Edward Lee - Family Tradition

“Ashton’s all hard because the redneck kid’s a fan of his show,” Sheree speculated.

“Yeah, but could you smell him? I’ll bet the guy hasn’t taken a shower in month.”

“At least. He smelled worst than the dumpsters at Pike’s Market during the summer.” Sheree looked out onto the lake. “At least we’ve got some scenery.”

“Yeah, it is pretty out here.” Carol spewed a thin stream of smoke from her lips. “But I could sure as hell use a drink.” She jerked an impatient gaze over her shoulder. “Where are those two hams?”

Just as she’d said it, though, Ashton and Bob’s trumpet-loud laughter belted out from the bait shop. “See ya soon, Esau!” “Thanks for everything!”

Sheree and Carol went to meet them by the path. Ashton rushed up and put his arm around both of them. “Girls! You’ll never believe it!”

What? Sheree thought. You eat a lot?

“Yeah,” Bob jumped in. “Ashton was right. The southern end of this lake is teeming with Crackjaw eel!”

Wonderful…

Ashton’s breath gusted on their bare necks as he giddily explained, “That hayseed in there had a whole box of Crackjaw eel! He thinks it’s junk! He cuts it up for bait!”

If he cut you up for bait, he’d have enough to last ten years…

“ Yeah!” Bob said just as giddily. “This guy’s got no idea what kind of gold mine he’s sitting on.”

“Shit, I’ll bet just the eel he had in that box is worth ten grand alone!” Ashton hugged up against Sheree. “So here’s the plan. We act like we’re just fishing for trout, but what we’ll really be doing is dropping traps in the south end.”

Bob’s face beamed. “Yeah! As long as that rube and his brother don’t catch on, this lake can be our very own cash machine!”

Bob and Ashton did a high-five. “We’re gonna be rich!” Ashton claimed in glee.

Carol frowned and pointed out, “But you guys already are rich.”

Bob and Ashton brayed laughter.

“Honeybunch,” Bob informed. “Money’s like sex. There’s never enough!”

— | — | —

Chapter Six

Back in Seattle, deep in the recesses of The Rococo Seafood House, a slim, debonaire man with dark slicked back hair and a pencil mustache sat anxiously behind the desk in his office. He chain-smoked Gitanes and was on his third snifter of Louis XIII brandy, which cost $500 per bottle.

The man’s name was M. Gerald James, a world-class master chef, three time winner of the James Beard Award, four time-winner of Gourmet magazine’s Five-Star Chef trophy. He’d trained in Brussels, Venice, and Paris, and had once prepared Potage Saint-Germain and Exploding Lobster for the Premier Dung of the People’s Republic of China, and Firecracker Tasmanian Crab Ravioli with Tomally and Buluga Drizzle for Vice-President Al Gore just before he’d been charged with fund-raising fraud. Every Friday night, like clockwork, Governor Gary Locke sent a state police officer to the restaurant to pick up a carry-out order of Deep-Fried Ark Shell Tenders and Cajun Geoduck Fritters. James prepared the order personally.

Does Morrone serve the governor weekly? No! Has the Vice-President of the United Fucking States ever stepped into his restaurant? No! Has Morrone trained the with best chefs of Europe? No!

The source of M. Gerald James’ agitation was an ancient one: professional jealousy. Just as Napoleon was jealous of Hannibal Barca, Lord Byron jealous of Mary Shelley, and Eddie Van Halen jealous of Robert Fripp, M. Gerald James was jealous of Ashton Morrone. For in spite of all of James’ culinary accomplishments, his pride and joy, the Rococo Seafood House, was known as the second -best restaurant in the city.

Goddamn Morrone! The fat pansy! God DAMN him!

It was a professional rivalry, thicker than blood. Every day and every night, his full restaurant notwithstanding, James could barely go minutes without thinking of Morrone, in mental hues painted scarlet by hatred. James had the second-best restaurant in Seattle, but Morrone, with his Emerald Room, had the best.

That critical “assessment” was simply not acceptable.

Rumors had abounded, though, after James’ deepest strike: last summer he’d lucked upon a Thurston County fisherman who’d managed to trap a small supply of the revered Crackjaw eel. When James had served it in his restaurant, the reviews had been out the roof, and Asian investors had been knocking on his door with fists full of dollars.

But, lo, James’ source for the prized mussel-and-clam-eating eel proved to be a fluke. No more Crackjaws were ever caught, and the high James rode on was short-lived.

James was wealthy, but not nearly so as Morrone, who had his Microsoft brother backing him up. Subtle whispers throughout the local culinary community reported back that Morrone was so incensed over James’ small victory that he vowed to find the Crackjaw eel himself, whatever the cost. He’d pay researchers and consultants, recruit zoologists from the college, pay every lake fisherman in the state to go hunting.

And suddenly, James’ sources told him, the ever-corpulent Ashton Morrone was suddenly off on a “fishing” trip, Morrone a man who hadn’t taken a vacation in over a decade.

The bottom of James’ fist ground down against the desk blotter. His face tensed—in hatred. The way he felt now, his ire at high tide, he could’ve stubbed out one of his reeking Gitane cigarettes out in his eye and not feel a thing.

GodDAMN! Where IS she?

After moments, more which seemed like hours, the tiniest rap came at the door.

“Come IN!” M. Gerald James about shouted.

Head bowed and shuffling meekly, in walked the most petite, delectable thing. Short and slim, short-cropped umber hair, and breasts protruding as though ripe Golden Apples had been slipped beneath her blouse. This would be Rochelle, and fine navy stitching over her blouse pocket read: THE EMERALD ROOM

Ministers of war had their spies, but so did ministers of cuisine.

“My dearest Rochelle,” the words etched from James’ mouth like tinders cracking. “I’m told you have some, shall we say, intelligence for me?”

“Yes sir,” the nineteen-year-old girl peeped in response. “Ashton Morrone has gone on a fishing trip with his brother and their two girlfriends.”

James’ fist landed on the desk top as solidly as a twenty-pound railroad hammer. “I already KNOW that! I’m employing you to tell me what I DON’T know!”

The small woman quaked at the sudden uproar. She looked on the verge of tears. James’ had hired her at $250 per week to secure a job as a busgirl at Aston’s restaurant, and to subsequently eavesdrop and snoop around, to keep a close tab on James’ greatest rival.

“I know he’s gone on a FUCKING fishing trip, you stupid girl! I need to know WHERE!”

Rochelle blinked mist from her eyes. “Mr. James…he, I mean, er—”

“WHAT?” James exploded.

“I had to do…some bad things…to get into Morrone’s office…”

James jerked upright behind his desk. “You got into his office? At the restaurant? ”

“Yes sir. And I had to—” She sniffled, more tears flowing. “I had to do some bad things.”

James couldn’t have cared less about the bad things. “WHAT WAS IN HIS OFFICE?” he rocketed.

“There was a notepad. He’d written ‘Crackjaw eel’ on it, and ‘Delectable Edibles, page 23.’ I’m assuming it was a reference to some book.”

“Let ME do the assuming! What ELSE?”

The girl seemed to shrink at each further rant. “At the bottom of the pad, he’d written the word ‘Sutherland.’”