Today—a humid Tuesday morning in mid-July—found him holed up at the Stew Shack, an old pub in Greenwich that had been converted into a stew-and-ale bar, and wondering what the fuck he was going to cook for the evening rush. He studied the shelves in the dry store, half a mind on the pork shoulder and spicy chorizo he’d stashed in the walk-in fridge, the other half on the steamy day brewing outside. Summer at the Stew Shack meant heady, spicy stews cooked over the fire pit in the cobbled garden, a task he enjoyed, even if it did expose him to the curious eyes of the yuppies and hipsters he cooked for. Because that was what you found in Greenwich these days: yuppies, hipsters, and bloody tourists. Fuck it. Let’s blow their heads off.
Nero grabbed paprika, chillies, and fennel seeds, and chucked them in the prep box under his arm, then went to the fridge and retrieved pork, chorizo, and peppers. He was bashing the shit out of a bulb of garlic when he sensed a presence behind him, felt a tingle on the back of his neck, and heard a chuckle he’d recognise anywhere on earth.
Cass.
Sure enough, Nero spun around and there he was—all lean, mean, six foot of Cass Pearson, Nero’s boss and co-owner of the many restaurants Nero cooked in. He was also the closest thing to a best mate Nero had ever had. First bloke you ever fancied too—but Nero silenced that devil for today. He didn’t see Cass that way anymore . . . at least, not often. Besides, Cass was taken not once, but twice, sharing his life with the two other men Nero happened to work for. Lucky them.
Nero turned back to his pestle and mortar. “What the fuck do you want?”
Cass rounded the counter and hopped up on the clean side opposite Nero. “Nice to see you too, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nero scowled. It was good to see Cass, though his surprise appearance was bound to mean a royal pain in Nero’s arse. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“Course you ’ave. Let me guess, you want me to go to Dagenham or some shit and set up a vegan cupcake shop?”
“Close. It’s a bakery in Vauxhall—artisan, organic sourdough, all that hipster stuff you love.”
“This is your idea?”
Cass snorted. “As if. I ain’t the ideas man, you know that, but Tom and Jake are busy, so it’s up to me to get it off the ground until they come along and change everything.”
Sounds about right. Nero finished up the garlic and moved on to hacking up meat with his cleaver. “This what you’ve been doing with yourself lately? ’Cause I ain’t seen you in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been around.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Miss me?”
Nero turned away, because truth be told he did miss Cass, and the years of working long nights side by side seemed a lifetime ago. “What do you need me to do for this wanky bakery?”
Cass chuckled, unfazed as ever by Nero’s lack of enthusiasm. “Help me build the kitchen, source the ovens, find a team. Maybe some menu development too?”
“What kind of menu?”
“Artisan sandwich shop by day, jazz café by night.”
“Seriously?” Nero rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you lot do one thing at a time?”
“Because it don’t pay to leave a premises idle at night when it’s working anyway. It’s gonna be a twenty-four-hour operation once we get the bakery set up. Speaking of which, do you think you could nick some of the sourdough starter from here and brew a new one?”
“You want me to take a bucket of yeast home with me?” Cass’s smirk said it all. Nero sighed. “Anything else?”
Cass’s expression sobered. “Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you.”
Nero had figured as much. Why else would Cass hoof it all the way down to Greenwich for a conversation he could’ve had over the phone? “Is it something that will piss me off more than babysitting a sourdough starter?”
“Probably. You might like it eventually, though. At least, I hope you will.”
“Right. Pass me them onions.” Nero retrieved his favourite knife while Cass emptied a bag of onions into his prep box. “Dunno what could be worse than a hipster bakery, unless you’re about to suggest I teach school kids how to make sausages again.”
Cass laughed. “To be fair, Tom didn’t know how cabbage that was when he suggested it. You can’t blame him for not knowing you’d never pass a CRB check.”
Nero grunted and brought his cleaver down on his board with a brutal thwack. That particular incident was the only time he’d been thankful for his epic criminal record. Grubby hands and snotty noses? Fuck that. “Go on, then. Spit it out.”
“I need you to take someone at Pippa’s for me—one of the servers from Misfits.”
