Maiko points at my forehead. “You made someone mad?”
“Such touching concern,” I retort lightly. “I met a grumpy sink.”
Apparently not inclined to pursue the details of my assault at the hands of Pat’s washbasin, Maiko slides behind the cash register. “What will you have today?”
I lift my eyes to the wall-mounted menu behind her that lists the standard sandwich shop fare in black-plastic lettering on a white background. Under that is a slate chalkboard where Maiko writes the daily special in a big splash of brightly colored chalk. The Sandwich Emporium Daily Special is an institution. Maiko shops at several local grocery wholesalers every morning, where she buys whatever happens to be on sale. She and Brian create daily specials from whatever she brings home, which makes for some highly unusual sandwiches. “Shouldn’t the prices be lower if you get everything on sale?” I’d once asked her playfully. That had gotten me a good-humored slap on the arm but no deals on sandwiches.
“I’m meeting a couple of people,” I tell her. “I’ll order when they get here.”
“Oh!” she exclaims. “You wanna use our private dining room?”
I stare back at her in slack-jawed surprise. “You have one?”
“Downstairs in our apartment. Ha ha ha!” This cracks her up to the point at which she has tears in her eyes as she slaps her palms on her thighs.
It’s not that funny, but her laughter is infectious, so I find myself chuckling right along with her. Hell, even Brian cracks a smile, albeit a very weak one.
“How many guests?” Maiko asks while wiping a final tear from the corner of her eye.
“Two.”
“Plus you?”
“Yup.”
“Two plus you equals three, Tony-san,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I hope you don’t help that beautiful daughter of yours with her math homework.”
In a battle of wits, she’d take me down ninety-nine times out of a hundred—if I got lucky once.
“You wait here while I fix you a nice table in back,” she says before bustling away toward the rear of the restaurant.
A “nice table in back” is a little table crammed into a cubbyhole by the back door. It’s as private as things get at The Sandwich Emporium. God help her and Brian if a fire inspector ever happens by while diners are wedged into the shop’s only emergency exit. It’s where she stashes Penelope and me when we visit on Thursdays for our weekly working lunch. How in hell she plans to squeeze a third chair in there is beyond me. She returns a minute or two later, just in time to hear the door chime tinkle again when Pat walks in. Pat has exchanged the running gear for jeans and a powder-blue polo shirt. I’ve changed, too, of course, into a lawyer suit. I left the suit jacket and tie hanging on the back of my office door, where they’re safe from eating mishaps.
“Miss O’Toole!” Maiko squeals with delight. Her eyes soften when she asks, “Are you okay?”
Pat smiles and nods, looking mildly annoyed as she does. Continuing to be asked what she calls “the health question” the better part of a year after her shooting is testing her patience. “I know people mean well, but enough already!” she told me, following that up with “like I need constant reminders of the shooting every time I manage to put it out of mind.”
Time to change the subject. “So, what the hell is The Sour Kraut?” I ask Maiko with a pointed glance at the daily special chalkboard.
“Ah,” she says as her smile returns to full wattage. “German sausage with a lemon compote. Sour. Kraut. Get it?”
Maiko stares at me expectantly, waiting for the laugh she’s sure is coming. I battle to keep a grin at bay and sternly point out, “You know that’s culturally insensitive?”
Maiko’s hand shoots to her mouth as her eyes pop wide open, and she asks innocently, “Does that make me a bad person?”
So much for keeping a straight face. I laugh and roll my eyes. “Probably not.”
“Definitely not,” Pat says with an easy smile. “Sandwiches don’t have feelings.”
The bell tinkles when the door opens again. Pat nods at the new arrival and takes a step forward with her hand extended. “Ben.”
Ben Larose is not what I expected, sterling judge of unseen characters that I am. Having heard that he’s a pilot as well as an aviation writer, I was expecting a gung-ho, once-upon-a-time fighter jock. Why, I don’t know. I guess we all have our unwitting prejudices and misconceptions about all manner of things. Larose is as tall as I am but might weigh no more than one of my legs, and I’m not exactly bulky. The arms dangling out of the short sleeves of his sky-blue, plaid button-down shirt look like two wisps of straw. A prominent Adam’s apple protrudes like a bird’s beak out of a neck that barely looks substantial enough to support the weight of his head. Larose’s face looks as emaciated as the rest of him: sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, sliver of chin, all crowned with a mop of tousled shoulder-length straw hair. His face sports thick stubble that suggests he could grow a full beard within hours. He turns to me after greeting Pat and reaches for my hand. His blue-gray eyes sparkle with intelligence as an engaging smile appears. We exchange greetings before he announces that he needs a bathroom break.
“What do you think?” Pat asks when he’s out of earshot.
“I’ve been drawing this guy since high school!”
The blank look she gives me slowly morphs into a grin and a chuckle. Pat’s a talented artist; in fact, one of her paintings hangs over the fireplace mantel at our house. I can’t paint for shit, but I
