Last Night in Twisted River (57 page)

It was a
driverless
blue Mustang, and it had a mission. Just as Danny, in his mind’s eye, had once imagined his slain two-year-old in diapers on Iowa Avenue, so had the plowman from Winter Park found Joe’s actual body—dead in the road.

CHAPTER 13

KISSES OF WOLVES

A
T 7:30 ON A SATURDAY EVENING
—
IT WAS DECEMBER 23
, the last night before the restaurant closed for the Christmas holiday—Patrice was chock-full. Arnaud was jubilant, greeting everyone at each table as if they were family. The owner’s excitement was infectious. All the diners were informed of the upcoming changes ahead for the restaurant; a more casual atmosphere and menu awaited them in the New Year. “Lower prices, too!” Arnaud told them—shaking hands, bussing cheeks. When the restaurant reopened, even the
name
would be different.

“No more ‘Patrice,’” Arnaud announced, gliding from table to table. “The new name is one you won’t easily forget. It has, I think, a certain
edge!”

“The new restaurant is called
Edge
?” Ketchum asked the Frenchman suspiciously. The old logger was increasingly hard of hearing—especially in his right ear, and Arnaud was speaking at the woodsman’s right side. (There was a noisy crowd that night, and the place was crammed.)

Too much gunfire, Danny Angel was thinking. Ketchum had what he called “shooter’s ear,” but the writer knew that Ketchum was chainsaw-deaf in
both
ears. It probably wouldn’t have mattered which ear Patrice was addressing.

“No, no—the name isn’t Edge, it’s
Kiss of the Wolf!”
Arnaud cried, loudly enough for the new name to register with Ketchum.

Danny and the logger had a window table for two, overlooking what they could see of Yonge Street—above the frosted glass. When the restaurateur had glided on to the next table, Ketchum gave Danny a penetrating stare. “I heard what the Frenchie said,” the old river driver began. “Kiss of the fucking Wolf! Shit—that sounds like a name only a
writer
would have thought up!”

“It wasn’t me,” Danny told him. “It was Silvestro’s idea, and Patrice liked it. Dad didn’t have anything to do with it, either.”

“Mountains of moose shit,” Ketchum said matter-of-factly. “It’s as if you fellas are
trying
to get caught!”

“We’re not going to get caught because of the restaurant’s name,” Danny told the logger. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ketchum. The cowboy can’t find us that way.”

“Carl is still looking for you—that’s all I’m saying, Danny. I don’t know why you want to help the cowboy find you.”

Danny didn’t say anything; he believed it was crazy to think that Carl could ever connect Kiss of the Wolf to the Baciagalupo name. The retired deputy sheriff didn’t speak Italian!

“I’ve seen wolves. I’ve come upon their kill, too,” the old woodsman said to Danny. “I’ll tell you what a kiss of the wolf looks like. A wolf rips your throat out. If there’s a pack going after you, or some other critter, they get you turning to face them, every which way, but there’s always one who’s getting ready to rip your throat out—that’s what they’re looking for, the throat-shot. Kisses of wolves aren’t so pretty!”

“What do you feel like eating?” Danny asked, just to change the subject.

“I’m fairly torn about it,” Ketchum said. He wore reading glasses—of all things!—but they failed to lend him a scholarly appearance. The scar from the eight-inch cast-iron skillet was too pronounced, his beard too bushy. The plaid shirt and fleece vest had too much of Twisted River about them to give Ketchum even a vestige of city life—not to mention fine dining. “I was considering the French-style grilled lamb chops, or the calf’s liver with Yukon frites,” the woodsman said. “What the fuck are Yukon frites?” he asked Danny.

“Big potatoes,” Danny answered. “They’re Yukon Gold potatoes, cut on the large side.”

“The
côte de boeuf
kind of caught my attention, too,” the logger said.

“The
côte de boeuf is
for two,” Danny told him.

“That’s why I noticed it,” Ketchum said. He had been drinking Steam Whistle on tap, but he’d switched to Alexander Keith by the bottle; the ale had a little more to it. “Constipated Christ!” Ketchum suddenly exclaimed. “There’s a wine that costs a hundred and sixty-eight dollars!”

Danny saw that it was a Barolo Massolino, from Piedmont. “Let’s have it,” the writer said.

“Just so long as you’re paying,” Ketchum told him.

OUT IN THE KITCHEN
, it was bedlam as usual. The cook was helping Scott with the profiteroles, which were served with caramel ice cream and a bittersweet-chocolate sauce; Dominic was preparing the croutons and the rouille for Joyce and Kristine’s fish soup as well. It had been the cook’s task, earlier, to make the tagliatelle for the veal scallopini, and tonight the pasta would also be served with Silvestro’s duck confit. But Dominic had made the tagliatelle long before the restaurant (and the kitchen) got busy; he’d started a red-wine reduction with rosemary, too.

It was noisier in the kitchen than usual that Saturday night, because Dorotea, the new dishwasher, had a cast on her right wrist and thumb, and she kept dropping the pans. Everyone was taking bets on what Ketchum was going to order. Silvestro had suggested the special cassoulet, but Dominic said that no sane woodsman would willingly eat beans—not if there was another choice. The cook predicted that Ketchum would have the
côte de boeuf
for two; Joyce and Kristine said that the old river driver would probably order both the lamb chops
and
the liver.

“Or he’ll split the
côte de boeuf
with Daniel, and have either the lamb chops or the liver, too,” Dominic speculated.

Something about the feel of the warm handle on the skillet with the red-wine reduction was distracting him, but the cook couldn’t locate the true source of his distraction. Lately he’d noticed that his old memories were clearer—he meant more vivid—than his more recent memories, if that was actually possible. For instance, he’d found himself remembering that Rosie had said something to Ketchum just before, or just after, they’d all gone out on the ice together. But had Ketchum first said, “Give me your hand”? The cook thought so, but he wasn’t sure.

Rosie had very distinctly said: “Not that hand—that’s the wrong hand.” She’d quickly created a little distance between herself and Ketchum, but was this before or somehow during the damn do-si-doing? Dominic did but didn’t remember, and that was because he’d been drunker than Rosie
and
Ketchum.

Anyway, what was the wrong-hand business about? the cook was wondering; he didn’t really want to ask Ketchum about it. Besides, Dominic was thinking, how much would the eighty-three-year-old logger remember about that long-ago night? After all, Ketchum was still drinking!

One of the younger waiters ventured a guess that the old riverman wouldn’t order
anything
for dinner. He’d already had three Steam Whistles on tap and a couple of Keiths; the old logger couldn’t possibly have room for dinner. But the young waiter didn’t know Ketchum.

Patrice popped into the kitchen. “Ooh-la-la, Dominic,” Arnaud said. “What is your son celebrating? Danny ordered the Barolo Massolino!”

“I’m not worried,” the cook replied. “Daniel can afford it, and you can count on Ketchum drinking most of the wine.”

It was their last night in the kitchen before the long vacation; everyone was working hard, but they were all in a good mood. For Dominic, however, the unknown source of his distraction lingered; he kept feeling the familiar handle of the warm skillet. What is it? he was wondering. What’s wrong?

In the cook’s bedroom in the house on Cluny Drive, the bulletin boards with those countless photographs all but eclipsed from view (or consideration) the eight-inch cast-iron skillet. Yet that skillet had crossed state boundaries and, more recently, an international border; that skillet surely belonged in the cook’s bedroom, though its once-legendary powers of protection had probably passed (as Carmella once speculated) from the actual to the symbolic.

The eight-inch cast-iron skillet hung just inside the doorway to Dominic’s bedroom, where it went almost unnoticed. Why had the cook been thinking about it so insistently—at least since Ketchum had arrived (in his usual unannounced fashion) for Christmas?

Dominic wasn’t aware that Danny had lately been thinking about the old frying pan, too. There was a certain sameness about that skillet; it was unchanged. The damn pan just hung there in his father’s bedroom. It was a constant reminder to the writer, but a reminder of
what?

Okay, it was the same skillet he’d used to kill Injun Jane; as such, it had set Danny and Dominic’s flight in motion. It was the same skillet Dominic had used to whack a bear—or so the myth began. In fact, it was the same eight-inch cast-iron skillet Danny’s dad had used to clobber Ketchum
—not
a bear. But Ketchum had been too tough to kill. (“Only Ketchum can kill Ketchum,” the cook had said.)

Danny and his dad had been thinking about that, too: Even at eighty-three, only Ketchum could kill Ketchum.

The young waiter now came back into the kitchen. “The big man wants the
côte de boeuf
for two!” he announced, in awe. Dominic managed a smile; he would smile again when Patrice popped into the kitchen a little later, just to tell him that his son had ordered a second bottle of the Barolo Massolino. Not even a
côte de boeuf
for two, and uncountable bottles of Barolo, could kill Ketchum, the cook knew. Only Ketchum, and Ketchum alone, could do it.

IT WAS SO HOT IN THE KITCHEN
that they’d opened the back door to the alley—just a crack—though it was a very cold night, and an uncommonly strong wind repeatedly blew the door wide open. In the cold weather, Crown’s Lane, the alleyway behind the restaurant, was a hangout for homeless people. The restaurant’s exhaust fan blew into the alley, creating a warm spot—a good-smelling one, too. An occasional homeless person appeared at the door to the kitchen, hoping for a hot meal.

The cook could never remember whether Joyce or Kristine was the smoker, but one of the young women chefs was once startled by a hungry homeless person when she was smoking a cigarette in the alley. Since then, all of those working in the kitchen, and the waitstaff, were aware of the homeless people seeking warmth and a possible bite to eat in the near vicinity of the kitchen door. (This was also Patrice’s delivery door, though there were never any deliveries at night.)

Now Dominic once more went to close the door, which the bitter wind had again blown wide open, and there was one-eyed Pedro—Patrice’s most popular homeless person, because Pedro never failed to compliment the chef (or chefs) for whatever food he was given. His real name was Ramsay Farnham, but he’d been disowned by the Farnham family—a fine, old Toronto family, famous patrons of the arts. Now in his late forties or early fifties, Ramsay had repeatedly embarrassed the Farnhams. As a last straw, at an impromptu press conference at an otherwise forgettable cultural event, Ramsay had announced that he was giving away his inheritance to an AIDS hospice in Toronto. He also claimed to be finishing a memoir, explaining why he’d half-blinded himself. He said he had lusted after his mother his whole adult life, and while he’d never had sex with her—nor murdered his father—he had truly wanted to. Hence he’d blinded himself only in one eye, the left one, and had renamed himself Pedro—not Oedipus.

No one knew if Pedro’s eye patch covered an empty eye socket or a perfectly healthy left eye, or why he’d picked Pedro for his new name. He was cleaner than most homeless people; while his parents would have nothing to do with him, perhaps there were other, more sympathetic members of the Farnham family who allowed Ramsay (now Pedro) to have an occasional bath and wash his clothes. Of course he was insane, but he’d received an excellent education and was preternaturally well-spoken. (As for the memoir, either it was forever a work-in-progress or he’d not written a word of it.)

“Good evening to you, Dominic,” one-eyed Pedro greeted the cook, while Dominic was dealing with the windblown kitchen door.

“How are you, Pedro?” the cook asked. “A little hot food might do you some good on a cold night like this one.”

“I’ve been entertaining similar thoughts, Dominic,” Pedro replied, “and while I’m aware that the exhaust fan is most imprecise, I believe I detect something special tonight—something not on the menu—and unless my nose deceives me, Silvestro has outdone himself, yet again, with a cassoulet.”

Dominic had never known Pedro’s nose to deceive him. The cook gave the homeless gentleman a generous serving of the cassoulet, warning him not to burn himself on the baking dish for the beans. In return, Pedro volunteered to hold the kitchen door open—just a crack—with his foot.

“It is an honor to smell the aromas of Patrice’s kitchen firsthand, unadulterated by the exhaust fan,” Pedro told Dominic.

“Unadulterated,” the cook repeated quietly, to himself, but to Pedro he said: “You know, we’re changing our name—after Christmas.”

“‘After Christmas’ is a curious name for a restaurant, Dominic,” the homeless man said thoughtfully. “Not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know. The duck is exquisite, by the way—and I love the sausage!” Pedro added.

“No, no—we’re not
calling
the restaurant After Christmas!” the cook cried. “The new name is Kiss of the Wolf.” The homeless man stopped eating and stared at the cook. “It wasn’t my choice,” Dominic told him quickly.

“You have to be kidding,” Pedro said. “That is a
famous
porn film—it’s one of the
worst porn
films I’ve ever seen, but it’s famous. I’m certain that’s the title.”

“You must be mistaken, Pedro,” Dominic said. “Maybe it sounds better in Italian,” the cook added meaninglessly.

“It’s not an
Italian
porn film!” the homeless man cried. He handed the unfinished cassoulet back to Dominic, the baking dish for the beans sliding across the plate of duck and sausage. (The baking dish briefly burned the cook’s thumbs.)

“Kiss of the Wolf
can’t
be a porn film,” Dominic said, but Pedro was retreating into the alley, shaking his huge mane of hair, his grizzled beard wagging.