOKING DOWN AT THE STREET from my room I smoked a Camel and plotted my day.Clouds the color of a bruise rolled across the sun, and snow began to dust Broadway. Itwas going to be a long winter, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about the rent, at leastthis month, anyway. I threw on a cheap suit—my only suit—grabbed my coat, and headedfor the elevator. The doors opened to reveal the person of Sherry Barrett from the fifthfloor. Me and old Sherry occasionally engaged in vigorous sport, but I hadn’t seen her aroundin a while. Despite the miles traveled and the baggage accumulated she looked prettygood, the way leftover takeout looks good to a hungry man. “Going down, Sid?” “Aren’t we all?” We rode silently for a moment. “What are you doing tonight, Sherry?” She gave me that look. “Whatever it is you’re doing.” I trudged through the snow to the Missoula Club, which was full of aging college boys in

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I trudged through the snow to the Missoula Club, which was full of aging college boys intown for Homecoming, and took a seat at the bar under a TV showing the Notre Damegame. Shane poured me a Moose Drool and handed me a FedEx letter. The check lookedgenuine, and the contract was everything Hodgkins said it would be. I studied the photo.This Singleton character looked like Jack Black after a shave and a good haircut. He waswearing a custom-made suit and cast the sort of theatrical shadows that can only beaccomplished in a studio at the hand of a really good photographer. It looked like aHollywood publicity shot. And it didn’t reveal anything more about the guy than that. Whosays photos don’t lie? How tall was he, was he right-handed or left, how did he walk, did hehave any scars or tats? I needed more info. That meant my assistant would have to earn his keep again. Hiscell rang have a dozen times before a voice answered that sounded like someone whoseparents were Sleepy and Dopey. “Oh, hey, Sid.” “Patchouli, rouse your lazy ass and get me everything you can on a restaurant reviewernamed Ned Singeton and a magazine called Epicure Monthly.” “Oh, man, Flaming Lips is at the Top Hat tonight and I got a ticket.” “I don’t give a damn if Blind Faith reunited and is gonna play in your bedroom. You wantto go back to selling dope?” “Who’s Blind Faith?” “What? You don’t— Oh, nevermind. Look, this isn’t the usual cheating wife or billcollector deal. This is hot.” I hoped Patchouli was too stoned to remember that I still owed him $130. He wasbasically a good kid. Maybe I’d give him a bonus if everything turned out all right and weturned up Singleton. Nah. I ordered a double hot pepper cheeseburger, a chocolate shake and a shot of Lewis &Clark vodka. When the Mo Club had filled past legal capacity I went out on Main. I thoughtabout getting my .38 out of hawk from Liquid Assets, but I’d never really liked guns, andthe last time I checked this one’s trigger had locked up. So I headed for the Holiday Inn.

SINGLETON'S ROOM was on the topfloor above the river. My universalswipe card opened the doorinstantly. The place was spotless.But that didn’t mean it hadn’t beenlived in. The closet was full ofclothes, and so were the drawers.Some of them were the sort of dudsyou’d expect to find in the crib of analleged gentlemen—dress slacks andshirts, pricey shoes, silk ties andcustom-made suit coats. But what was this? A birdcolonel’s uniform? Jeans, a western

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colonel’s uniform? Jeans, a westernshirt with snap buttons, a leathervest, and a pair of Ariat cowboyboots? Poking deeper I found a pairof bushy eyebrows attached to a pairof heavy black glasses, a mustacheand a hooked rubber nose. Then ajar of blackface, a white satin eye-patch, a cellophane knife scar, abeard, two wigs, a plastic arm with ahook instead of a hand, a priest’scollar, a black Stetson, and a bolo tiewith a turquoise clasp. Then, hello, Ifound a purple evening gown,various lipsticks, rouges, andeyeshadows, a bottle of Chanel No.5 (the one that smells like a cop’swife), and a Frankenstein mask(well, Halloween was just around thecorner). I checked the Ariats and discovered that there were no stirrup scrapes across theinsteps. The meant Singleton has never ridden a horse, or at least he’d never ridden ahorse wearing these boots. So what? Okay, so the guy was into disguises, cross-dressing or both. But here’s what was reallyweird: These were clothes made for someone no more than five feet tall. And someonewho weighed at least 200 pounds. A human bowling ball. Jack Black on steroids. I went through the pockets and came up with 38 cents, which I pocketed. Then Iremembered my old detective rule: Always check under the mattress. You usually foundnothing more than stained Kleenex, but this time it paid off. A red notebook. I lit a cigarette and opened to the first page. Under a heading that said “PossibleOpenings” was “A gourmet’s tour of Montana would be a non-stop flight.” He might be right,but how would I know? The best meal I’d ever had in the old land of oro y plata wasChristmas Eve at Deer Lodge, where I was serving a one-to-three for possession of acontrolled substance, in this case hashish. I put the notebook in my trenchcoat and wentout into the hallway. Heading toward the stairs I was unfortunate enough to pass a bellboy wheeling a largeroom service cart. I looked at the kid and nodded. He looked back and said “Have a niceday, sir.” In the gathering gloom of evening the snow had melted, then frozen to a crunchy messthat went scritch, scritch as I made my way across it from the hotel. Two blocks away I stopped. Screw me blue, I’d left that cigarette burning on the nighttable. I made my way back through the lobby and into an elevator to the top floor anddown the hallways again to Singleton’s room. Making sure there was no one around I letmyself in. There was someone on the bed. “Whupps, ‘scuse me,” I blurted, backing out. I checkedthe number again. This was Singleton’s room. I opened the door again. And that was Singleton’s body.

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OH, THE FAT DWARF WAS DEAD, all right, staring up at the ceiling like an overfed guppy insome snot-nose’s aquarium. There were no bullet wounds or knives sticking out of him, buthis cold skin had a weird greenish tint. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a biker’scap, patched jeans and SS boots. The bed and the floor around it were littered with junk

food junk—empty Twinky packages,banana split boats, candy wrappers,Styrofoam burger containers, Cheetobags, a pizza box, onion ring cartons—a whole seven-course meal fromhell. Although I don’t like to touch othermen I quickly frisked the little donut.His wallet didn’t have a cent in it, butit did contain his driver’s license andfour credit cards, including, of course,a Diner’s Club. Stuffed in his pocketswere meal receipts from Arby’s andTaco John’s, the wrapper from aCostco hot dog, and a half-eatendeep-fried cheese stick. Apparently the Last Supper. I went out the back exit and downthe stairs into the parking lot, makingsure no one saw me. By the time Igot back to my room at the Palace Iwas gasping for breath. My brain wasswimming, so I did what I always dowhen I need to add up the score:Take a bath and smoke a joint. A half hour later I had to admit Iwas in hot water. Fact: Ned Singletonwas no longer missing. Fact: It lookedlike suicide from over-eating junkfood. Opinion: It smelled like murder.Conclusion: since the bellboy hadseen me leave Singleton’s room and I

was an ex-con, guess who the prime suspect was? I ordered my remaining brain cells to give that bellboy the once-over. There’d beensomething familiar about him, I just couldn’t place it. Maybe the voice? He was clean-cut,twenty-something, thick Clark Kent glasses. I don’t know, he looked like a thousand othercollege kids working their way through school. Hold on. The room service cart the kid had been pushing was big enough to concealSingleton’s pint-size person. Did the bellboy whack him? And why? Maybe there was a clue in Singleton’s notebook. I realized that I’d have a tough timeexplaining to the cops why I was in possession of the thing, but it was all I had to go on. Under “Reviews” there was a page of scribbles. “The Montana Club advertises itself as

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Under “Reviews” there was a page of scribbles. “The Montana Club advertises itself as‘Montana Fare with a Montana Flair,’ whatever that is. I found the steaks unexciting andonly partly compensated by the “salad bar,” a frontier term no doubt coined to make theMarlborough Man and his little Fillie more comfortable consuming something that never hadhooves.” Here was his take on Guy’s Lolo Creek Steakhouse. “Allegedly an eatery that will grillthe game animal you’ve gone into the forest to bludgeon. As I gave my jaw muscles arigorous workout trying to eat a filet mignon, a cowboy entered the establishment with agarbage bag. As he passed a table of buckaroos, one of them looked at the bag and said‘Muskrat?’” There was a note about Shadow’s Keep up in the South hills above Missoula. “A primeexample,” Singleton wrote, “of the restaurant formula holding that it the view is excellentthe food will be mediocre.” Snotty bastard. I’d never heard anything except good about these restaurants, althoughI never seemed to have enough money to check them out. I knew I’d have to find another place to stay for a couple of days while I tried to solvethis case and save my ass. Sherry would put me up tonight and maybe tomorrow night, aswell, and button her lip if I asked her to. But I couldn’t face her on an empty stomach, andSingleton’s notebook had made me hungry. I went to my closet and put together a disguise that would probably get me throughdinner at the Oxford without being recognized. The munchies wait for no man.

ALTHOUGH I WAS WEARING A CALICO COSTUME from Cats, complete with whiskers, afuzzy orange wig, cat ears and a circle around one eye, when I pushed through the door noone looked twice. Well, yeah, this was the Ox, after all, and Saturday night at the Ox. Plus,the Children’s Theatre was putting on the musical a few blocks away in the old Wilma. Still,

even to myself I seemed a little weird. I sat down at the counter and watchedas two drunk women rolled around on thefloor between the tables, screeching at thetop of their lungs and yanking on eachother’s hair. An old man wearing abattered straw cowboy hat sitting next tome started laughing. He had no frontteeth. His breath smelled like cat food. Ivowed to quit smoking dope. Again. “A dollar on the blonde,” the old mansaid. “I’ve seen the blonde fight,” I told him,slapping a wrinkled bill on the counternext to his. “She can’t take a punch.” But we would never know the outcomebecause suddenly it was cops all over,pulling apart the fighters, who were now,in cop talk, persons to be removed. Iturned away and buried my face in a copyof the Missoula Independent. The fight didn’t help my concentration

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The fight didn’t help my concentrationany. Who would have killed Singleton3000 miles from Boston? How would I talkmy way out of a murder rap? Will theCubs ever win the pennant? Whensomeone down the counter ordered brainsand eggs and the counterman shouted tothe cook, “He needs ‘em!” I had thedistinct impression they were talkingabout me. The counterman was Eddie Pep, anex-boxer whose final bout went sevenseconds into the first round before MarvinCamel laid him on the canvas with a hardleft jab. Eddie limped over, still a littlepunch-drunk after all these years, and sonear-sighted he couldn’t see much beyondthe tip of his beefy nose. “What’ll ya have, Sid?”

“Jeez, Eddie, not so loud!” I whispered. “I’m working a case.” “Sure, Sid.” I ordered a steak san, hashbrowns drenched with gravy, and coffee, grateful, despitewhat Singleton said about Montana food, that there was still a place in town you could gethonest grub that didn’t break the bank. While I waited for dinner I finished reading Singleton’s notebook. The last page listedreservations he’d made at restaurants in Butte and Helena. There was no mention of anyvisits to MacDonald’s, Burger King, or even that local fountain of greasy chicken, theDouble Front. When Eddie slapped down my dinner I doused it with ketchup. Just as I was wiping upthe last dab of gravy with a crust of bread Patchouli came truckin’ through the door like acharacter out of R. Crumb. One of the drunks at the bar ordered him to get a haircut. “Fuck you, dildo,” Patchouli said with enough menace to extract an apology from theguy.” “Hey, boss,” he said, waving over Eddie and ordering a whole grapefruit. Patchouli’s yard-long hair was tied in a pony tail. He sported a goatee and Yogosapphire earings. He was wearing a Tibetan yak-hair sweater, baggy ragged jeans, andsteel-toed work boots. In a crowd like this it took real energy to stand out. “Well?” I asked him. “Man, what a hassle. I had to wait an hour to get into the internet room at the libraryand then this one fascist librarian kept hovering to make sure I wasn’t surfing porn.” “I don’t care about that. What did you find?” “Your dude, Singleton, had done this restaurant thing for like twenty years? Nevermarried. Except for the foodie thing, lived like Ralph Nader. Won all these bullshit awardsfrom gourmet this and food writer’s that.” “Is that all you found?” Patchouli dug into his pockets and came up with a page ripped from Us magazine. Itshowed the human bowling ball dressed in his priest’s collar, the white eye patch and afrock sitting at a table in some restaurant, his hands on his way to covering his face. The

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frock sitting at a table in some restaurant, his hands on his way to covering his face. Theheadline said: “Us Blows Food Crit’s Cover.” Apparently, some paparazzi had been tailingSingleton for weeks, and finally caught him on camera at a posh Boston eatery called MesAppetites. “What else?” I said. “Boss, you’re as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof.” “Please promise me you didn’t say that.” “So what’s scratching you, man?” I had to tell someone, forgetting that people who don’t have any friends always end uptelling the wrong someone. Patchouli whistled and shook his head. “Bummer.” I fished the photo of Singleton from the ridiculous front pouch of my costume andhanded it to him. “Look, first thing tomorrow start asking the cab drivers the places theytook him. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” When Sid came over with a coffee pot and my bill I asked him not to tell anyone he’dseen me lately. “How come, Sid?” he asked. “Loose lips sink ships.” “I don’t know, Sid. My memory’s not so good lately. I might forget you told me not totell.” I sighed and peeled off an extra ten. Heaven, I thought, is a place where you don’thave to bribe anyone.

I KNOCKED ON 5B and waited as Sherry came to the door to check me out through the spyhole. It was after midnight. “Hey, Sid,” she said, opening up. She was wearing bunny slippers and white silkpajamas. I had to admit she looked tasty. Tasty, and also tart, like a lemon meringue pie.She started laughing. “What?” I said. “It’s not news you’ve got the moralsof a tom cat, so why advertise it?” Once inside I told her enough aboutthe case to let her know what sort ofsoup I was in, but not everything I knewabout it. Before long we were engaged in afull and frank exchange of views. As oneof Missoula’s lesser scribblers had oncewritten, the evening would include, butwould not be limited to, oral love. Later, I dreamt that ColonelSanders was serving me on a big silverplatter to a dozen women at a churchpicnic. Waving around their knives andforks like Bantu warriors, they weremad because I was all wings and necks.But before the ladies could get rough thedream was interrupted by my cell,

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dream was interrupted by my cell,playing that Pretenders song, Back onthe Chain Gang. It was Patchouli. “Dude, it’s noon.” “You woke me up to tell me that?” “A maid at the Holiday Inn foundSingleton, man. Cops came. Thecoroner just announced the autopsy.” “Do I want to hear this on an emptystomach?” Lying next to me, snoring likea Cheshire, Sherry was still in the land of dreams. “You’re off the hook, boss. Death by natural causes. A heart attack caused by piggingout on junk food.” Note to self: Buy lottery tickets. “Do you believe that?” I said. “Like, sure, why not?” Patchouli was living proof of why they called it dope. “The medical cause might have been heart attack," I told him, “but I was only out ofthat room five, maybe ten minutes. Not enough time for Singleton to come in, heavegarbage all over, croak, then cool down to the temperature of lime Jell-o.” I didn’t realize until now that Singleton’s elf carcass might have been hidden in thatroom service cart. Was the bellboy the perp? But what was the motive? Had Singleton’sgayness overcome his discretion and got him into a tight spot with the local rough trade? Before I could make up any answers another call came through. Shit. It was Hodgkins. “Hello, Hodgkins. Look, I got some bad news for you.” “Save your breath, sir. A reporter from your local daily just called with the news andsome very embarrassing questions. Mr. Moran, Ned Singleton would so more purchase aSlim Jim or a Tater Tot than a rabbi would order hog jowels. How he ended his days withthat sort of trailer court trash in his stomach is obviously the result of foul play.” “Well, that’s what I figure, too.” “Someone is obviously trying to smear the good name of Epicure Monthly. And they’reprobably going to succeed. The media will have a field day with this, as you can imagine.Since your local authorities aren’t going to pursue an investigation, I’m afraid, Mr. Moran,that I must send out a larger detective agency from here in Boston. The retainer you havealready received is yours to keep, of course.” The money didn’t matter anymore. Well, it didn’t matter as much. I would have given itback if it would keep a real gumshoe off the case and me out of prison, or worse, theneedle room. So what if a prosecutor couldn’t prove I had a motive? Juries in this statehave sent guys up the river on weaker evidence. “Mr. Hodgkins, I have a couple of good solid leads that won’t wait for another agency. Ineed to jump on them right away. Give me forty-eight hours, I’ll have your killer, and you’llsave a bundle on this month’s detective bills.” Hodgkins was quiet for a very long ten seconds. “All right, Mr. Moran. Two days.” My hands were shaking when I got back to Patchouli. “We’ve still got a murder rap to solve, pal.” “Boss, why waste our time? It’s Sunday, man. Let’s do some weed and go bowling.” “There’s a killer out there. Where’s your civic pride? Don’t you want to live in a decentcommunity?”

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community?” “Yeah, but I can’t get a visa to Havana.” “Funny. Let’s get back to work. You take the drivers at Valley Cab. I’ll take the YellowCab guys.” Sherry woke up, yawned and stretched and gave me a little smile. “Meow,” she said.

LENNY PRETZEL was one of those cabbies who made it his business to know everyone intown. Or at least all the bit players in town. His old man had driven a hack in Baltimore.And his granddaddy the same gig in Munich. Until Hitler, anyway. They said Lenny had aphotographic memory, but since I’d given Patchouli my pic of Singleton a fat lot of goodthat was going to do. I’d spent all day striking out with the other drivers, then waiting for Lenny to come on

shift. Unless Patchouli had found adriver at Valley with a lead aboutSingleton The Pretzel was my last bestshot. I suddenly had an image of aseven-foot serial killer the guards hadjust shoved into my cell. The maniacgrabs me by the throat and says Doesyou wants to be the momma or thepapa?” “Where to, Sid?” I described Singleton, my fingerscrossed. “Yeah, I remember the guy. Howcould you forget a cantaloupe in a birdcolonel’s uniform?” I handed Lenny a wrinkled Grant.“Take me where you took him.” We drove first to Buttrey'sEastgate. “Lenny this isn't arestaurant.” “Duh. Guy wanted razor blades.” Then we drove to Pearl's, on Front.It looked like a whore house, but it wasactually a posh French eatery. Ofcourse, I’d never been in the joint. Notcounting the chains, Missoula had ahundred restaurants. And not countingthe burgers at the Missoula Club or thehash browns at the Ox I’d never tastedthe grub in any of them. “He tipped big and said he’d walkback to the Holiday Inn. Asked if Icould pick him up the next night at 6and take him out to the Nine MileHouse.” “That’s what, Lenny, 30 miles?”

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“That’s what, Lenny, 30 miles?” “Yeah. So I drive him out. He don’t

say a word the whole time, just scribbles in his notebook, scritch, scritch. We get to thejoint, he pays me and tips big again, says come back at 9. That’s gonna be a 120-mile fare,which is great for me. He says don’t worry about it I’m on an expense account.” I lit a cigarette, ignoring the sign that said No Smoking. “Then what?” “I get there, and no cantaloupe. I honk a couple times, then go into the joint. I askaround and one of the waitresses said the cantaloupe just left with a guy.” Bingo. “Any idea who it was?” “Nah, I didn’t ask ‘cause I figured to see the cantaloupe again, and collect my fare.” As we headed out I-90 into the cold night Lenny launched into a joke. A rich lawyer is riding in his limo from his office in the city to his country estate. Alongthe way he spots a man down on all fours in the ditch next to the road. The guy’s eatinggrass. “Pull over, James” the lawyer orders his driver. The car stops and the lawyer rolls downthe window. “What are you doing?” he asks the guy. “I lost my job and used up all my savings,” he says. “This is all I have to eat.” “That’s terrible,” the lawyer says. “Listen, why don’t you come home with me and I’llsee that you get a meal.” The man stands up. “What about my family?” he asks, pointing to a woman and fourkids eating grass in the pasture. The lawyer grins. “Everyone’s welcome. Get in.” As the car speeds up the man turns to the lawyer with tears in his eyes. “I can’t tellyou how much I appreciate your generosity.” The lawyer shrugs. “Hey, it’s nothing. You’re going to love my place. The lawn is a footlong.”

THERE WERE ONLY FOUR CARS in the parking lot, huddled in the falling snow like streetpeople waiting for a free meal at Povarello. Inside, the waitresses were getting ready topiss on the fire and call in the dogs, as happy to see another customer after a long Sundayof fine family dining as they would be declaring their tips on a tax return. “Hello, Sid,” the tough little blonde said. “Take the wrong exit?” Here was a blast from the past—Coco Vann, my Senior Prom date at Hellgate High circathe twentieth century. “The years have been good to you, Coke,” I lied. “Wish I could say the same for my husbands.” Yeah, Coke was on shift the night Singleton came in. She didn’t work his table, but who

could forget a watermelon dressed likethe Lone Ranger? He ordered prime rib,then sent it back. Then he ordered a T-Bone, and sent that back, as well.Finally, the little bastard seemed semi-happy with a pricey hunk of grass-fedbison. I asked her if she rememberedanything about the guy Lenny Pretzel

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anything about the guy Lenny Pretzelsaid Singleton hooked up with. “Another prick,” Coke allowed. “Sentback his steak twice. Sent back thefucking salad, if you can believe it.Anyway, so now these bastards gotsomething in common and end up at thesame table, jabbering away like theywas long-lost brothers.” “Did you catch the drift of theirconversation?” “I don’t eavesdrop on thecustomers.” I sighed and peeled off a twenty. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “They wastalking about food. Blue fin tuna this,Cantonese that, seven courses at somefrog joint.” When I asked her what the other guylooked like the description fit the bellboyat the Holiday Inn. But then a lot of guysfit that description. And then she saidsomething that really got my attention. “He was a cook, Sid.” “What? Did he say something?” “Nah. His fingers was all scarred upfrom knife cuts. I’ve never known acook who didn’t cut up his hands.”

“I don’t suppose you happened to see what they left in.” “Orange ‘49 Chevy half-ton. Cherry.” “You’re a doll. Hey, sorry again about your prom dress.” “Don’t sweat it, Sid. The vomit washed right out.” The next morning I was on the job like any regular Monday-to-Friday Joe, my buttparked in the stacks at the library. I wasn’t looking for info about Ned Singleton. I waslooking for people who might hate him. After reading some of his restaurant reviews Iknew this was going to be a long list. I had to start somewhere so I started with therestaurant Patchouli had discovered in Us magazine, Mes Appetites. His review of the placewas typically snotty, concluding with a slur about the joint’s crème brûlée: phlegm brûlée,he called it. I went into the internet room and was lucky enough to find a free computer. Although Iwas tempted to take a peek at a site called “The Sluts of Kappa Kappa Gamma” I got towork. I looked up the joint’s number. Several rings and a receptionist later a woman came onthe line who sounded like Jackie Kennedy. I told her I was a reporter doing a follow-up onSingleton’s untimely demise. Of course she remembered the review. The restaurant hadtaken a nosedive after it came out. But then they replaced their chef and things picked up.I asked her for the fired guy’s name. “His real name, sir, or his nom de guerre?”

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“His real name, sir, or his nom de guerre?” “Nome duh what?” “His theatrical name is Marcel Escoffier,” she sniffed. “But we learned his real name isJake Grimes.” I googled both names and came up with one listing, in Face Book. My hands weresweating as I clicked on the link. And there he was. The bellboy at the Holiday Inn.

THE CLERKS DIDN'T RECOGNIZE THIS MEAT SACK, and neither did the manager. As I wasleaving I noticed something I never saw before: a surveillance camera. Was it new? Or hadit been up there on the ceiling of the lobby the night I visited Singleton’s room? I went out into the cold feeling like I’d been pumped full of chilled gasoline. I had lessthan twenty-four hours to come up with a perp before Hodgkins sicced his gumshoe armyon the case. Would they go after a court order to look at the tapes from the night thebowling ball croaked? Does the Pope like little boys? Since I didn’t have a credit card Icouldn’t rent a car, and didn’t knowanyone with a car who’d loan it to me, Iwalked up Front to Higgins and flagged acab. The driver was a Blackfeet guynamed Ronnie Kipp who played hold ‘emat the Ox once in a while. “I seen that truck a couple times,Sid. My uncle had one just like it, only itwas black.” “Jesus, Ronnie, where was it?” “Ho, I think maybe out on Reserve?” I called Patchouli and told him to gethis butt in a cab and start searching forthat old orange pickup. “Which part of town, boss?” “Take the North Side and downtown.Do every street. Do every alley. Andleave your damn cellphone on, hemp-head.” “Sir, yes sir!” Three hours later we’d driven up anddown the south side of the strip,checking most of the side streets aroundit. I was starving. “Hey, Ronnie, pull intothat Subway.” “Nah, Sid, you don’t want to eatthere. It’ll make you fat. Lemme takeyou someplace better.” Everyone was a critic. When he pulled into the parking lotof Rosauers I turned to him. “Ronnie, I

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of Rosauers I turned to him. “Ronnie, Idon’t want to go on a damn picnic.” But I followed him into the grocery anyway and over to the deli, where he ordered usfree-range chicken breasts and lentil salad. We ate in the supermarket cafeteriasurrounded by the Depends crowd, also having their dinners at 4:00 in the afternoon. I hadto admit, Ronnie was right about the food. As the sun set we searched the student ghettoes and the University district all the wayout to the golf course. Ronnie’s shift was ending so he began heading back downtown totrade himself in on a new driver. All I wanted to do was smoke a joint, drink a brewski andwatch Monday Night Football. My cell rang. “Bingolino, boss.” “You found it?” “I followed the guy,” Patchouli said. “He parked. He went in.” “Where?” I knew the building. It had been around since Lake Missoula emptied.I handed Ronnie a Benjamin that smelled like cocaine, and he agreed to drop me before hequit for the night. The place was in one of those dark North Side neighborhoods where the cops arealways busting up rock fights between the neighbors, hauling off wrecked cars, andcollaring guys for probation violation. The building was a nightmare, a former grainelevator, four stories of rotten wood next to the tracks. There was light coming from awindow on top, partially boarded. I regretted not getting my gun out of hock and fixing thedamn thing, but it was too late now. I found a chunk of two-by-four in the snow betweenthe rails, and went to the door. The stairs creaked and groaned as I made my way heavenward. The wind sounded likeTom Waits singing with food in his mouth as it streamed through the holes in the walls. There was a small room on the top floor, and light coming from under the door. Ilistened for awhile, but didn’t hear a thing except the wind and my stomach rumbling.Finally, I got up my nerve and eased open the door with my foot. There was only one thingin the room, a guy, looking out the window, his back to the door. When he turned around Icrouched, ready to brain him. It was the bellboy from the Holiday Inn. Er, the chef from Mes Appetites. Wasn’t it? “Hey, boss.” My brain went into neutral and idled. Okay, fine, let’s go over what I knew aboutPatchouli. I met him one July day when he sold me a Chicago-style polish sausage from asteam cart on Main. This Dog Bites, it was called. We started talking, one topic led toanother, and then to the subject of cannabis, and we circled around each other like pit bullssniffing butts. That pm in the alley behind Charley B’s I handed him a wad of hard-earnedcash for some of the best sensimilla I’ve ever smoked. Someone who had a good eye for faces would have seen the resemblance right away. Ionly saw it now. “Stash the two-by-four, Sid.” “Eat me.” Patchouli leveled a .38 at my chest. I knew it was my .38 because it had a knotty pinegrip. Don’t ask why. “You’re gonna fry, Jake.” “Don’t call my Jake.” “What, you like Marcel better?” I said, lisping the word Marcel.

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“What, you like Marcel better?” I said, lisping the word Marcel. “I didn’t kill the bastard,” Patchouli said. “Right.” “Well, yes, I kidnapped him but I didn’t kill him.” “I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy?” “Excuse?” “It’s a song, dipshit. What’s your side of it?” “After going without food for three days in my apartment even the great Ned Singletonlowered himself to take a bite of junk food. He wasn’t even halfway through his Happy Mealwhen the bastard started choking. Too bad. But, as we French say, revenge is a meal bestserved cold.” “You’re not French.” “I’m anything I want to be.” “That’s the dope talking. You won’t get away with it.” Below us a freight was rumbling through the neighborhood. Patchouli had to shout tomake himself heard. “Once I’m finished with you, Sid, I’m going to burn this buildingdown.” “Better not, Jake, it’s been nominated for the National Registry of Historic Places.” “You’re a funny man, Sid. It’s been a pleasure. But, au revoir.” “Put the gun down,” I shouted “It doesn’t work, anyway.” Patchouli grinned. I knew I was wrong. For the second time in a day. •

COPYRIGHT©2009 BILL VAUGHN