Rebus studied the menu, finding little to his liking beyond the often painful puns. The Heartbreak Cafe was open all day, but he’d arrived just in time for the special luncheon menu. A foot-long sausage on a roll was predictably if unappetisingly a ‘Hound Dog’. Rebus could only hope that there was no literal truth to the appelation. More obscure was the drinks list, with one wine called ‘Mama Liked the Rose’. Rebus decided that he wasn’t so hungry after all. Instead, he nursed his ‘Teddy’ beer at the bar and handed the menu back to the teenage barman.
‘Pat’s not in then?’ he asked casually.
‘Doing some shopping. He’ll be back later.’
Rebus nodded. ‘But Eddie’s around?’
‘In the kitchen, yeah.’ The barman glanced towards the restaurant area. He wore three gold studs in his left ear. ‘He won’t be much longer, unless he’s making something special for tonight.’
‘Right,’ said Rebus. A few minutes later, he picked up his beer glass and wandered over to a huge jukebox near the toilets. Finding it to be ornamental only, he studied some of the Presley mementoes on the walls, including a signed photograph of the Vegas Elvis and what looked like a rare Sun Records pressing. Both were protected by thick framed glass, and both were picked out by spotlights from the surrounding gloom. Finding himself, as if by chance, at the door to the kitchen, Rebus pushed it open with his shoulder and let it swing shut behind him.
Eddie Ringan was creating. Sweat glistened on his face, thin strands of hair sticking to his brow, as he shook a small frying pan over a gas flame. The set-up was impressive: cleaner than Rebus had expected, with many more cookers and pots and work surfaces. A lot of money had been spent; the Cafe wasn’t just a designer facade. Amusingly, it seemed to Rebus, there was different music here from the constant diet of Presley served at the bar. Eddie Ringan was listening to Miles Davis.
The chef hadn’t noticed Rebus yet, and Rebus hadn’t noticed a trainee chef who’d been fetching something from one of several fridges at the back of the kitchen.
Rebus watched as Eddie, pausing from his work, grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam by its neck and upended it into his mouth, taking it away again with a satisfied exhalation.
‘Hey,’ said the trainee chef, ‘no one’s allowed in here.’ Eddie looked up from the pan and gave a whoop.
‘You’re just the man!’ he cried. ‘The very man! Come over here.’
If anything, he sounded drunker than at their first meeting. But then, at their first meeting there had been the civilising (or at least restricting) presence of Pat Calder, as well as the sobering fact of Brian Holmes’ attack.
Rebus walked over to the cooker. He too was starting to sweat in the heat.
‘This,’ said Eddie Ringan, nodding towards the pan, ‘is my latest dish. Pieces of Roquefort cheese imprisoned in breadcrumb and spice and fried. Either pan-fried or deep-fried, that’s what I’m deciding.’
‘Jailhouse Roquefort’ Rebus guessed. Ringan whooped again, losing his balance slightly and sliding back with one foot.
‘Your idea, Inspector Rabies.’
‘I’m flattered, but the name’s Rebus.’
‘Aye, well, you should be flattered. Maybe we’ll gie you a wee mention on the menu. How about that, eh?’ He studied the golden nuggets, turning them expertly with a fork. ‘I’m giving this lot six minutes. Willie!’
‘I’m right here.’
‘How long’s that been?’
The protege checked his watch. ‘Three and a half. I’ve put the butter down there next to the eggs.’
‘Willie’s my assistant, Inspector.’
The exasperation in Willie’s voice and expressions made Rebus doubt he would be assisting for much longer. Though younger than Ringan, Willie was about the same size. You wouldn’t call him slender. Rebus reckoned chefs were partial to too much R & D. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’
‘Two and a half minutes if you like.’
‘I’d like to know about the Central Hotel.’ Ringan didn’t seem to hear this, his attention on the contents of the frying-pan. ‘You were there the night it burned down.’
El was short for Elvis, and Elvis was code for Eddie Ringan. Holmes hadn’t wanted the wrong people getting hold of the Black Book and being able to identify the person who’d been talking. That’s why he’d gone an extra step in disguising Ringan’s identity.
He’d also made Rebus promise that he wouldn’t tell the chef Holmes had shared their secret. It was to have been a secret, a little tale spilt from a bottle of bourbon. But Ringan hadn’t poured out nearly enough, he’d just given Holmes a taste.
‘Did you hear me, Eddie?’
‘A minute left, Inspector.’
‘You never cropped up on the list of staff because you were moonlighting, working there some nights without the other place you worked at knowing anything about it. So you were able to give a false name, and nobody ever found out it was you there that night, the night of the poker game.’
‘Nearly done.’ There was more sweat on Eddie Ringan’s face now, and his mouth seemed stiff with suppressed anger.
‘I’m nearly done too, Eddie. When did you start on the booze, eh? Just after that night, wasn’t it? Because something happened in that hotel. I wonder what it was. Whatever it was, you saw it, and if you don’t tell me about it, I’m going to find out anyway, and then I’m going to come back here for you.’ To emphasise this, Rebus pushed a finger against the chef’s arm.
Ringan snatched the frying-pan and swung it at Rebus, sending bits of Jailhouse Roquefort flying in arcs across the kitchen.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
Rebus dodged the frying-pan, but Ringan was still holding it in front of him, ready to lunge.
‘Just you get the fuck out of here! Who told you, anyway?’
‘Nobody needed to tell me, Eddie. I worked it out for myself.’
Willie meantime was down on one knee. A hot cube of cheese had caught him smack in the eye.
‘I’m dying!’ he called. ‘Get an ambulance, get a lawyer! This is an industrial injury.’
Eddie Ringan glanced towards the trainee chef, then back at the frying-pan in his hand, then at Rebus, and he began to laugh, the laughter becoming uproarious, hysterical. But at least he put down the pan. He even picked up one of the cheese cubes and took a bite out of it.
‘Tastes like shite,’ he said, still laughing and spluttering bits of bread-crumb at Rebus.
‘Are you going to tell me, Eddie?’ Rebus asked calmly.
‘I’m going to tell you this: get the fuck out.’
Rebus stood his ground, though Eddie had already turned his back. ‘Tell me where I can find the Bru-Head Brothers.’
This brought more laughter.
‘Just give me a start, Eddie. Then it’ll be off your conscience.’
‘I lost my conscience a long time ago, Inspector. Willie, let’s get a fresh batch going.’
The young man was still checking for damage. He held one hand across his good eye like a patch. ‘I cannae see a thing,’ he complained. ‘I think the retina’s cracked.’
‘And the cornea’s melted,’ added Ringan. ‘Come on, I’m hoping to have this on the menu tonight.’ He turned to Rebus, making a show of astonishment. ‘Still here? A definite case of too many cooks.’
Rebus looked at him with sad, steady eyes. ‘Just a start, Eddie.’
‘Away tae fuck.’
Slowly, Rebus turned around and pushed open the door.
‘Inspector!’ He turned his head towards the chef. ‘There’s a pub in Cowdenbeath called The Midtown. The locals call it the Midden. I wouldn’t eat the food there.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘It’s you that’s supposed to give me the tip!’ he heard Ringan roar as he exited from the kitchen. He placed his empty glass on the bartop. ‘Kitchen’s off limits,’ the barman informed him.
‘More like the outer bloody limits.’
But no, he knew that only now would he be going to the outer limits, back to the haunts of his youth.