Ford met him at the door. She was slender, dressed in black with her long brown hair pulled back. “Welcome Chef.”
“Thank you for meeting me,” he answered, shaking the proffered hand. After a short walk Ford motioned to a loveseat. After sitting on a wicker chair, Ford poured herself a glass of wine. When LaRue refused her, he began.
“Thank you for offering me wine, but my drink is whiskey.”
“I hear your drug of choice is heroin. A ten percent solution.”
“Your information is accurate. That’s part of my problem. When I was in my twenties,” he muttered under his breath, “even my thirties,” his voice became conversational again “my drug use didn’t affect me detrimentally. I was able to do every project I had on m
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Killer Chef Twenty Five
On his ride back to Ford’s estate the next morning, the chef thought of his conversation with Ray. It was a surprise knowing that Tony was the next hit. “He was not one of the three in your original dossiers.” LaRue had told Ray. “The more I get into doing this, the longer the list becomes. So I start re-prioritizing.” The chef heard papers rustling. “You sound very busy. Should I call back?” “I’m going through a script spec. It’s a decent story by a guy I went to high school with.” Ray laughed. “My God, Harry the Hippo has a good story, but he can’t write for shit.” LaRue chuckled. “With a name like Harry the Hippo, he must have a few stories in him.”
Killer Chef Twenty Six
In the two weeks since LaRue had gotten home, he had ran over and over in his mind things he could have done differently after leaving Ford’s estate. After killing her, he hadn’t bothered cleaning anything up. After looking through her appointment book, he saw she had nothing listed for another two days. Ray had one of his old associates watching the house. He watched LaRue’s car leave, then slipped in through the unlocked door. From there, Ford’s body would disappear with nothing more than the few bits of blood left behind. “We did everything we could Chef D.” “I know that Ray. I’m just worried about Tony.” LaRue sipped his coffee. One of the few things he insisted he traveled with was his coffee grinder and French press. He had ground two this morning, which was the last of his beans.
Killer Chef Twenty Seven
LaRue sat in his office. He was having a ‘writer’s rush’ as he called it. Writing about himself was boring and usually took a long time for that reason. However, there were times he almost found it impossible to keep up with the flood of words rushing to the page. Both he and Emily were back at home. He sat in his office and had been writing nonstop for two hours. Emily and Cowatv were playing outside. Coffee steamed from the cup beside him, almost forgotten in his quest to get words on the page. Beside his cup was a syringe filled with his ten percent solution and Vitamin B12 . What does it mean to be ‘America’s Guest?’ It means that millions of people trust me enough to think of me as family. Beyond Grandpa Lou an
Killer Chef Twenty Eight
That information was going to make this hit more personal that anything LaRue done before. He was nervous. Hell he was scared. In the past, even when his events might have ended in his death, the chef had taken the brazen confidence he had learned from Tommy. With more swagger than smarts, LaRue simply did what he was told. His time with The Box would now be personal. After making one final note, the chef grabbed his two prepared injections left his office and his home. He read Em’s note taped on the door. ‘Doc, I’m with Cowatv at Statler Park. We will spend a few hours here. You know he’s always tuckered out afterwards. I’ll stop afterwards, grab a hotdog and let
Killer Chef Twenty Nine
With this, Tony started to laugh. “It’s too bad we’re not on the same side, Chef. You got cojones the size of Yankee Stadium.” “Who said we’re on different sides? What side are you on?” “I am on my side Chef.” LaRue laughed. “Tony that’s like saying you use water when you take a bath.” He grabbed the recorder and threw it into the front of the car. “Ok, so you heard my proposal. Let’s assume Teddy is somewhere else.” He raises his voice and talks to Teddy. “Sorry Ted, I’m going to treat you as invisible. But I’m sure that’s no different that Box treats you.” He turns back to Tony. “Ok, fat boy. Me and you. Mono a mono.” Tony leans forward and cups LaRue’s fac
Killer Chef Thirty
“And so to you, my friends, I lift my glass. I am honored to be, as always, the Host of the World.” LaRue sat down and poured himself a glass of red wine. In front of him was a plate of pasta and a simple salad. “This season has allowed to reconnect with myself, but more importantly, I have reconnected with you.” “This is why the meals this year have been different. Simpler.” Twirling some pasta on his fork, “life gets complicated. Your meals shouldn’t be.” He takes a drink. “Until next time, I’ll keep a place set for you.” “Cut.” “De-Von, that was your best’n yet.” “Thanks Mr. Melvin.” He slid the plate of pasta acr
Killer Chef One
You know him or at least think you do. Devon LaRue has been on television longer than some of his fans have been alive. LaRue opened his first restaurant in 1992, his second three years later. By the end of the decade, world leaders and celebrities alike were vying for the best seats in his now three restaurants.But Devon LaRue was not what he seemed. It was as a young culinary student in 1982 that LaRue found himself at the scene of a murder. LaRue admitted later he had been high on a few drugs; he just didn’t remember which ones. The victim was Amie McAvey, a girl that had a history with LaRue. Amie and LaRue had dated and had broken up, dated and broken up, dated and broken up. Each breakup had been precursor by violent breakup arguments. When he came down, LaRue found himself in a cell, covered with blood. He had gotten sick, the drying puddle of vomit on the floor and on the corner of the long sleeve shirt he had borrowed from his roommate.
Killer Chef Two
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” LaRue began, “this meal can be eaten with both world leaders and factory workers. Everyone from farmers and faith healers can enjoy this. I know this, my friends, because I have enjoyed this meal with them all. I’ve often been called The Host of The World, but” he stopped and smiled that smile that he had flashed so often, his gray flecked strawberry blonde hair bounced back and forth. “But,” he continued as he held a glass of red wine in a salute gesture, “I am only gotten to be the Host of The World because you, my friends, have allowed me to become the Guest of the World, first.” He took a small sip and set the glass down. LaRue stood. His gray eyes sparkled. “This is the final show before I go on holiday. Although I regret that I will not be spending time with you each day, I always come back with recipe ideas and a renewed