First Thrills - Lee Child [18]
RIP GERBER
Apertivo
Chris, I’m pregnant.”
Everything about that dinner is vivid, crystallized in my mind: the smell of garlic-roasted cauliflower on the stove, the honeyed taste of her lips, the toasty softness of her body . . . such a delicious sensory hash does not fade with time, it grows stronger, more complex, like a Chateau Mouton Rothschild or Italian Caciocavallo Podolico cheese. Delectably unforgettable.
Like murder.
Nine o’clock, Monday night, seems like a million years ago. Mary and I were cooking together for the first time in months. That evening she had planned a surprise, even left work early to pick up provisions at the farmer’s market.
“Tell me,” I teased.
“Get back to work. Chop those onions,” she replied.
“Not even a hint?”
My pleas fell on wooden ears. I would sneak behind her as she worked, pushing myself into her, kissing the back of her neck, slipping my hands under her brown chef’s apron, sucking in the smell of her sweet blonde hair. And she’d bark at me like a mess sergeant: Trim the meat! Fire up the grill! Pour yourself some Chardonnay!
“No wine for love bug?” I asked.
“Uh-uh.”
“Not even a sip?”
That’s when I knew. I rested my chin on her shoulder, grabbed her belly from behind. “Can’t feel anything.”
“You’re in there baking, trust me,” she whispered, then we kissed.
“So much for joining the clergy.”
She laughed. On our first date back in New York I had been wearing black pants, a black turtleneck, and a black sports jacket. She had called me The Priest. Ever since, whenever I wore black like I had that night, she’d joke that I would have made one hot reverend, a priest with benefits, a pope that poked. The clergy jokes were endless, she couldn’t get enough. The curse of a Catholic upbringing.
While she chopped and steamed and grated, I took my wine into the living room, my head spinning. What else could I do? I was going to be a dad. I flipped channels between commercials and the news and the Cowboys Monday night game.
“Damn, I forgot mushrooms for the oysters,” she shouted, her voice muffled under the stove exhaust fan. “Honey, can you go around the corner and get some buttons?”
“What are those?”
“It doesn’t matter. Porcinis, shiitakes . . . what ever they have.”
“Hey, Peter Radin’s on TV!” I said, sitting up. Ten years ago Peter and I joined the Guardsmen together, a Houston charity that raised money for inner-city youth. While I stayed in software, he moved up in state politics; now he was running for the board of supes. “God, Peter looks great.”
“Are you getting those mushrooms for me?” Mary shouted.
“In a few minutes? I can never tell those damn things apart.”
“That’s OK, I could use the walk. Just keep stirring my soup.”
“Thanks, honey.” Then she left.
Just keep stirring my soup.
The last words I would ever hear my wife say.
Insalate e Zuppa
It was dead cold that night in Houston. The Prince Market at the corner of King and Jensen glowed yellow like a beacon, drawing the killer out of the shadows. The streets were empty, dark. All clear. His stomach gurgled, but tonight he would feast on vengeance. Tonight, at last, he would kill the Turk.
“I’ve been patient,” he muttered to himself. “Now it’s Puffer time.”
He entered the quaint grocery. All quiet except for the trumpets blaring from the television that hung from the ceiling. Puff was hungry; he hadn’t eaten all day. Part of the plan. When the Turk bastard shot his son in this very store two years ago, his boy had been starving, too. His boy wasn’t some gangbanger, he was just hungry; all he wanted was the ninety bucks in the register and a stupid box of cereal, but the Turk wasted