|
|
 © Art Report Today by Edie Lange Fiction
I.4 HELLO CHEF PEARL Cholly drove up a series of winding streets, above Silverlake, landing into a circular driveway. The ivory Art Deco house was streamlined to face down to the lake. The sun had settled well behind the hill and the shadows across the little valley were purple and deep. It was a cozy view. I thought I smelled lavender, sage and smog. I followed Cholly and my bag through the well preserved home. It was probably built in the Twenties or Thirties. I'll bet a famous and impressive architect's name was attached; in LA, every home has one; my grandfather's did. Several small and fast moving dogs were welcoming; they looked like a version of Asta from The Thin Man. Cholly set my luggage on a queen sized bed in a beautiful, wide room. A sliding glass door was open. Outside was a small private patio with a table for two. An assertive female voice behind me chirped warmly, "It's the most comfortable room in the house. Better than mine." I turned to find a busty, smiling blonde who wore a string of pearls. She was in her late Thirties or probably late Forties. This being LA, she could be in her late Sixties. Her smile felt honest and I relaxed. She held a silver tray with covered dishes, teacups and linens. "Tea. You must be famished." She carried the tray outside and set it on the patio table. I followed. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and crowned with a Kufi-like chef's cap. Her stiff white chef's coat looked starched and fresh except for the slaughterhouse of blood and vegetable stains across her curvy mid-section. A tired orchid hung from the buttonhole in her lapel. The chef unfurled a cotton cloth and together we covered the table. "Thanks!" she said wiping her hands, "Proper introductions. I'm Chef Pearl." I shook her hand, "Edie Lange." "I said it before. That's quite a Hollywood name!" She smiled wide and I did too. "There must be another you didn't like as much," she ventured. "Might be a story to that." I replied with a smile. Her voice was husky with a hint of Texas or the south. "It's lovely to meet you, Edie." Pearl arranged the plates and dishes on to the table. She suddenly stood straight up, as if she had missed the obvious. "Would you like to wash up? Pardon me, for hustling you along! You just got off the plane!" I said, "It wouldn't kill me," and I took to the obvious door, which I closed behind me. I ran the water very warm and washed my hands and face with soap to get the airplane off, off, off. Chef Pearl and Cholly were fussing with the presentation of the small table. Satisfied, he took a picture of it with his phone. He pushed a button and turned to her, "Sent." The teatime spread looked first class with a selection of tiny pastries and finger sandwiches without crusts. Pearl seated me and said, "I'm sorry that we could not have dinner together tonight. My time is not my own right now." With a giggle, "I think we'd have fun." "Next time!" "Yes," she said as she sat in the seat that Cholly was holding for her. He faded to the edge of the room, the good servant. Now I know what she meant when she said "My boy Cholly." I finally took a moment to look at my employer. She placed her napkin over her lap. With a gesture of finality, she ripped the chef's cap off her head and shook out her shoulder length blonde hair; it was sweaty and stringy and she knew it. She exhaled, gratefully. Despite the blood, meat and vegetable violence on her dazzling white chef's jacket, she was really quite beautiful. Almost a Margo Robbie, Cara Delevingne, or a Hitchcock blonde. She poured two short glasses of champagne and raised hers to a toast, "To new friends. To a job well done." I raised my glass and concurred. Chef Pearl was all business. She placed two delicate sandwiches on my plate. She said, "Tomorrow promises to be what you have done many times before. Interview an artist, write an article and take a picture." After a pause, she asked, "Any questions?" "No. Not really. I've studied a bit and will do more tonight. I think Pedro Bassander is an interesting painter. I'm excited." Pearl clapped her hands, "Oh, good. I'm so delighted." She looked over at her boy who was hovering nearby, "Cholly has the schedule, a car, some cash and he will manage your day tomorrow." Her major domo placed a plain manila folder in front of me. He opened it and fanned out half a dozen pages. Pointing at my schedule, Pearl continued, "At 15:20 tomorrow, you will arrive at a private museum, a gallery really, not too far from here. Pedro Bassander will be there for your interview. We'll have water and cups for you to bring. We'll have vodka. Pedro likes his vodka, bless his heart," she smiled. "Two hours should be sufficient. I won't be there tomorrow. Cholly will remain outside, in the car. You will be on your own." I shrugged, no problem. "There may be another man there, the homeowner of the private gallery. Mid-Sixties, full head of white hair, a creepy old bastard. Just ignore him. He is not a part of the interview. Are we clear?" She was demanding my response. "I understand." "Excellent. I'm so glad this worked out. I think you are the perfect person to write the Pedro piece." "I think so too." "As a matter of fact, I do not want my name mentioned at all." She stopped cutting a bite of cake and looked me squarely in the eye. "I'm not a part of the story. In printed words or in conversation." I had to reply. Something solemn was being asked of me. "No problem." I held her eyes to seal the deal. She clapped and smiled, happily. "After the interview, take a picture of the artist in front of his painting that should be on the wall in the gallery." She sorted the pages in my dossier. "This one. It's big. Sixteen-feet tall. This is the painting I want Pedro standing in front of. And that will end your day." Cholly leaned in, "When you are done, walk outside and I will be waiting there for you. I'll take you to the airport and tuck you into a plane." "Any questions?" Pearl asked. I shook my head. "No. Nope. We're good. I'm grateful for the opportunity." I thought, "And the $1500 bucks." "And three days later, I will have the article?" "Yes, you will. And maybe some of it may work in my column. If that's OK with you." She was flattered, "Why, yes! Yes! Anything to promote Pedro Bassander is appreciated. The poor old guy is ignored and starving. It's really a shame..." On that note, Chef Pearl rose slowly, "It has been a pleasure. I'm so glad you have the assignment. With your schedule and mine, I will not see you again before you go." "My pleasure. I will give the article my very best." "I know you will." With a smile, Chef Pearl Billings swept from the room. Cholly closed the bedroom door and took her seat. He popped a cucumber sandwich into his mouth. "Can I help you with anything? Your luggage?" "Nope." Cholly pointed to my empty plate and asked, "Are you done?" I nodded. He began to fill the tea tray with empties. I helped him. He said, "I will let you chill a bit. How about in two hours, I'll knock on your door and I'll take you somewhere? A little Mexican? In-N-Out?" His eyes lit, "Musso's?" "We'll figure it out. Thanks for everything." I checked the time. Cholly Knickerbocker bowed quickly, and holding the tray, backed out the door behind him.
Next Chapter: The Taco Muerto Next Chapter: Click Here “Blue Chip, Red Dot is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental or fictionalized.” |
|
