Through The Grinder

Ten

Oh, my, my…

The Genius was impressed. Sahara McNeil was quite the chameleon. Marc Jacobs last night, and Frederick’s of Hollywood this morning.

Given the transformation, the Genius almost didn’t recognize her. Almost.

The flaming red hair had been the signal flag — so scarlet she didn’t even have to color it to meet the fashion demands of her flamboyant colleagues. It was, the Genius recalled, the first thing he’d noticed about her.

Moving casually across the street, the Genius watched as Sahara pushed through the glass doors where she’d said goodnight to him just the other night.

It had seemed friendly. Catching up on old times, talking about friends and acquaintances, they’d left the coffeehouse, then went to a bar, and finally walked together to this apartment building on West Tenth Street. And there they’d said goodnight.

But the Genius knew that Sahara would not leave it at that. She’d taken his card. She’d be contacting him again — and soon.

That’s why the Genius had waited for over an hour the next morning, across the street from Sahara’s apartment building, scanning the faces of the professionals heading uptown and the stay-at-homes walking their dogs.

Any less vigilant and the Genius would have missed her.

If not for the flaming hair, the woman in the tailored slacks and tasteful makeup of last night could never have been matched with the cheap thing who’d just pushed through the glass doors of the West Tenth apartment building.

The too-short, too-jejune skirt. The mesh stockings. The shiny black dominatrix boots and animal print jacket made her look more like an exotic dancer than a legitimate art dealer.

Yet Sahara McNeil was a legitimate art dealer, as the Genius well knew. And was listed as an agent on a major six figure sale through Sotheby’s just last month.

Pretty. Successful. Yet oh so sad and alone.

The Genius knew her type well. New York City was full of Sahara McNeils.

The Genius followed — from a discrete distance — as the redhead started her long walk to the SoHo art gallery where she worked. Most likely she made this walk daily, weather permitting. Rain or snow might drive her into a cab. But today she was on foot — likely ready to appreciate any male attention she might attract in that trampy outfit.

Yes, the weather was perfect at the moment. Still clear. Unfortunately, precipitation was predicted sometime in the next week, a chance of icy rain or even snow. If it drove Sahara into a cab, that could be a problem. An umbrella, too, might become a weapon, and the Genius couldn’t risk that.

On her walk to work, Sahara crossed busy boulevards like the Avenue of the Americas and Houston. And she strolled along twisting, narrow Village streets lined with parked cars — a perfect place to await the coming of a distracted, fast-moving driver.

Why, there were so many opportunities for an accident.

It would be a challenge, but the Genius was up for it. One simply had to think creatively. Murder was an art, like any other.

No one knew that better than Sahara McNeil…

“You’re not fanatical about your cholesterol level, are you?” I asked as I approached Bruce Bowman with two glasses of Campari and soda.

Better to discover his position on butter now, I thought, than be forced to switch gravy recipes midway.

“Cholesterol and I are old friends,” Bruce replied, crouched in front of my living room’s hearth. He’d offered to start a fire and had done an admirable job. The flames were just starting to crackle, the heat filling the chilly room. “There are far worse ways to go than eating yourself to death.”

Great, I thought, ready to press on with my original cholesterol-friendly, butter-happy menu.

It was early Sunday evening, the day after Cappuccino Connection night, and, true to his word, Bruce had called me around noon, telling me he’d made us dinner reservations at Babbo — a truly marvelous Washington Square gourmet restaurant, co-owned by celebrated chef Mario Batali, for which getting last-minute reservations was a trick of David Copperfield–level magic.

Unfortunately, Tucker was off for the next few days, tending to his nose (bruised but not broken, thank goodness), and I was worried about leaving the Blend solely in the hands of my part-timers for long. I had yet to promote or hire a second assistant manager, so I suggested instead that Bruce come to my place — that way, I’d literally be two floors away should any crisis come up downstairs. And with Joy agreeing to surreptitiously baby-sit the staff, I knew if they didn’t call me, she would.

“Really, Clare,” Bruce said, rising back up to his full six-foot height. “It’s very nice of you to go to all this trouble.”

“What trouble?” I said, handing him the Campari and soda. “This is strictly a meat and potatoes meal.”

Bruce shook his head. “Women don’t cook for me. Not New York women. Not ever. Especially not after I’ve asked them out to an outrageously expensive restaurant.”

I shrugged. “I like to cook.”

It was also a delight to show off Madame’s duplex to someone who actually appreciated it as much as I did — the antiques, the paintings, the furnishings were all of the finest quality, as was the restoration of the hearth and windows, and Bruce Bowman noticed immediately.

My ex-husband had always been blasé about such things, partly I think it was because he’d grown up with them, and partly because he saw it all as part of his “mother’s thing.”

“I’ve seen this somewhere before,” Bruce said, gently pulling a lyre-backed chair away from the wall and giving it the once over with a sophisticated eye. “I have a book on church restoration with a picture of this very chair.”

“Not that chair,” I replied. “Probably one of its cousins. That’s one of only thirty or so still in existence. It was fashioned for — ”

“Saint Luke in the Field! I know,” said Bruce. “A colleague of mine is working on a restoration project for them. He’d love to see this.”

The living room was comfortable — especially with the hearth’s rising flames dispelling the brunt of the autumn chill — but we were never going to have dinner unless I got started.

“Follow me to the kitchen,” I said as I led him through the swinging door.

“Oh, very nice,” said Bruce.

I wondered what caught his eye: the brass fixtures, the granite sink, the woodwork, the restaurant quality appliances.

“You actually have three Griswold skillets?”

I smiled at the three cast-iron pans hanging over the counter.

“Actually we have five Griswolds. The other two we use for cooking, not decorations.”

“Tiffany lamps, Persian prayer rugs, a Chippendale dining room, that lyre-backed chair…I can see why you love this place. It’s a real treasure.”

“A cozy treasure,” I said as I hung a white apron around my neck to protect my cream-colored cashmere blend sweater, and tied the strings around the waist of my pressed black slacks. I lifted my arm, straining to bring down a hanging copper-bottomed pot.

“Here, let me reach that,” said Bruce. He smiled at me as he easily stretched his long arm high and pulled down the cooking pot.

“Thanks. That’s one of the drawbacks of being five-two.”

“No problem. It does my ego good to come in handy.”

I laughed. It actually felt a little strange to have a man in my kitchen. Well, strange to have a man other than my ex-husband.

Matteo and I were occasionally forced to share this kitchen during his mercifully infrequent layovers in New York, but the relationship wasn’t one I’d call cordial. Even when we were married and generally getting along, the kitchen was never a place where we felt comfortable together — it was more like a cramped ship with two captains constantly arguing over navigation.

“What can I do next, Clare?” Bruce asked. He draped his camel hair blazer over a chair and rolled up his sleeves.

“Well…” I blinked, trying not to openly admire the nicely muscled forearms. “Um…how about uncorking that amazing wine you brought?”

“Sure, but it’s nothing.”

Nothing to a millionaire, maybe, but a 1995 La Romanée-Conti wasn’t something I saw everyday. “You’re kidding, right?” I told him. “The last time I saw a Grand Cru Burgundy, it was at a function of Madame’s and royalty was present.”

Bruce laughed as he turned the corkscrew at the small kitchen table, the muscles of his forearm flexing very nicely indeed. “I have a case at home.”

“Oh, well,” I said, working at the sink, “if you have a case, then one bottle of a wildly extravagant wine is nothing…sure!”

He laughed again. “Give me a wine glass.”

I did, and he poured out a small amount.

“Taste,” he commanded, holding the glass out to me.

I did and nearly swooned. “Whoa, that’s good wine.”

“It’s an Echezeaux. There’s layer after layer of complexity. Close your eyes and take another sip.”

I did.

“Tell me what you taste.”

“Blackberries?”

“Yes,” he said. “What else?”

“Violets…and there’s an oakiness…and something else…ohmygod…coffee!”

“Yes.”

“It’s really amazing, Bruce.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He came up behind me at the sink. “Okay, the wine’s uncorked — and tasted. Now what?”

He stood so close the heat from his body was truly distracting. I felt my hands becoming moist, the paring knife in my fingers slipping.

“I think its safe to give you a knife,” I said, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “What do you say, sailor? Peel these potatoes?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

I handed him five plump Yukon golds. He peeled while I knocked five cloves of garlic from a large head and stripped the dry white skin. Then I helped Bruce cut up his peeled potatoes into manageable cubes.

“I talked to your daughter downstairs before I came up,” he mentioned in passing. “She’s a good kid.”

“Very. She’s actually watching over the part-timers for me while we have dinner.”

“Oh, so she gets a reprieve as soon as I leave?”

“Something like that.”

“And what if I don’t leave…right away?”

“That’s a loaded question, Mr. Bowman. Keep your mind on the cooking, please.”

He laughed. “She’s a lot like you.”

“She’s stubborn like her father.”

“She’s got your features — the chestnut hair, the green eyes. You two look a lot alike.”

I stopped cutting and looked up at him. “Don’t say like sisters. I’m not that gullible.”

Holding my gaze, he smiled. “No, I can see you’re not.”

When we finished cutting the potatoes, we both tossed them into boiling water, adding one smashed clove of garlic per spud. Then I pulled a pan from the stainless steel Sub Zero and removed the foil from the marinating meat. A powerful aroma filled the kitchen.

“What’s that smell? Coffee?” Bruce asked, surprised. “You marinated the meat in coffee?”

I nodded. “One bite and all doubts will be dispelled.”

“Okay, I’m game. I think.”

“You better be — your wine has coffee overtones.”

“True.” He looked closer. “So what exactly have you got there?”

“Four thick, gorgeously marbled T-bones, courtesy of Ron, our local butcher. They’ve been marinating overnight in enough brewed and cooled coffee to cover them completely.”

“Nothing else?” Bruce raised his eyebrow.

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

He laughed. “It’s just that I’ve never seen it done before.”

“Actually, a chef who specializes in Southwestern cuisine told me he believed coffee was a fairly common ingredient in frontier cooking. There was a limited amount of spices available on the plains, and some of the gamier meats like horse and boar needed both flavoring and tenderizing.”

“I’ve heard of using beer as a tenderizer.”

“You’re thinking of Kobe beef. In Japan they ply live cattle with malt liquor daily. It results in fatty, well-marbled meat. This is different.”

“Okay, but I’m sure I remember hearing the Japanese do something odd with coffee.”

“There’s a Japanese beauty treatment that uses coffee grounds fermented with pineapple pulp. The citric acid from the pineapple cleanses, and the caffeine firms and tightens the skin — smoothes out wrinkles.”

“Oh, I see…” His brown eyes fixed on me. With the backs of his slightly callused fingers he gently touched my cheek. “Is that your secret?”

I blushed. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m cooking,” I said, determined to keep my head.

We barely knew each other, and even though the man’s proximity was having an embarrassingly unnerving effect on my state of mind, I resolved to maintain control of this situation. A public restaurant may have been a better bet for that reason — but it was too late now.

Disregarding his irresistible smile, I pressed on.

Using a cool, professional, pre-trial Martha Stewart tone, I explained that a carefully chosen coffee brewed strong not only imparts a nutty, earthy flavor to the meat, but tenderizes it as well. “You want an acidic bean, because it’s the acidity that does the tenderizing. Most Latin American beans will give you enough acidity for this recipe, but I usually go with a Kenya AA.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m not yet convinced,” he teased.

“The only way these steaks could be better is if I grilled them over mesquite — though I do love them with eggs in the morning. Nothing like a coffee-marinated steak to really jolt you awake. You’ll see.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Is that an invitation for tomorrow morning?”

Oh, god. What did he think I was implying?

Bruce took in my expression and laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“Right.”

I hastily refocused my attention on browning the T-bones in the cast-iron skillet, trying like hell to forget about the incredibly charming man leaning casually against the sink a few feet away — and watching my every move.

“Smell that?” I asked. The aroma of roasted coffee and sizzling beef filled the apartment.

“Mmmmm. I see what you mean. Nice combination…”

After both sides of the thick steaks were properly seared, I placed them on a rack in the broiler and deglazed the pan with a splash of beef consomme.

“There’s actually another way of getting the coffee flavor into the meat. I wrote a piece on it last year. Restaurants in Seattle, San Francisco, and Colorado rub the steak with coarsely ground coffee. But I’m not a fan of the crunch, you know? So I prefer to get the flavor through the marinating process — it’s more intense this way anyway.”

“Intense? Mmmmm. I’m up for intense.”

“You mash the potatoes while I make the gravy,” I commanded, handing him a potato masher.

“Do you have enough butter in there?” Bruce asked, peeking into my copper-bottomed sauce pan.

“I seem to recall you were friendly toward the subject of cholesterol.”

After the butter melted, I whisked in the flour, then added the deglazed drippings from my steak skillet, more beef consommé, and coffee.

“More coffee? You’re kidding,” Bruce said, still mashing up the garlic potatoes.

“I never kid about coffee, or gravy.”

The dining room table was already set, the candles lit, the homemade butter biscuits in the lacquered basket, Madame’s Spode Imperialware at the ready, the tomato and avocado salad in the crisper. My marinated steaks were sizzling on the rack — quite rare now, but darkening more with each passing minute.

“How do you like your steak?” I asked, turning — right into Bruce Bowman’s arms. How did that happen?

“Hot,” Bruce replied softly.

And then he was leaning in, closing his arms around the small of my back, pulling me close. Ladle in hand, I closed my eyes and let his mouth cover mine. All feeble attempts at keeping my head were now completely and utterly lost.

He was rough and sweet at the same time, like that peculiar taste we’d achieved downstairs, between the espressos of North Beach and Milan. Warm and rich and tender…

“Nice,” he said softly against my lips.

“Very.” My eyelids felt heavy, my limbs heavier. “But we hardly know each other.”

“I know. I just had to see how you tasted.”

Oh, god.

He smiled. “You know, I have yet to see those alleged Hopper sketches you claim are in this place.”

I laughed. “It was all a lie to lure you into my apartment.”

“I’ve got news for you, Clare. I would have come anyway.”

“They’re upstairs, in the master bedroom.”

“I thought so.”

He lifted one hand from around my waist, reaching up to massage the back of my neck. “Maybe after dinner? You can show them to me?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said, fairly breathless. “Like I said, we hardly know each other.”

He laughed. “You need to know me better to show me your…Hoppers? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

I felt his hand move even farther north, tangling in my hair and prompting a tiny voice in my head to argue, It’s been too long, Clare…just let him touch you a little…there’s no harm…just a little… Cradling the back of my head, he kissed me again.

Warm and rich and tender…oh, yes…and, lord help me, I wanted more. Unfortunately, a booming voice wasn’t about to let me get it.

“Nothing says welcome home like coffee steak and gravy!”

Oh, God, no.

It was Matteo. My oh so unwelcome ex-husband, back from his East African expedition (without fair warning!). He’d used his key to barge right into the duplex — and back into my life.

Needless to say, the evening pretty much deteriorated from there. There was an awkward moment or two or three, of course. Accusatory looks exchanged, uncomfortable silences, and understandable tension made all the more intense by the presence of sharp steak knives and the fact that pretty much everything at this meal — including dessert — was laced with caffeine.

With trepidation I recalled the ominous words of an unnamed Hindu philosopher who warned against the pernicious influence of “that black bean from Africa” and compared peace-loving Asian tea drinkers with the warlike European coffee-consuming nations.

But then I remembered Mon Journal, by French social critic and historian Jules Michelet, which essentially attributed Western Civilization’s Age of Reason to the transformation of Europe into a coffee-drinking society.

So, against all reason, I remained civil when Bruce actually invited Matteo to sit down and have dinner with us. It wasn’t all that insane, really, given Matteo’s exhausting hours of travel. It was the decent thing to do, actually, and I didn’t object, figuring that if coffee could enlighten Europeans it could pretty much accomplish miracles — and boy did I need a miracle now.

After hastily cooking another T-bone, adding a place setting, and pouring the magnificent two hundred dollar bottle of Burgundy Bruce had brought, I sat down to dinner between my ex-husband and my date for the evening. As Madame would say, we were all acting so civilized we were almost French!

“I’m surprised you didn’t leave a message, to let me know you needed the apartment,” I said to Matteo, not really surprised in the least.

“I called from the Rome airport,” my ex replied. “Maybe you should check your machine once in a while.”

“That’s quite a tan you’ve got, Matt. Especially for autumn in New York,” said Bruce, attempting to interrupt our thinly veiled bickering.

Matteo grinned. His teeth shone white against his now darker than dark skin. His sleeves were pointedly rolled up six inches higher than Bruce’s, displaying his biceps in addition to his muscular forearms, both browner than a hazelnut and just about as hard.

“The African sun will do that to you.” He stabbed a chunk of T-bone with his fork and chewed it with relish. The coffee-soaked meat was obviously the jolt he’d needed to melt away the jet-lagged miles. “And nice to have fresh meat again,” Matteo said around the mouthful. “You can get real tired of doro wat.”

“Doro…?”

“An Ethiopian dish,” said Matt. “Stringy old chicken cooked in a stew with rancid butter. Kind of like Hungarian paprikas csirke, but much, much hotter.”

“Sounds delicious,” I said dubiously.

“The heavy spices cover a multitude of sins,” said Matt.

“Including ptomaine poisoning?” I asked.

Matteo gave me one of those pitying looks he often used during our marriage. A look that said so many things, like: “What do you mean you won’t go bungee jumping with me?” or “Why can’t we buy twin Harleys and cycle across Mexico?” or even “Are you really too uptight to try a night with Tiffany and me?”

“So Clare tells me you’re a coffee buyer,” said Bruce. “Is that why you were in Ethiopia?”

“Who said I was in Ethiopia?” said Matteo with barely disguised hostility — so much, if fact, that I suddenly wished I’d marinated the steaks in Prozac instead of coffee.

Bruce paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Well…I…thought you just did…”

Matteo set his fork down and sat back, smirking. “Yeah, I was in Ethiopia looking for coffee. May have found some, too. Nice enough cherries this season, but they’ll be better next year. I’m looking at the C market — futures.”

“Why Ethiopia?” asked Bruce. “There are safer places to buy coffee, aren’t there?”

“Ethiopia’s the motherland. Folks were drinking coffee in Ethiopia while Europeans were waking up to beer and mead.” With that, Matt lifted his glass of Bruce’s La Romanée-Conti Echezeaux and took a long, deep draft. Most of the glass had instantly vanished, and he reached for the bottle to refill. “Damn, that’s good wine.”

I met Bruce’s eyes and tried not to burst out laughing. He smiled, then tried again to make polite conversation.

“I heard things were bad there. In Ethiopia.”

Matt shrugged and resumed attacking his coffee-marinated steak like an East African predator. “They’re getting better. The coffee market in Harrar is coming back to life and the bull market in Jimma never stopped. The new farms near the Somali border are not producing yet, but I managed to take a Jeep trip to Jiga-Jiga without getting killed.”

“Sounds dangerous,” said Bruce.

I gave Matteo a look that told him I knew he was exaggerating the hazards of his trip — even though I also knew it was entirely possible he was not.

Matt winked at me as he told Bruce, “Remember that the next time you gulp down your morning blend.”

“Speaking of coffee, I’ll get the French press,” I said, rising from the table.

Matteo and Bruce both jumped to their feet so fast to help me that they nearly collided.

“I can handle it,” I said, waving them back down.

“So,” I heard Matteo purr as I hurried to prepare coffee. “What is it that you do, Bruce?”

When I entered the kitchen, I smelled gas and wondered if a pilot light had gone out. I checked the stove and found nothing.

For desert I’d prepared my new recipe for Three Chocolate Mocha Pudding — a second attempt. Detective Quinn had left before having it when I’d cooked dinner for him, so I gave it another shot for Bruce’s dinner.

I pulled out my favorite French press and three of the Spode Imperialware cups and saucers. Before Bruce had arrived, I’d brought up Jamaica Blue Mountain beans from the Blend’s special reserve (thirty-five dollars a pound), and they sat sealed in a dark, airtight container on my shelf, waiting to be ground and brewed.

When I noticed some dust on the coffee cups, I went over to the kitchen’s carved granite sink to wash them off. The brass faucet refused to turn on my first try. It had been giving me trouble for a couple of weeks and I’d vowed to get it fixed. Using both hands, I tried again.

This time the faucet came off in my hand — followed by a powerful blast of cold water that doused me from head to foot.

I screamed as water gushed everywhere.

The door burst open and Bruce and Matteo rushed in.

Matt took one look at me and burst out laughing while Bruce hurried to my side.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded more worried about the water that was gushing everywhere.

“Where’s the cutoff valve?” Bruce cried over the noise of the water.

I looked at him blankly. In the months that I’d lived here, I never needed to know about the plumbing. I shrugged. Bruce turned to Matteo, who stopped laughing and came up blank, too.

“Never mind,” said Bruce, scanning the kitchen. “It’s probably behind this plate.” He pointed to the embossed tin plate under the sink.

I’d seen it before but figured it was ornamental. Bruce knew differently. He immediately sat down in the growing flood of water, drew out his keys, and opened a tiny screwdriver attached to the chain.

In a flash he unscrewed the plate. When he yanked it off, the powerful smell of natural gas flooded the kitchen.

“Open the window!” Bruce called. Matteo complied and cold autumn air dissipated the odor.

Behind the plate, I saw a hole filled with pipes. Bruce reached in and twisted a valve. The flow of water slowed, then stopped.

After the noise and chaos came a moment of eerie calm. Finally, Matteo spoke.

“So, Bruce. I take it you’re a plumber.”

Clad now in dry clothes — I had hastily thrown on jeans and an oversized T-shirt — I escorted Bruce Bowman to the door. Matteo casually followed us, hovering in the foyer.

“I can’t believe what happened,” I said for about the tenth time.

“I’m just glad I was here,” Bruce replied. “Those gaslight pipes should never have been left behind the wall. They were filling with gas for half a century or more. Luckily the leak behind the faucet rusted the gas pipe enough to let out the pressure. Otherwise, there could have been an explosion.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been here alone,” I said.

“You weren’t alone,” Matt snapped from behind me. “I was here.”

“Matt, you didn’t even know where the cutoff valve was,” I reminded him.

“I’ll get the pipes taken care of first thing in the morning,” I told Bruce.

“Good-night, Matt,” said Bruce, extending his hand.

Matt hesitated but shook. “Yeah. ’Night.”

“Some privacy?” I whispered over my shoulder to my ex-husband.

Matt frowned but didn’t argue. He drifted off, back into the dining room.

“Bruce, I — ”

“Don’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ Not again. It’s not your fault.”

“I should have listened to those phone messages. We could have gone to a restaurant.”

“It’s okay. Now the ice is broken, right?”

I couldn’t believe it. Our romantic first date was completely ruined, and Bruce was trying to see the bright side.

“Hey, look at it this way,” he added. “Joy gets to go home early. I’ll even offer to walk her, okay with you?”

I nodded, grateful. “Can I make it up to you?” I asked.

“Oh…let me count the ways.” He smiled and touched my cheek. Then he leaned in for a long, sweet, good-night kiss.

“I’ll call you,” he promised, then turned to descend the back service staircase, the one that would lead him out by way of the Village Blend.

When I closed the door, I turned to find Matt leaning against the dining room door frame, nut-brown forearms folded across his chest.

He shook his head. “When did you start dating plumbers?”