Free Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

nobody and nothing on the face of this earth that can force Chef Howie to do something that’s just plain wrong. Chef Howie has principles, damn it to hell.”
    “You are just amazing,” I said.
    “The truth is,” Fate said, pushing the half-empty tin of nuts across the marble tabletop, “Chef Howie is a sweetheart. He loves everyone and everyone loves him. He’s buddies with the head writer, Tim Stock, so my Howie just lets a lot of this crappy writing go. I always tell Chef Howie he’s gotta put his foot down or they’ll figure they can roll right over him, like damn battle tanks. That’s the way it works if you show any kindness, am I right?”
    I nodded, watching Fate warm up to the problem. Her mounting frustration reminded me of the mercury in one of those bulging old Warner Bros. cartoon thermometers, which had been inked right here on this very lot, over half a century ago.
    “Believe me when I tell you, Madeline, I know what is happening here,” she continued, the mercury edging higher. “Sure, the network loves Freak. They love the ratings. But they think they can push us around. If I don’t watch out, they’ll destroy Chef Howie. It’s maddening, honey. It kills me.”
    In my several years as a professional caterer and party planner, I’d run into plenty of clients like Fate Finkelberg who had some huge gripe that they couldn’tlet go of. However, in my former role, my task was to settle the client down at all costs. This new job was actually a hell of a lot easier.
    “It is simply sickening,” I said, disturbed to my core. “But they have the power. In the end, just what can you do?”
    Fire burned behind her leather lids. “What can I do?” she said, raising her voice even louder and looking to the back of the trailer.
    Chef Howie met her eyes. “It’s okay, Fate. Come on, honey. It’s okay.”
    “Tell me something, sweetie,” she said, her voice edging higher. “I forget. Who calls the shots around here?”
    Howie waved away his makeup guy. He walked over to the table and crouched down right beside her. “Fate,” he said, soft and low. Chef Howie flashed her the kind of smile that would have stopped a female elephant on the veldt in midcharge.
    “No, Howie,” she said, but her voice had softened. “No. I mean it this time. How much longer, darling, are we gonna let these game-show jerks screw with you? Italian food? Bru- fucking -schetta? We’re walking, baby. So they lose a day of production. What the hell do we care? It’s not coming out of our pocket. Madeline knows how these things work. This is the only language they understand, believe me.”
    And so it escalates up the chain of command, I realized. A little drama just to get some attention and respect. First a little swearing, and next, the stakes had been raised so high that a star walks off the set.
    “Fate…,” Howie started again, but she simply wasn’t going to be Fate’d.
    “It’s just dandy,” she said, hot and determined, “that the network is begging us for one more show. Wonderful. But we are walking until they give us a script worth doing, Howie. I know you hate this, but trust me. Your buddy Tim Stock isn’t here today. There is not one person here that you have to please,” she said, staring him down, “except me. ”
    Fate Finkelberg’s thin, tanned body, encased in its zebra-striped halter top, quivered with anger. Chef Howie knew when to stay quiet. Like me, he must have caught a glimpse of the cartoon thermometer, its bright red mercury now past the point of stopping. We watched it throb almost to the top and then, under the pressure and heat of Fate’s enormous ambitions and bitter disappointments, explode.

Chapter 7
    W e’ve got some serious news,” Artie Herman said. “Very serious, so please settle down, people.”
    The entire staff of Food Freak was assembled in the executive producer’s office. They were gathering there, on the third floor, by the time I got back to our building.