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at Jack’s Half Shell, when I graduated from culinary school. He’d had it for years, and, after I interned with him, he thought it was a fitting tribute to my culinary future.” Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled sadly. “I’ve only used it maybe five or six times, but still—”
    Trump obviously pictured a brighter future for James Lessor. The truth was, my roommate hadn’t used the Wüsthof knife in years.
    I had to admit it was a piece of art. The flow of the design and the curve of the steel along with the dark, triple-riveted handle setting off the silvery blade made it look as if the knife should be framed and hanging on a wall like some medieval dueling weapon preserved for the ages.
    â€œIt’s got this little nick in the tip, right here, but other than that, it’s a piece of work.”
    â€œYou have to bring your own tools?” Em was intrigued as well.
    â€œAny chef worth his weight has his own knife. Or knives. First thing Bouvier asked me. ‘What kind of knife do you have?’ He seemed impressed when I told him it was a nine-inch Wüsthof Classic.”
    â€œThe guy doesn’t really care what you do in his kitchen, but he’s concerned about your tools?”
    â€œI’ve got to look the part, Skip. A chef, a cook, needs his knives. I start with my chef’s knife.”
    He was right. Even if Bouvier wasn’t offering him an actual kitchen position, he needed to look the part. James needed to doeverything possible to make his coworkers buy into his cover. It all started with his four years of college and a knife.
    â€œWell, tonight’s your first night,” I said. “You’ve got your cell phone and your knife and—”
    â€œChef says no cell phones.”
    I swallowed a forkful of smoked salmon. “Screw Chef. If he wants results, we’ve got to have open communication, right? What if you need to contact us?”
    â€œI explained that to him. Bouvier says I can take restroom breaks or sneak outside for a smoke and—”
    â€œYou quit smoking.”
    â€œOh,” James smiled, “you pay attention.” James had tried for years to kick the habit for good. Now he had an excuse to start his habit all over again. The kind of luck James always had.
    â€œWhat if someone comes out and catches you talking to one of us and—”
    â€œI’ll buy a pack. I’ll look legit. My guess is that anyone in that restaurant who ducks out for a smoke break also checks their messages. It’s the perfect excuse to use the cell phone. As for the cigarettes, I can light them and look like I’m grabbing a smoke. I just won’t inhale.” His smile was a dead giveaway.
    â€œRight,” Em rolled her eyes. “But I’m sure you’d consider taking up smoking again if it was part of the job.”
    â€œAnyway,” James took a bite of his toast, “there are no exceptions in his kitchen. What happens outside during my pee breaks, or my smoke breaks, no one is the wiser. I’ll find a reason to get out so I can call you guys.”
    A young man walked by on the sidewalk, sporting skin-tight lycra shorts and holding two leashes, black Doberman pinschers straining at the leather. I quickly looked back at Emily. Behind her a young lady in a micro bikini strutted across the street, her sculpted breasts bouncing with each step. South Beach.
    â€œGuys,” James affected a somber look. “As much as I like theidea of three thousand dollars a week, and as much as we could use the money, I don’t like the idea of being in that kitchen any longer than I have to be.”
    Em raised her pretty eyebrows. “James, I thought this would be your lifelong dream. Working in a celebrity kitchen.”
    He cleared his throat. “My dream, Emily, would be to have my own kitchen. I’m not ready to work in a four-star restaurant.” James threw her a sincere gaze.