“It’s okay,” she said.
“Maybe Christmas,” I said, “I’ll buy you a potholder.”
“I’ve got some, but I couldn’t find it right away and I was afraid it would burn.”
She was trying to balance the pot lid on her big spoon and put it back on the pot. It teetered, she touched it with her left hand to balance it, and burned her hand, and flinched and the lid fell to the floor.
“Fuck,” she said.
Pearl had leapt to attention when the lid hit the floor and now was sitting behind the legs of my stool and looking out at Susan with something that might have been disapproval. Susan saw her.
“Everyone’s a goddamned critic,” she said.
“What is it?” I said neutrally.
“Brunswick stew,” Susan said. “There was a recipe in the paper.”
She found one potholder under an overturned colander and used it to pick up the pot lid and put it back on the pot.
“One of my favorites,” I said.
“I know,” Susan said. “It’s why I made it.”
“I’ll like it,” I said.
“And if you don’t,” she said, “lie.”
“It is my every intention,” I said. She set the counter in front of us, got me another beer, and ladled two servings of Brunswick stew into our plates. I took a bite. It was pretty good. I had some more.
“Do I detect a dumpling in here?” I said.
“No,” Susan said. “I tried to thicken the gravy. What you detect is some flour in a congealed glump.”
“What you do,” I said, “is mix the flour in a little cold water first, then when the slurry is smooth you stir it into the stew.”
“Gee, isn’t that smart,” Susan said.
I knew she didn’t mean it. I decided not to make other helpful suggestions. We ate quietly for a while. The congealed flour lumps had tasted better when I thought they were dumplings. When I finished I got up and walked around Pearl to the stove and got a second helping.
“Oh, for Christ sake don’t patronize me,” Susan said.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “The stew’s good. Are we saving it for breakfast?”
“The stew’s not good. You’re just eating it to make me feel good.”
“Not true, but if it were, why would that be so bad?”
“Oh, shit,” Susan said, and her eyes began to fill.
I said, “Suze, you never cry.”
“It’s not working,” she said. Her voice was very tight and very shaky. She got up and left the kitchen and went in the bedroom and closed the door.
I stood for a while holding the stew and looking after her. Then I looked at Pearl. She was focused on the plate of stew.
“The thing is,” I said to Pearl, “she’s right.” And I put the plate down for Pearl to finish.
CHAPTER 36
Tony Marcus agreed to meet us at a muffin shop on the arcade in South Station.
“Tony like muffins?” I said.
“Tony likes open public places,” Hawk said.
“Makes sense,” I said. “Get trapped in a place like Locke-Ober, you could get umbrella’d to death.”
South Station was new, almost. They’d jacked up the old favade and slid a new station in behind it. Where once pigeons had flown about in the semidarkness, and winos had slept fragrantly on the benches, there were now muffin shops and lots of light and a model train set. What had once been the dank remnant of the old railroad days was now as slick and cheery as the food circus in a shopping mall.
The muffin shop was there, to the right, past the frozen lo-fat yogurt stand. Tony Marcus was there at a cute little iron filigree table, alone. At the next table was his bodyguard, a stolid black man about the size of Nairobi. The bodyguard’s name was Billy. Tony was a middle-sized black guy, a little soft, with a careful moustache. I always thought he looked like Billy Eckstine, but Hawk never saw it. We stopped at the counter. I bought two coffees, gave one to Hawk, and went to Tony’s table.
Tony nodded very slightly when we arrived. Billy looked at us as if we were dust motes. Billy’s eyes were very small. He looked like a Cape buffalo. I shot at him with a forefinger and thumb.
“Hey, Billy,” I said. “Every time I see you you get more winsome.”
Billy gazed at me without expression. Tony said, “You want a muffin?” Hawk and I both shook our heads. “Good muffins,” Tony said. “Praline chocolate chip are excellent.”
Hawk said, “Jesus Christ.”
