face expressionless beneath the crown.
“Harry Nautilus,” Sandhill said. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s struggling and it’ll take a while. But he’s on the upswing.”
The door closed without comment.
12
The first official visitor Sandhill saw was the fire inspector, Gillard; a spontaneous incendiary inspection , Gillard termed the visit, the first Sandhill had heard of the term. Though Gillard had been through twice before and found wires, conduits, oven placement, ventilation and fire extinguishers all in checkmark order, something had changed.
“Out of compliance in these areas—” Gillard snapped a sheet from a carbon-insert form and presented it to Sandhill. “The place is a threealarmer waiting to happen.”
“How long to comply?” Sandhill asked.
“One week.”
“Then?”
Gillard tapped the door as he left, enjoying himself. “We nail this fucker shut.”
Sandhill stared at the closed door, thinking, Here it comes…
The second visitor was Wentz from the Health Department, who took an hour to scratch up threeviolations. Sandhill listened calmly as the inspector, a fortyish guy with a whiskey nose, recited arcane statutes, some of them on the books for over a century. Sandhill knew the only restaurant in the city that could pass all codes would be a place that blossomed afresh nightly, a new and perfect restaurant every sunrise.
The inspection ended on a discordant note, Sandhill’s patience wearing out when Wentz made a reference to cockroaches. Sandhill grabbed Wentz by the shirtfront and held the inspector’s nose an inch from the heat-shimmering oven door, threatening to roast the man’s face.
“I just do what I’m told,” Wentz howled, eyes closed against the heat, urine dribbling down his leg and across the floor, probably another code violation.
Two days after his first meeting with Sandhill, Ryder pushed through the door a second time. He’d called earlier, requested a meeting. Sandhill had grunted something vaguely like assent and hung up.
Sandhill sat at the table below the sign, shuffling through mail, not acknowledging his visitor. Ryder pulled out a chair, watching Sandhill arrange the mail in precise stacks. The tallest stack was bills. Ryder figured running a small restaurant was like walking a tightrope.
“They’re putting heat on me, Ryder,” Sandhill said without looking up. “Sending inspectors. You didn’t have anything to do with this, I hope.”
Ryder felt a flush of anger. “Did you expect anything else from Squill? He’s desperate. The mayor keeps asking if he’s gotten you to come in.”
“What a pair, an interim mayor and an acting chief of police. Must be like working in a madhouse.”
“Actually, Sandhill, I think the mayor’s pretty good.”
Sandhill rolled his eyes. Ryder said, “Take a look at things, Sandhill. Read the reports. That’s all. Jesus, the guy from the Health Department says you tried to jam his face into an oven.”
“Only because my deep-fryer wasn’t on.”
“He could have filed a complaint, had you arrested.”
Sandhill snorted. “Wentz has been dirty from payoffs for years. He’d overlook botulism for a roll of nickels. He won’t do anything to call attention to himself. Besides, he’s just an automaton.”
Ryder pulled a photo from his pocket and slid it across the table, picture side down. Sandhill looked from the white square to Ryder.
“What’s that?”
“Turn it over.”
Sandhill picked up the photo, winced. “Don’t do this to me, Ryder. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Ryder scraped his chair forward and put his elbows on the table. “Maya Ledbetter, disappeared two weeks ago while walking to her grandmother’s.”
Sandhill jumped up and began pacing like an angry lion in a tight cage.
“I am not a cop any more. Check the sign on the window: The Gumbo King. I like my life, Ryder—it’s peaceful and I feed people.”
Ryder produced a second photo, the one he’d pulled from the frame
“Harry Nautilus,” Sandhill said. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s struggling and it’ll take a while. But he’s on the upswing.”
The door closed without comment.
12
The first official visitor Sandhill saw was the fire inspector, Gillard; a spontaneous incendiary inspection , Gillard termed the visit, the first Sandhill had heard of the term. Though Gillard had been through twice before and found wires, conduits, oven placement, ventilation and fire extinguishers all in checkmark order, something had changed.
“Out of compliance in these areas—” Gillard snapped a sheet from a carbon-insert form and presented it to Sandhill. “The place is a threealarmer waiting to happen.”
“How long to comply?” Sandhill asked.
“One week.”
“Then?”
Gillard tapped the door as he left, enjoying himself. “We nail this fucker shut.”
Sandhill stared at the closed door, thinking, Here it comes…
The second visitor was Wentz from the Health Department, who took an hour to scratch up threeviolations. Sandhill listened calmly as the inspector, a fortyish guy with a whiskey nose, recited arcane statutes, some of them on the books for over a century. Sandhill knew the only restaurant in the city that could pass all codes would be a place that blossomed afresh nightly, a new and perfect restaurant every sunrise.
The inspection ended on a discordant note, Sandhill’s patience wearing out when Wentz made a reference to cockroaches. Sandhill grabbed Wentz by the shirtfront and held the inspector’s nose an inch from the heat-shimmering oven door, threatening to roast the man’s face.
“I just do what I’m told,” Wentz howled, eyes closed against the heat, urine dribbling down his leg and across the floor, probably another code violation.
Two days after his first meeting with Sandhill, Ryder pushed through the door a second time. He’d called earlier, requested a meeting. Sandhill had grunted something vaguely like assent and hung up.
Sandhill sat at the table below the sign, shuffling through mail, not acknowledging his visitor. Ryder pulled out a chair, watching Sandhill arrange the mail in precise stacks. The tallest stack was bills. Ryder figured running a small restaurant was like walking a tightrope.
“They’re putting heat on me, Ryder,” Sandhill said without looking up. “Sending inspectors. You didn’t have anything to do with this, I hope.”
Ryder felt a flush of anger. “Did you expect anything else from Squill? He’s desperate. The mayor keeps asking if he’s gotten you to come in.”
“What a pair, an interim mayor and an acting chief of police. Must be like working in a madhouse.”
“Actually, Sandhill, I think the mayor’s pretty good.”
Sandhill rolled his eyes. Ryder said, “Take a look at things, Sandhill. Read the reports. That’s all. Jesus, the guy from the Health Department says you tried to jam his face into an oven.”
“Only because my deep-fryer wasn’t on.”
“He could have filed a complaint, had you arrested.”
Sandhill snorted. “Wentz has been dirty from payoffs for years. He’d overlook botulism for a roll of nickels. He won’t do anything to call attention to himself. Besides, he’s just an automaton.”
Ryder pulled a photo from his pocket and slid it across the table, picture side down. Sandhill looked from the white square to Ryder.
“What’s that?”
“Turn it over.”
Sandhill picked up the photo, winced. “Don’t do this to me, Ryder. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Ryder scraped his chair forward and put his elbows on the table. “Maya Ledbetter, disappeared two weeks ago while walking to her grandmother’s.”
Sandhill jumped up and began pacing like an angry lion in a tight cage.
“I am not a cop any more. Check the sign on the window: The Gumbo King. I like my life, Ryder—it’s peaceful and I feed people.”
Ryder produced a second photo, the one he’d pulled from the frame
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