Cold Deck: A Novel

34

||| 155 ||| Even if it didn’t show all over you, just asking about Moser tells me you got troubles.” When he opened his wallet to fold the money inside, he pulled out a business card and jotted something on the back. “On the back are my cell and home numbers. I don’t know what you’re into, but these are bad people. Sometime soon, you’ll be needing help, and my fee doesn’t go down. Might go up, in fact.” “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” “And keep this in mind. Moser used to hang with some bad characters at the Horseshoe. You know some of the scum that place used to attract when Teddy was alive. Thanks for the beer.” Biggs folded his cellular phone, slipped it in his shirt pocket, and stepped toward the door. “You didn’t tell me where Ben Goldman lives.” Biggs stopped and looked back. “1720 South Tomsik. Off Charleston near Oakey. Beer’s getting warm.” He opened the door and disappeared into the smoky dimness. The address he’d given me was Audie’s. I began to digest the information . I could fill in a few more blanks now, but as I did a fresh series of blanks appeared. So it was true Audie lived in a house owned by Ben, the one truth she’d probably told me. But Ben lived in a house that she and her husband, or whatever he was, owned. Why? It occurred to me as I opened the door to the rental car that I hadn’t figure Patty Lane into any of questions or that she might be part of the answer to at least one of them. Who was behind all of this? 34 I spent the afternoon preparing dinner—flank steaks stuffed with banana peppers, bleu cheese, and chopped garlic; Caesar salad; vine-ripened tomato slices topped with provolone and fresh mint, smothered in wine vinegar and virgin olive oil; fresh asparagus steamed, lightly buttered; bow-tie pasta in Alfredo sauce; and a dessert of raspberries chilled in a bed of Gran Marnier. It was an adult meal, hardly the kind my kids appreciated, but I wanted them to experience something other than the usual steaks or burgers and baked potatoes, or the vegetarian dishes Anne subjected them to. I cooked also because I needed to reflect on life as I’d once thought it could be. I was in the critical stages, tossing the salad, steaming asparagus, and broiling steaks, my attention divided evenly among the three, when Beth stepped into the kitchen. Lucas hung back. Any error might ruin a meal or ||| 156 ||| turn it mediocre, which to my mind was worse. I told them to go away, that I’d call them when dinner was ready. “Jeez,” Lucas said. “It’s not like you’re Wolfgang Puck.” “Who?” I asked. “Dad, Lucas has a kazoo up his butt,” Beth said, an expression she’d gotten from me. Lucas held his palms up to the sky. “It’s natural. Everyone does it, even women. Dad, did you know the average woman farts thirteen times a day?” “Who’s Wolfgang Puck?” I asked again, playing dumb. “Some famous guy who owns restaurants,” Lucas said. “I figure Mom does more than the average woman.” “I don’t care about your mother’s farts. And don’t talk about her that way.” “Smells good,” Beth said. “Thanks. Now, both of you, go away.” I took a deep breath, then another. I stirred the Alfredo sauce, checked the asparagus and put it on the hot plate, opened the oven, took a fork and turned the steaks, then set the salad on the table. I cupped my palms to my nose and smelled garlic, Parmesan, fresh lettuce. What I didn’t smell was egg. Why can’t we smell or see what is most obvious, I wondered. If I set the salad outside for a day, what I’d smell would be rotten egg. I returned to the kitchen, poured water from the asparagus into the sink, added two tablespoons of butter, a pinch of fresh basil and balsamic vinegar, and stirred the mix. I poured it in a serving bowl. I imagined myself a chef and thought no job, other than being a general in a theater of war, demands more control. I was in control. On a roll. On a high. I sniffed the bowl. How can we be sure? The answer...