Friend of the Devil

It’s 1990, and some critics believe that America’s most celebrated chef, Joseph Soderini di Avenzano, cut a deal with the Devil to achieve fame and fortune. Whether he is actually Bocuse or Beelzebub, Avenzano is approaching the twenty-fifth anniversary of his glittering Palm Beach restaurant, Chateau de la Mer, patterned after the Michelin-starred palaces of Europe.

Journalist David Fox arrives in Palm Beach to interview the chef for a story on the restaurant’s silver jubilee and quickly becomes involved with Chateau de la Mer’s hostess, Alessandra, unwittingly transforming himself into Avenzano’s rival. When the chef invites David to winter in Florida and write his authorized biography, he gradually becomes sucked into the restaurant’s vortex--shipments of cocaine coming up from the Caribbean; the Mafia connections and unexplained murder of the chef’s original partner; and the chef’s ravenous ex-wives, swirling in the background like a hidden coven. As Alessandra plots the demise of the chef, David tries to sort out hallucination and reality, while Avenzano plays with him like a feline’s catnip-stuffed toy.

KUDOS FOR FRIEND OF THE DEVIL

In Friend of the Devil by Mark Spivak, David Fox is a free-lance journalist from New York, who takes an assignment to cover the twenty-fifth anniversary of a famous chef and his restaurant in Florida. The chef is reputed to have made a deal with the devil in exchange for fame and fortune as well as unsurpassed talent as a chef. David doesn’t know whether that is true or not, but things are definitely not what they seem. Is the chef possessed by the devil or is he just the personification of evil? Either way, David isn’t sure if he will get out of Florida alive. The book has a solid, if complicated, plot, and nothing seems to go as you would expect. The writing is strong and the character development superb. ~ Taylor Jones, Reviewer

Friend of the Devil by Mark Spivak is the story of human greed and obsession. The greed plays out in the form of Joseph Soderini di Avenzano, the famous--or infamous--Florida chef who seemed to appear out of nowhere and soon climbed from obscurity to become the owner of a famous restaurant in Palm Beach, Florida, The obsession, however, isn’t about fame and fortune, but the need to discover the truth of things that might be better off staying hidden. David Fox, a New York journalist, takes what seems like an innocent assignment to travel to Florida and write an article on Joseph Soderini di Avenzano and his restaurant. But it doesn’t take David long to discover the chef is not what he appears to be. In fact, nothing is what it seems and David wants to know why. His quest for the truth takes him down forbidden paths where dark secrets, and even darker dangers, lurk. While the plot is not new, Spivak gives it an unusual twist that is as chilling as it is appealing. With excellent, well-developed three-dimensional characters, an intriguing mystery, and dark humor, Spivak has crafted a culinary thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat, turning pages until the end. ~ Regan Murphy, Reviewer

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m grateful to Lauri Wellington, Acquisitions Editor at Black Opal Books, for having the wisdom to see merit in this story. I couldn’t have hoped for better manuscript editors: Rebecca and Faith were thorough, sensitive and intuitive, and forced me to be as good as I could be. As always, I thank Kate Epstein for her help and support. And my gratitude goes out to my friend Tamra Fitzgerald, who enlisted her talented designers at the Venue Marketing Group to create the arresting cover design.

Most novels travel a winding road from conception to publication, and the path of this particular book was as circuitous as a corkscrew. As a result, it would be impossible to thank everyone who encouraged me along the way, but hopefully the final product is worth everything I put them through.

FRIEND OF THE DEVIL

MARK SPIVAK

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2016 by Mark Spivak

Cover Design by Venue Marketing Group

All cover art copyright © 2016

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626944-51-0

EXCERPT

David had fallen hard for the girl, and now she was in trouble, but if she wouldn’t listen, how was he going to save her?

It seems that Romano is furious because someone is cutting in on his cocaine operation, Gimaldi told him.

Really? David asked.

The drugs are coming out of the Caribbean and through Florida. He’s traced it to Chateau de la Mer, and he believes he knows who it is.

Holy shit.

It seems your friend wasn’t very careful. She actually met with Romano about a year ago. She said she had sources and was interested in a subcontracting arrangement.

David’s stomach was churning.

As it turned out, they never worked together. Apparently, she didn’t like the terms of the deal and decided to go into business for herself. Now there seems to be a steady stream of this stuff coming up from Florida, and it’s better and cheaper than what the organization is peddling. The stuff is circulating among certain sectors of the entertainment industry, and the organization’s business is drying up. Romano is fit to be tied.

What’s going to happen? David asked after a pause.

Sooner or later, he’s going to call Avenzano. When that day comes, the old man is going to give her up.

I doubt it.

He’ll do it in a heartbeat, David. You can take that to the bank. He’ll tie her to the stake, fumble around in his pockets for a moment, then light a match.

This guy knows the chef?

His father does. Do I have to draw you a picture?

No, I guess not. David stared at his friend. Buzz, I need a favor.

DEDICATION

Once again, for Carolann

And a long-delayed tip of the hat to

Frederick Busch 1941-2006.

Il miglior fabbro.

Chapter 1

Mississippi, 1947:

The man’s here.

The old Black woman delivered her pronouncement into the darkness of a back room--half in amusement, half in disgust. She then walked back across the front room of the cabin, her feet creaking on the wooden floor, to the place where the young man sat. A pot-bellied stove, streaked with soot, crackled in the opposite corner.

He be wit you in a minute.

Thank you.

The white youth seemed strangely comfortable in this shack outside Clarksdale in rural Mississippi. The year was 1947, at the height of Jim Crow, at a time when the races never mingled.

The young man had concocted an elaborate cover story and, with the confidence of his age, he believed he could explain himself if the wrong people found him here.

What you say your name is? the woman asked.

Joseph.

The woman laughed. You a crazy-assed white boy, Joseph.

Yes, ma’am, he replied in a deep baritone, guttural and booming. That may well be.

The old Black man shuffled out of the back room, moving slowly and deliberately. He was clad in overalls, and his silver hair framed a deeply lined and creased face. He glanced at Joseph and shook his head.

Let’s go out on the porch, boy.

They walked outside to the dilapidated wooden deck surrounding the front of the shack, and the old man settled in a rocking chair. He motioned for Joseph to sit beside him and regarded him with the same amusement his wife had displayed.

You a long way from home, ain’t you?

I don’t really have a home, sir.

Everybody got a home. The old man chuckled. Some folks just don’t know where it is.

Maybe so. Joseph shifted in his chair as he listened to the night sounds coming from the distance: crickets, the far-off howl of wolves, wind rustling the trees. Highway 61 and Highway 49 were out there, intersecting at the Crossroads. So tell me, did you know Robert Johnson?

Heard him sing once or twice, but that was a long time ago.

What was he like?

Crazy-assed, like you. The old man chuckled again. Knew his time was short, and couldn’t be bothered.

Go on.

Played the gittar pretty good. But it was that voice. The old man paused. It stuck witchoo. Couldn’t git it outta your head. It wasn’t pretty. He shook his head. Naw. Wasn’t pretty. Not at all.

I know exactly what you mean.

Joseph had heard the voice, listening to scratchy old records on a friend’s Victrola. They were the only known recordings of Robert Johnson, the studio sessions done a few years before his death. The old man was right. The voice was plaintive and haunting, something you would always remember once you heard it. That must have been amazing--hearing him in person.

Wasn’t no fun, to tell you true. After the first couple times, I never went back. He shook his head again. Seems to me that life is hard enough sometimes without lookin’ for his kinda problems.

Probably so.

The old man looked at Joseph closely. What you need that kinda trouble for, boy?

I want to be a success. I want to leave my mark on the world.

Where’s your gittar?

I don’t play, sir. That’s not what this is about. I want to be somebody. Joseph paused. I’m not sure what I want to do. I’ve done some kitchen work, and I like it. I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll open a restaurant someday.

Shoot! The old man exploded in laughter. You want to open a restaurant, boy, you don’t need to be goin’ out there in the dead of night, lookin’ for trouble. Just fry yourself up a mess of chicken and be done with it.

Sure, said Joseph, laughing in spite of himself.

There was a long silence, and the old man looked at him expectantly. Joseph reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small manila envelope, and handed it over.

Well, I’ll be, the old man said as he counted the money. His eyes widened and his eyebrows arched. There’s four hunnerd here. I done told you two hunnerd.

I want you to have it. I think it’s fair.

That’s a lot of money, boy. You don’t need to be doin’ that.

I’m not here as a tourist, sir. It was Joseph’s turn to stare at the old man. It took me a long time to find you. I don’t want the movie set or the amusement park. I want the real thing.

Careful what you wish for, now.

Will you be going out with me?

Shoot, no. The old man shook his head. These old legs couldn’t take me out there and back. And you wouldn’t want me, anyway. You don’t want some old man who got spooked at the sound of Johnson’s voice. It’s my son that’s goin’ with you.

Are you sure?

It got to be him, ’cause it got to be somebody who don’t take this stuff seriously. Somebody who ain’t gonna wake up in the middle of the night thirty years from now, thinkin’ ’bout it. He reached over and patted Joseph on the shoulder. Gotta be somebody with a pure heart. Somebody the man can’t touch.

I see.

I’ll git him for you. The man paused and looked at Joseph. You know, Johnson was no more than thirty when he died.

He was twenty-seven, actually.

How old you be?

I just turned twenty-two.

And that don’t spook you none?

No, sir.

You know what you should be spooked ’bout? If you had any sense, that is?

What’s that, sir?

How you gonna feel if you live to be as old as me? What you think gonna be in your head then?

I guess I’ll have to take that chance.

It’s your funeral either way, I ’spose. He rose unsteadily and walked to the edge of the porch. Willy, he called. William Earl, you git out here. It be showtime.

After a moment, a young Black man emerged from behind the shack, grinning broadly. He wore overalls like his father and radiated an aura of good humor that put Joseph immediately at ease. He looked no older than Joseph, but seemed to engulf everyone around him in boyish enthusiasm.

You wanna open yourself a restaurant, the old man told Joseph, this here is the boy you want. He can cook up anythin’, anytime, just the way you like it. He’ll make you a success. He turned to his son. You ready, boy?

Yes, sir, born ready.

All right then. You be careful out there. He looked carefully at Joseph. Good luck to you. I hope you git what you came for.

Thank you, sir.

Let’s go, baby. Willy grinned, motioning for Joseph to follow him. We got business.

Chapter 2

Palm Beach, Florida, 1990:

He stepped down from the womb of the 727 onto the stubby metal stairway and descended slowly onto the asphalt of the old Palm Beach Airport, like a child sticking a toe into a hot bath.

The first thing he noticed was the light. By the time he reached the tarmac, it hurt his eyes. It was opaque and shining, milky white and brilliant.

As his feet touched the bottom, a coffee-colored hand plucked the bag from his grasp.

Mr. Fox? The teeth were almost as bright as the light reflecting against the pavement.

Guilty.

Welcome to Palm Beach. West Palm, to be precise. The voice was cool and melodious, with a Jamaican lilt. We gladly cross the river to welcome our distinguished guests and ferry them to the other shore. He extended his hand toward the terminal, smiling broadly. Come, sir. Your chariot awaits.

The woman stood next to the limousine, sticking out of the asphalt like an exotic tree. She wore a black leather jacket, and a short, black leather skirt, cut on the bias to give her a schoolgirl look. She was smirking.

She has gorgeous skin, was his first thought, smooth enough to lick. Then there was her hair: jet black, cropped short, spiked liberally with mousse, standing straight up as if from an electrical charge. I am so beautiful that I can mutilate my hair and you will still crave me, she seemed to say. I can masquerade as Elvis Costello and you will still crawl across the runway to worship me.

Signore Fox?

Yes.

I am Alessandra della Gheradesca. She extended her hand to be cradled in his, like a mango offered at its moment of perfect ripeness. If you prefer, you can call me Sandra. That’s what all the others do.

What others?

The Americans. Especially the rich ones--all their money doesn’t cover their coarseness, their lack of respect for family legacy.

I’m fine with Alessandra, if that’s your given name. Beyond that, I’m as coarse as the day is long.

Hopefully not. But, anyway, welcome on behalf of Joseph Soderini di Avenzano.

I didn’t realize anyone would be meeting me.

Now you know, she said with disgust, as if mustering the effort to speak to him constituted an act of supreme sacrifice.

The Jamaican opened the back door of the limo. Startled, David followed her inside, reclining against the cool black leather. The limo edged out of the airport and onto Australian Avenue, skirting a palm-lined road along the border of an artificial lake. After a gray, chilly October morning in New York, the horizon seemed open and limitless.

You work for Mr. di Avenzano? he asked.

Sure.

What do you do?

He pays me huge amounts of money to suck on his toes, she said. Then we take pictures and sell them to dumbass writers like you, to illustrate your stories.

Have I done something to piss you off? I mean, in our acquaintance of less than a minute?

Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. And I’m a bit hung over. She gave him a bonus in the form of a brilliant smile. It flashed across her face and disappeared, but relaxed her features for a moment. Did you have a smooth flight?

We were a little late leaving LaGuardia. I dozed most of the way down.

I spent some time in your city when I first came over. I used to live in Soho and hang out at some of the downtown clubs.

Did you work in New York?

On and off. My goal at the time was to become a fashion designer.

Really? Did you design the outfit you’re wearing?

This? No, I took this off a dead body I found lying against my door last night.

The Jamaican rolled down the partition separating him from the passenger compartment. You kids play nice, he intoned with suppressed mirth. Otherwise, you get demerits in the book of life.

I’m overwhelmed, David said. Totally bowled over by the hospitality of the welcoming committee.

Sorry. She leaned back in the seat, exhaling deeply. I get this way sometimes.

What’s this about the book of life?

One of Joseph’s expressions. You start talking like him after a while. She turned to face him. "Where I come from, we’re not so rude. We welcome visitors with biscotti and Vin Santo."

You mean, in Soho?

A little village near Pisa, she said. When I was growing up, I knew everyone in town. We didn’t even have plates that matched, but we were happy. Here-- She gestured at the palm trees. --here they have all the trappings, they have all the money you could want, but they have no souls.

I don’t know. I think you can cover your soul with the trappings of wealth, but you can’t lose it.

Really? She smirked. Don’t be too sure.

Chapter 3

Several hours earlier:

Actually, David hadn’t slept at all on the way down, preferring to use the three hours to wade through the file of clippings on Joseph Soderini di Avenzano and the fabled Chateau de la Mer.

There was the breakthrough story in Newsweek in 1968, with a stern and youthful Avenzano glowering on the cover, arms folded imperiously like Paul Bocuse. World-Class Cuisine Comes to Palm Beach, announced the cover blurb. The story reiterated what was known about Avenzano’s background. His ancestors came from the area near Florence, supposedly descended from Italian and French nobility. He emigrated as a child and later enlisted in the American Army, spent years vagabonding across the country when he got out, and eventually signed on as a kitchen apprentice with the Brennan family in New Orleans. The chef worked in restaurants in Savannah and French kitchens in Washington, DC, where he met his backers, and had single-handedly put Italian-inflected international cuisine on the map at Chateau de la Mer, an outpost of civility and graciousness reminiscent of a European chateau.

The Newsweek story was the template for all personality pieces that followed--how Avenzano was America’s first true superstar chef, how his establishment had become a lightning rod for Palm Beach society, how he had added a new dimension to American hospitality with gimmicks such as the Festival of Orchids and the Festival of Champagne. It depicted him as a tireless perfectionist who rose at dawn to scream at his brigade and who did not rest until his last guests had vanished into their mansions on the Intracoastal Waterway.

Melvin Goldfarb, said the man in 26B as he extended his hand. He was nearly bald, sprouting prodigious quantities of hair from his nose and ears. His belly protruded over his belt, and he wore no socks under his scuffed white shoes.

David Fox. The plane was poised for takeoff. Why me? Why not the guy in the next row?

A pleasure. Goldfarb’s breathing was short and erratic. I hope I’m not interrupting you.

Well, to tell you the truth--

I know, I know. My wife, when she was alive, used to tell me I was a pain in the ass. Five or six times a day, on average.

Why was that? Because you used to interrupt her when she was reading?

MOT? he asked, ignoring David’s sarcasm.

I beg your pardon?

Member of the tribe? Are you Jewish?

Why would you ask?

I’m at the age where I ask anything I want. Goldfarb sighed. "Are you religious? Do you go to shul?"

My father was a rabbi.

"I don’t care if your uncle was Moses. Do you attend shul?"

Occasionally.

Ah. Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, funerals? High Holy Days?

Listen, Mr. Goldstein--

Goldfarb.

Whatever. I’m also at the age where I’ll say anything I want. So tread lightly.

"Sorry, boychick. Goldfarb smiled and patted David on the knee. I told you I’m a pain in the ass."

Tell you what, David said. Let’s talk later on.

He turned his attention back to the clip file. Of course, there were piles of stories on the various scandals. There were articles on the vicissitudes of Avenzano’s health, specifically two heart attacks, four stomach operations, and several unspecified disorders which sounded like nervous breakdowns. These were primarily clips from major dailies around the country, which, when taken together, had the ring of a script for a daytime soap. The chef was at death’s door. He was recuperating slowly at his oceanfront condo in Manalapan, going for daily strolls on the beach to build his strength. He was back to work gradually, several hours per day, once again unfurling the banner of the New International Cuisine.

There were endless stories about the comings and goings of the Two Jays, as the ex-wives were called--a pun, it was believed, on the name of a local deli. Avenzano divorced and remarried them, hired and fired them with dizzying rapidity.

FAMOUS CHEF SUES EX-WIFE FOR EMBEZZLEMENT screamed a headline from the Palm Beach Post. It told the sad tale of Jeannine Soderini di Avenzano, born Jeannine Egglestone who was twice married to and divorced from the Bocuse of Palm Beach. She had supposedly vanished to Italy several years before with their daughter, son-in-law, and nearly a million dollars of purloined restaurant profits. Despite follow-ups in various tabloids, there was no indication that any charges were ever brought against her, nor had there been any attempt to extradite her to Florida.

By far, the bulk of the Two Jays stories concerned Jillian Walsh, who was described in nearly one dozen pieces.

The charismatic and charming Jillian Walsh, according to Newsweek, sketching a portrait of Chateau de la Mer’s original hostess.

The hard-nosed and pragmatic Jillian Walsh, said the New York Times, who overcame humble beginnings to become a role model for American women.

Street-smart Jillian Walsh, described the Wall Street Journal, forging a new course for women in the financial community. This piece focused on her new incarnation as a day trader. In the superheated Wall Street environment of the late 1980s, she had shot like a comet across the sky, a Michael Milken with breasts.

Only one story went into detail about her humble beginnings. Born Joyce Baumgartner in Baltimore, she fled to the nation’s capital as a teenager. She went to work in a bar in Southeast Washington and became a famous stripper better known by her stage name, Twinkletoes. Along the way she met businessman and investor Morris Ross, who bankrolled her in a series of night clubs. Roughly ten years later, known as Jillian Walsh, she married Avenzano and persuaded Ross to buy the crumbling former estate of a 1920s heiress that became known as Chateau de la Mer.

So tell me, Goldfarb said as they reached cruising altitude. I know it’s probably none of my business, but these things interest me. What makes you deny your faith?

"I don’t deny it. I just don’t