Holiday Grind

his voice was much quieter. “Franco likes to let people assume his nickname comes from the street—you know, ‘General’ as slang for ‘leader.’ ”

“Where did it come from, then?”

Hong shook his head. “Franco and I got hammered one night and he admitted what your ex-husband just guessed.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m really not old enough to remember, but apparently back in the seventies, the network news anchors kept announcing Spain’s dictator was near death. When he finally kicked, Saturday Night Live put a joke in their weekly fake news routine: ‘This breaking news just in... Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.’ ”

“Okay. Not actually funny. And what does it have to do with your partner?”

“On his first day at the police academy, Franco had an instructor who was into that vintage SNL stuff. He’s the one who gave him the nickname Generalissimo. Franco hated it. Took him years and a few transfers before he finally got General to stick. That’s it.”

I shook my head. “What is it with you men? Why do you let your egos dictate—”

“If it’s all the same to you, Ms. Cosi, I’d rather you not lump us all in the same category.”

I was about to reply when the door flew open, banging explosively against the back wall. With that preamble, I expected to see Sergeant Franco standing there again, but it was Matt—with Mike Quinn in tow, an unreadable expression on his still-as-stone face.

“There she is,” Matt declared, pointing his finger at me. “You try talking some sense into her.”

Thirteen

“Sweetheart, it’s almost midnight.”

“I don’t care what time it is. I missed dinner.”

My hair was still damp from the long, hot shower. My Dumpster clothes, down to the socks and underwear, were currently spinning in a double-strength detergent wash. With a sigh, I knotted the belt of my short terrycloth robe.

“You could eat, too, right?” I asked.

Quinn didn’t reply. One sandy eyebrow simply arched in a way that said he had the enjoyment of something else in mind.

I turned and headed for the bedroom door. “I need to cook. I’ll be downstairs.”

I really couldn’t blame the man for his spicy train of thought. After all, he’d just finished showering, too—with me. I’d been under the pulse setting of the Water Pik so long he’d stripped down and joined me. Under the warm spray, the man’s shoulder massage felt wonderful, but I was too wired about the events of the evening to just let go and “get with him,” as my current crop of collegiate customers liked to put it.

Quinn saw I needed time and let me pull away. Now he was pulling a white T-shirt over his torso and a pair of gray sweats over his long legs. Barefoot, he padded after me down to my duplex’s kitchen. His dark blond hair looked even darker in its dampness; his rugged expression was turning a lot less readable than I’d been used to lately.

I uncorked a chilled bottle of Riesling and poured us half glasses. He sat back in silence at the kitchen table, sipping the crisp, sweet nectar, his glacial blue eyes on me as I began following my grandmother’s recipe by heart —putting the water on to boil, mincing the scallions and garlic, chopping the parsley.

It was so quiet in the little room. Every so often I’d glance over, just to make sure the man was still there. He was—his eyes remaining fixed on my movements, his mouth taking slow sips of wine.

Unhappy with his silence, I flipped on the radio.

Christmas 24/7 was still going strong—and, presumably, still driving Gardner Evans sugarplum crazy.

Not me.

Frankly, I’d endured enough upheavals in my life to consider the seasonal loop of old chestnuts reassuring instead of boring, like an old family recipe you’ve made a thousand times and will happily make a thousand more, just because it reminds you of a time or a place or a person that you loved with all your heart.

So “The Little Drummer Boy” accompanied my sautéing of onions and garlic. “O Holy Night” orchestrated the addition of flour and milk, and “Winter Wonderland” provided the beat to whisk my white sauce lump free. Next came the clams, reserved juice, and “Merry Christmas, Darling.”

On a refill of Riesling and the umpteenth replaying of “Jingle Bell Rock,” I tossed in salt, pepper, and parsley, then stirred and sipped; sipped and stirred... and when the white clam sauce finally thickened enough, I turned off the burner, covered the pan, and allowed the flavors to blend while I boiled the linguine—just the way my Nonna had taught me (in a big ol’ pasta pot with a splash of olive oil to keep the noodles from sticking and enough sea salt to mimic the Mediterranean).

At last, with my wineglass nearly empty and my patience with Quinn’s Quiet Man act worn through, I turned off the Christmas music and turned on the cop.

“Aren’t you ever going to say anything about my arrest?! You haven’t asked me one question all night!”

Quinn slowly stood up. Without a word, he casually poured more wine into my glass then his own.

“Well?”

“I told you already,” he softly replied. “Allegro filled me in plenty.”

“He also ordered you to talk some ‘sense’ into me!”

Quinn cracked a smile at that.

“What?” I prodded. “You find that funny?”

“Yeah...” Quinn’s fingers brushed some damp hair off my cheek, curled it around an ear. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And what exactly is so funny?”

“Allegro. The guy was married to you for a decade and he still doesn’t realize that no one can talk sense into you. That’s what’s so funny. It’s a complete waste of vocal cords.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Listen, Cosi...” Quinn reached around me and began using the tips of his fingers to work the stiff tendons in my neck. “The day I met you—” He stopped, smiled. “The minute I met you I knew you had a mind of your own. I accept it. I like it. I’m not about to lecture you on the fact that you put yourself in a precarious, even unduly dangerous position tonight. You know that already, right? No one needs to tell you that.”

“But you know why I did it.”

“Yes... I just wish you had waited for daylight, asked permission of the doorman. You know, done it legally.”

I might have been annoyed at the subversive way Quinn was putting across his censure, but his magic fingers felt too good.

“The trouble with doing it safely is hearing the word no,” I pointed out. “Then what? Another freak evening storm, this time with rain instead of snow, and that button I found would have been washed away.”

Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “True.”

“And don’t forget, Lieutenant, it was you who taught me to bend the rules. Remember how you lied to that super up in Washington Heights so he’d let us illegally search an apartment?”

“I can see I’ve been a bad influence.”

Before I could argue, Quinn’s fingers encircled my wrist and he tugged me toward the kitchen table. Sitting back down, he coaxed me onto his lap.

“Now what? Am I supposed to tell you what I want for Christmas?”

Quinn grinned. “That’d be a good start.”

“I want to discuss Alf’s case with you.”