by Клео Коул
“And why don’t you follow orders?”
Silence ensued for a good five seconds. Crowley’s cheeks turned the color of pink peppercorns. Then he spoke through a pair of calcified jaws.
“Yes, sir. Meet you at the hospital.”
Six
After pointing out my car to the lieutenant, Michael Quinn led me to his official vehicle and helped me into the passenger seat. The Chevy Suburban might have been roomy if all kinds of extra gear hadn’t been jammed into the compartment — a computer and GPS unit, a radio that constantly crackled with chatter from all over the borough, and a rack between the passenger and driver to hold a shorter version of the claw-topped shaft every fireman seemed to carry.
“It’s called a Halligan tool,” the captain replied when I asked.
“I see. Why were the firemen tearing out the café walls with it, after the flames were out?”
“You mean after the flames appeared to be out.” The captain tossed his helmet into the backseat. “Fire’s a canny beast. She can hide in the walls, the ceilings, the floorboards.”
She, I noted. He thinks of the fire-beast as a she. There must be a story behind that...
The captain leaned over, opened the glove compartment. “Here,” he said, handing me a plastic packet of some kind of snack food. “Eat.”
I didn’t argue — or care, frankly, what the heck it was. There were carbs here and I was light-headed. I ripped it open.
“So what else is the Halligan tool used for? I mean, besides breaking things?” (I said this around a less-than-ladylike mouthful of what tasted like cheddar cheese filled pretzel bites. If it had been royal beluga on a half baguette, I couldn’t have shoveled it in any faster.)
“Let me put it to you this way,” the captain said, swinging the Suburban around to get clear of the trucks. “King Arthur civilized the British Isles with Excaliber. Babe Ruth broke every record with his Louisville Slugger. And every man jack of us in the FDNY tames the beast with his Halligan tool.”
The she-beast? Hmm... “I think I’m getting it,” I said. And, brother, does it sound Freudian.
The captain peered through the windshield. “Now where the hell is Oat and that car of yours?”
My mouth full again, I pointed then swallowed. “Up the block. He’s driving the red Honda.”
“If that’s your clunker, then you really shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now — or ever.”
“You’re the second man to insult my car tonight. Not everyone can afford the latest model, you know? It might not look like much, but my Honda’s got pep. And it still gets good gas mileage.”
“So does a horse. Really, honey. I’m worried about Oat’s safety. Running into a fire is one thing, driving that death-trap is another.”
“Why do you call Lieutenant Crowley ‘Oat’?”
“You haven’t seen him without his bottle top — ”
“His what?
“His soup bucket, his umbrella.”
“English?”
“His fire helmet. You haven’t seen him without his head gear.”
“Oh.”
“He’s prematurely gray,” the captain explained. “When Crowley was still a probie, someone at breakfast noticed his hair was the same color as the milky oatmeal being served and the name stuck.”
“He’s named after oatmeal? I’m sure he hates that moniker.”
“Trust me, it could have been worse.”
As we came to a red light, the Number 7 train rumbled loudly along the elevated train tracks over our heads. When it finally passed, the captain turned toward me.
“Clare...” His tone was different, no longer playful. “Earlier you said someone else might have a motive to torch old man Enzo’s shop.”
“Yes.”
“Who exactly were you thinking of accusing?”
I may have been tired and feeling a little weak, but a part of me came alert with that question. Maybe it was the way the man asked — as if he were afraid of knowing the person. Maybe it was something else. But I went with my gut and held my tongue.
“You were right, Michael,” I replied carefully. “It’s not my line of work. Forget I said anything.”
Elmhurst Hospital was an incongruous sight: a shiny, ultramodern facility planted in the middle of a hardscrabble neighborhood of worn-out storefronts and rundown row houses, most of them packed with recent immigrants from Ecuador, India, Colombia, and Pakistan. By the time we turned onto the hospital’s drive, I’d decided that I would put some questions to Enzo Testa. I didn’t believe the old coffeehouse owner was responsible for torching his own business. But I was far from convinced that the fire was accidental.
Fire Marshal Rossi had given me his card and told me I could contact him with any further information that I believed was pertinent. As far as I was concerned, that was an invitation to find some.
As I checked my watch again, Captain Michael swung his official vehicle up to the ER entrance and cut the engine.
“You know, darlin’,” he said, “it’s not too late to forgo the hospital’s oxygen for a little mouth to mouth at my place.”
Give it up, man. “I don’t think so.”
“You sure? It’s late and you’re taking your chances in there. The ER will be packed. You could be here for a long time, only to be seen by an exhausted intern with a funny-sounding name on the unlucky thirteenth hour of a fourteen-hour shift.”
I popped the door. “Thanks — but I’ll take my chances with the exhausted intern.”
My knees nearly gave out as I jumped down from the high vehicle, but I felt a whole lot better a moment later, when Mike Quinn, my Mike Quinn, pushed through the ER’s exterior doors, his ruddy complexion looking pale in the halogen-flooded entryway.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
I nodded.
Mike’s arms went around me. The embrace was much needed, but it came with the slight, familiar stab from the handle of his service weapon, tucked into the holster beneath his sport coat and trench. The momentary prod perfectly summed up our relationship — extraordinarily affectionate, punctuated with the occasional, unexpected jab (metaphorically speaking).
My ex-husband once called the man Dudley Do-Right, but Mike wasn’t perfect or even above using a dodgy ploy to get the job done. He hadn’t started out as a suit-wearing detective, either. He’d earned his gold shield by coming up in the ranks, which included decorated undercover work as an anticrime street cop, so he was far from naïve or a guy you’d want to cross.
Still my ex was right about one thing: Crime solving wasn’t a game to Mike Quinn. It was the fulfillment of what he saw as an almost sacred obligation to remove murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and predators from the rest of the population, which was why I didn’t mind the familiar little butt from his weapon. I liked the momentary reminder of my man’s place in the world, his dedication to a job that protected the weak, the innocent, the naively trustworthy — which occasionally included yours truly.
When we parted, he held me at arm’s length for a cool Mike-like once-over, from the top of my smoke-scented hair to the tips of my soiled, ruined boots.
“I’m fine, Mike, really. How is Madame? And Dante?”
“They’re both doing well.”
“Thank goodness.”
“They’ll probably release Mrs. Dubois in the next hour,” Mike said. “Dante Silva is awake, with a mighty big headache. He may have a concussion so they’re waiting for the results of his tests before they’ll release him. And Mr. Testa isn’t doing so well...”
I tensed. “What’s wrong with Enzo?”
“It’s his heart they’re worried about, but he’s in good hands. They’re monitoring every beat in the ICU — ”
And that’s when it came: the slam. Like a gunshot, the driver’s side door on the Suburban opened and closed with explosive force.
“Hi there, Mikey.”
Arms folded, Captain Michael Quinn regarded his cousin across the vehicle’s hood then
flashed him what might have been a grin if it hadn’t look more like the baring of gritted teeth.
Crap. I’d held out hope that we’d dodged this bullet, but it came all the same.
“Tore yourself away from doling out traffic tickets to check up on the little lady, eh?”
Mike’s eyes went dead cold. “Excuse me a minute, sweetheart,” he said with disturbing calm. In a few smooth strides he’d circumvented the front of the Suburban to confront his cousin.
The two were pretty evenly matched, which is to say both were over six feet with wide shoulders, long legs, and prize-fighter reaches. Captain Michael may have been a bit taller, but I’d seen Mike power-cuff suspects with the kind of fluid force that I doubted the fireman could counter.
The conversation began with the captain folding his arms and muttering something. Mike’s eyes narrowed, and he shoved his finger into the breast of his cousin’s bunker coat. His other hand reached backward, toward his belt, as if he were going for his handcuffs. Now the captain’s eyes blazed, and I feared a shouting match — or worse — was about to explode.
“Guys, don’t fight!” I called.
Without even glancing in my direction, the men stepped farther away, locking themselves in a furious, whispered exchange.
I strained my ears to hear what the two were saying, but the noise of traffic and hospital workers was too loud. Finally, when it looked like fisticuffs were about to break out, a third figure in fireman’s gear thrust himself between the men.
“Knock it off!” Oat Crowley barked.
That I heard.
Crowley reached into his pocket and shoved a set of keys into Mike’s hand. “Your girlfriend’s car is parked down that block.” He pointed then shot a naked glare my way before pushing against his boss with both arms. “C’mon, Cap, I’m going inside to check on Ronny Shaw, and you need to go back to the firehouse. There’s paperwork waiting.”
Captain Michael looked pleased with the scene he’d created, even threw a final, cheeky wink in my direction before turning back to continue arguing with Oat.
My Mike didn’t miss the devil’s wink. He came back to me in body after that but not in spirit. “Let’s go inside,” he said, taking my elbow a little too roughly.
“No! What was that all about?”
“Forget it happened,” he said with a brusque finality that I rarely heard from him. The retrograde attitude sounded more like his cousin’s.
“Sorry. No sale.” I planted myself.
“This is not the time or place, Clare.” His expression was still rigid, but when he spoke once more, his tone was softer. “Please.” He stepped close, put his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s not do this. Let’s go check on your friends.”
I didn’t argue. Not then. Mike wasn’t wrong about the timing. So I shelved my questions (for the moment) and let him guide me through the doors of the emergency room.
Seven
“Osso buco is another example,” Madame was saying.
“Is that beef? Like the bourguignon?” The voice was gruffly male, its pitch low enough to dub James Earl Jones.
“Veal, dear. The veal hind shank, to be precise, sawed into three-inch-thick pieces...”
As I came around the white partitioning curtain in the busy ER, I found Madame regally propped on the pristine sheets of a narrow hospital stretcher. Her silk pantsuit was still smoke stained and wrinkled, but her face was freshly washed, her hair brushed into a sleek silver pageboy.
Relief washed over me — along with fear, anger, gratefulness — the internal emotional swell was nearly as powerful as the moment I’d seen her carried out of that charred caffè.
She hadn’t yet noticed me. Her focus was on the man occupying the next stretcher, and I was glad of that. It gave me a few moments to swallow back tears, compose myself.
“So how hard is to make?” asked Madame’s ER neighbor.
The bare-chested guy wore black leather pants and a Vandyke beard long enough to braid. Every inch of skin art along his muscled arms had something to do with Harley Davidson, and if that weren’t enough of a giveaway, the flaming hog across his chest released scripted exhaust that plainly read Hells Angels.
“Osso buco? It’s a snap!” Madame chirped. “Salt and pepper the shanks, dredge them in flour, and brown them in a skillet with a bit of olive oil. Then just cover with a mixture of chicken or veal stock, sautéed onions, carrots, and celery and dry white wine — or French vermouth, whichever you prefer.”
“I like bourbon. Can I use bourbon?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“So why put flour on the shanks if you’re covering ’em with stock, anyways?”
“As the shanks are braising, flour will thicken the sauce for you. Then there’s no need for more difficult measures.”
“I get it. Cooking time?”
“Two hours or so. Finish with a sprinkle of gremolata to add a sprightly flavor note.”
“Gremo-what-a?”
“It’s just a bit of minced garlic with chopped parsley and zest from a lemon.”
“Oh, zest! I know zest! I seen them make zest on the Food Channel. You grate it off citrus skins with a metal file, right?”
“Almost, dear. That zesting tool is called a Microplane — ”
I cleared my throat. Madame turned. “Clare!”
I stepped into her open arms, and the festive aroma of grappa on her breath lifted my spirits. The clashing acrid-ness of smoke in her hair, however, ignited other feelings — ugly ones. I wanted to know who was responsible for putting her here, and I wanted them to pay.
“How are you, Madame?”
“Fit as a Stradivarius.”
“Did you call Otto?”
Otto Visser was the “younger man” in Madame’s life. (He was only pushing seventy.) The dignified, European-born gallery owner had become smitten with my former mother-in-law after they’d eye-flirted across a semicrowded Manhattan dining room. The two had been a couple ever since.
“I’m not troubling Otto with this,” Madame stated.
“That’s crazy.” I pulled out my cell. “I’ll call him.”
“Please don’t.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not?”
“Otto’s hosting an important dinner between a promising young painter and a very serious Japanese collector. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to hurt the artist’s prospects.”
Considering what the woman had just gone through, I found that reply frustrating, although I knew where it came from. For decades, Madame had run our Village Blend as a second home for poets, writers, dramatists, and yes — as cliché as it sounded — struggling fine artists.
Actors, dancers, singers, writers, visual artists, and students burning to prove themselves worthy of said identifiers still frequented our Village coffeehouse. But the neighborhood’s skyrocketing real estate values had driven the majority of them to more affordable neighborhoods in Brooklyn, here in Queens, and (in the case of many jazz musicians) North Jersey.
Back in Madame’s prime, however, when Greenwich Village was still a “cheap” place to live on Manhattan island, she’d befriended some true legends of the art world (before they’d become legends): Hopper, Pollock, de Kooning, Rauschenberg, Warhol, Lichtenstein, even the graffiti prodigy Jean-Michel Basquiat.
She’d also known artists, just as talented, who’d failed. Not in their art but in their ability to make a passable living at it. What the bottle and needle didn’t claim, the demands of day jobs or young families did. So it was no mystery to me why Madame didn’t want to feel responsible for interfering with even one aspiring artist’s sale.
Still, I had to point out: “When Otto finds out, he’ll be extremely upset that you didn’t call.”
Madame waved her hand. “To tell you the truth, dear, the last time I was in harm’s way — you recall, don’t you? At Matteo’s wedding last year?”
“The shooting?”
“Yes, for weeks after that little incident, Otto was s
olicitous to the point of annoyance. I’d rather not go through that again. I do adore the man, but a woman needs her space.”
Madame glanced up then, beyond me, into the vast fluorescent bustle of the ER’s central area. “And where is your knightly young officer?”
Knightly? That’s a first. I pointed. “Waiting room.”
“I must tell you, Clare, he took excellent care of me, found me a sparkling water, brought me a hairbrush and mirror. Oh!” She pointed to my shoulder. “I see you have my bag. At last, I can do my makeup.”
I handed over the recovered booty. As Madame pulled out her compact and lipstick, I heard male laughter and hearty greetings coming through the closed curtain to her right. That patient, whoever he was, had just gotten a visitor. At the same moment, I realized the Biker Guy on the stretcher to the left of Madame was watching us with interest — easy enough to do because the partitioning curtain on his side was pulled completely open.
“Howyadoin’?” he called when he noticed me noticing him.
“Fine,” I replied, then gestured to the plastic brace around his neck (the one beneath his narrow version of a ZZ Top beard). “What happened? Traffic accident? Spin out?”
“Slipped in the shower.”
“Oh...”
“Clare, this is Diggy-Dog Dare.” Madame turned to the biker. “Diggy, this is Clare Cosi, my daughter-in-law — ”
“Ex,” I corrected, and not for the first time.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Diggy replied in basso profundo.
“Before you arrived, we were exchanging recipes,” Madame explained. “Diggy gave me his favorite: tequila chicken.”
“With tomatillo sauce,” Diggy noted.
“And I gave him my bourguignon-style short ribs and — ”
“Osso buco,” I interjected with a nod. “I overheard.”
Madame tapped her chin. “Now that I think of it, dear, didn’t you used to make a steak with bourbon sauce? I recall Matt raving about it and Diggy has a proclivity for bourbon. Don’t you, Diggy?”
“A proclivity? No. But I do like it a lot.”
