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kitchen crew from Manhattan,” laughed one cook with a crooked chef’s hat, which sparked another round of drinks and cheers.
    “So, what can I do for you?” Murray asked. “Need me to identify the killer out of a lineup? Number three! The fat bald guy!” He roared with laughter.
    “I get the impression you did not like Aubrey very much,” I observed.
    “Fuck no. Everybody hates Aubrey in our business. Nasty fat fuck goes out of his way to torpedo good people. He gets off on it. He also does it on TV but now he’s been harpooned. Moby Aubrey. About time. Is he eating prison food yet? Can’t wait for that review.”
    “I don’t read his reviews or watch his show so I really don’t—”
    “So you don’t know what a colossal, candy-coated cock-gobbler he is?” Murray giggled. “He should have been the one killed but maybe it’s better this way.”
    “Aubrey put Murray out of business years ago with a very unfair, nasty review,” Heather explained. “He came here with a film crew today to do it again. He must have heard Murray was back and doing well, after ten years of working for others. Now his review won’t run, thank God. We’re saved.”
    “That crew filmed him slugging his boyfriend, Neil,” I told them. “Homicide has the video. Also the footage from his meal here. I saw you glaring at Aubrey at his table but you didn’t speak to him.”
    “No. I wanted to tell him that if he trashed me again and ruined me for a second time, I would kill him. But I was afraid if I started, I would kill him right here. Right in front of that damn camera. It was a close thing. For once he didn’t bring his slimy boyfriend, the bitchy one who insults the waiters, the food, the wine, the décor—like he’s some kind of expert on everything just because he’s gay.”
    “He was the one killed,” I told Murray.
    “The nasty boyfriend?” Murray asked.
    “Husband, I think. Yes, Neil… Leonardi.” I almost said “Neil Parmesan.” It was catchy. “His throat was cut.”
    “Gee that’s too bad,” Murray chuckled. “A two-for-one combination. Pig and snake.”
    The whole crew roared with laughter.
    “And you were here all day?” I asked sharply.
    “Since about eleven this morning. Ask anyone here. The other cops did.”
    “That’s okay. I believe you. So you found out Aubrey was coming when he walked in the door?”
    “No. He reserved a table in his name earlier in the week. His film crew showed up about ninety minutes before him and set up at their reserved table, so we knew it would be on TV. They even had us sign releases,” Murray said.
    “I thought food critics made secret visits, so they get the food everybody else eats?” I asked.
    “Not Aubrey. He wants you to know he’s coming for you. More fun that way.”
    “But isn’t that corrupt? Doesn’t that allow chefs to prepare and give him better dishes and service than anyone else?” I asked.
    “Now you’re getting the idea,” Murray replied. “Welcome to Foodland. It’s not about objectivity. It’s about subjugation, sadism, special treatment. And then he’ll piss all over whatever you do anyway, like he did the first time. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”
    Murray put down his champagne glass and embraced Heather.
    “I would have, Heather,” Murray told her. “I wasn’t going to let him destroy us. I would have killed him. Now I don’t have to.”
    “I know,” she said, hugging him tightly.
    “I’m not celebrating his boyfriend’s death, even though he was a creep,” Murray explained to me over her shoulder. “I’m celebrating Aubrey’s arrest and especially the fact that I don’t have to kill him.”
    “Thanks. I understand,” I told him, turning to leave. “By the way, is there by any chance a chicken souvlaki sandwich on the menu?”
    There wasn’t. But in a few minutes I was eating the best one I’d ever tasted.

11.
    My ex-boss found me a sublet on Broome Street in the TriBeCa neighborhood on