Gideon's Corpse

The rognons had stiffened in the butter and were turning slightly brown; Gideon carefully transferred them onto a plate he’d been warming on the stovetop. Fordyce stared at the plate, a frown coming over his features.

“What in hell are those—?”

“Kidneys. Just give me a minute or two to prepare the reduction.” Gideon added shallots, bouillon, spices, and a generous pour of the red wine to the chafing dish.

“Not eating those,” Fordyce said.

“They’re not even lamb kidneys—only veal. And Frank, my butcher in town, had beef marrow on hand—that’s why we’re eating a la Bordelaise instead of flambes.” Gideon corrected the seasoning of the reduction, then carefully cut the kidneys into crosswise slices—done perfectly, a lovely pink at the center—mixed them in the chafing dish with the sauce, folded in the beef marrow, and then arranged them on two plates along with the braised artichokes from the oven.

“Bring the wine,” he said, carrying the plates into the living area beyond the kitchen.

Fordyce followed reluctantly. “I’m telling you, ain’t eating it. I don’t do offal.”

Gideon put the plates down on a low table before the leather sofa.

Fordyce took a seat on the sofa, stared sourly at his plate.

“Try it.”

The agent lifted his knife and fork, poised them, hesitated.

“Go ahead. Be a man. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you a bag of Doritos from the kitchen.”

He gingerly cut off a tiny piece with his fork, and tasted it suspiciously.

Gideon took a bite himself. Perfect. He wondered how anyone could resist.

“Guess it won’t kill me,” Fordyce said, placing a larger piece in his mouth.

For several minutes, the men ate in silence. Then Fordyce spoke again. “It seems funny, somehow, to be sitting out here, in the woods, eating dinner and drinking wine—which is excellent, by the way—when just yesterday we walked away from a plane crash. I feel like I’ve been, somehow, renewed.”

This reminded Gideon of his diagnosis. And how he had spent his afternoon.

“How about you. Feel reborn?”

“No,” said Gideon.

Fordyce paused, looked at him. “Hey—you all right?”

Gideon took a big gulp of wine. He realized he was drinking too quickly. Did he really want the conversation to go in this direction?

“Look, you want to talk about it? I mean, that was one hell of a scare.”

Gideon shook his head, put down his glass. He had an overwhelming urge to talk about it.

“That’s not the problem,” he finally said. “I’m over that.”

“So what is it?”

“It’s that…every morning, first thing—I remember.”

“Remember what?”

For a moment, Gideon did not reply. He didn’t know why he’d said that. But no, that wasn’t true: he’d said it for the same reason he’d invited Fordyce up to the cabin. Whether it was their shared investigation, or their mutual admiration for Thelonious Monk, or simply surviving yesterday’s crash—he’d begun to look upon Stone Fordyce as a friend. Maybe—save, more or less, old Tom O’Brien back in New York—his only friend.

“I’ve been told I have a terminal illness,” he said. “Every morning, I have about a minute or two of peace— and then I remember. That’s why I don’t feel reborn, renewed, whatever.”

Fordyce stopped eating and looked at him. “You’re shitting me.”

Gideon shook his head.

“What is it? Cancer?”

“Something known as an AVM: a tangle of arteries and veins in the brain. Statistically, they say I’ve got around a year to live, give or take.”

“There’s no cure?”

“It’s inoperable. Someday it’s just going to…pop.”

Fordyce sat back. “Jesus.”

“That’s where I was this afternoon. Getting another medical opinion. You see, I have reasons to doubt the first diagnosis. So I had an MRI.”

“When will you get the results?”

“Three days.” He paused. “You’re the first person I’ve told this to. Didn’t mean to lay a burden on you—it’s just that…Jesus, I guess I had to tell someone. Blame it on the wine.”

For a brief moment, Fordyce just looked at him. Gideon recognized the look: the man was wondering if he was being bullshitted or not. And then deciding he was not.

“I’m really sorry,” Fordyce said. “I don’t know what to say. My God, that’s just awful.”

“No need to say anything. In fact, I’d prefer it if you never mentioned it again. Anyway, it might all be horseshit. That’s what this afternoon’s tests will tell me.”

“You’ll let me know when you find out?” Fordyce asked. “One way or another.”

“I will.” He laughed awkwardly. “Great way to ruin a dinner party.” He grabbed the bottle, refilled both their glasses.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Fordyce, a bit too heartily, eating the last of his kidneys. “I like kidneys. At least cooked a la Gideon.”

They continued eating, the talk moving along more superficial paths.

At last, Gideon got up and put a Ben Webster CD on the stereo. “What’s our next move in the investigation?”

“Sweat that pilot from the mosque.”

Gideon nodded. “I’d like to go out to the movie ranch, check out Simon Blaine again.”

“The writer? Oh yeah, no doubt he’s a real desperado. Then we should go back to those crazy fuckers out at the ranch and kick some more ass. All those satellite dishes and high-tech equipment make me nervous. Not to mention hearing old lady Chalker’s talk of a violent apocalypse.”

“I’m not too keen on getting zapped again with a cattle prod.”

“We go in with a SWAT team and haul Willis in by one testicle, along with those scumbags who assaulted us.”

“Didn’t you guys learn anything from Waco?”

“Better than wasting time with the writer.”

“He’s got a cute daughter.”

“Oh now I get it,” said Fordyce, with a laugh, pouring himself the last of the wine. “Investigating with your glands, I see.”

“I’ll get us another,” said Gideon.

A Miles Davis CD and a second bottle of wine later, Gideon and Fordyce lounged in the cabin’s living room. The sun had set, the evening had gotten chilly, and Gideon had started a fire, which crackled on the hearth, casting a firelight throughout the room.

“Best offal I’ve ever eaten,” said Fordyce, raising his glass.

Gideon drained his glass. Putting it back on the table with a sloppy motion, he realized he was more than half drunk. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Back in the plane, you kept muttering something about monkeys and pussy.”

Fordyce laughed. “It’s an aviation mnemonic. Monkeys find pussy in the rain. It’s the checklist of things you have to do when an engine goes out: Mixture on rich, Fuel on, Pump, Ignition left and right, and so forth.”

Gideon shook his head. “And here I thought it was the wisdom of the ages.”

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