quickly shut down.
“I expected you a lot sooner.”
“Where’s Don? Be careful that garlic doesn’t blacken.”
“Have I ever let the garlic go black and bitter? Don got a call from the Chief to report immediately to the Chief’s house. An hour ago.”
“Reason?”
“Antonio wouldn’t give one over the phone. I made enough for the two of us.”
“The garlic—”
“I know what I’m doing. Do you? Where were you, if I may ask?”
Takes saucepan off burner.
“Your last supper or mine?”
“Don’t change the subject. What kept you?”
“I’ll sit with you, but I have plans for dinner.”
“So what kept you?” Her suspicion is palpable.
“Let me drain the pasta. Sit. I’ll take care of the rest.”
She sits—he serves.
“I’m very sorry, Eliot. It somehow slipped my mind that you don’t know Russian. Let me spell it out in English: What kept you?”
“Varick Street.”
Puts her fork down. Chews and swallows: “You fell off the—”
“We don’t say that anymore if you’re
in
The Program. They only say that in the movies. We, in The fucking Program, say, I went
out
. You want to know if I went
out
?”
“Did you?”
“I went to Varick Street for the purpose of going out. Yes.”
“And you went out?”
“I definitely got my feet wet.”
“Spit it out, Eliot. You slipped.”
“I walked into a deep puddle, that’s what I did.”
“You’re telling me you had quite a few?”
He takes off his shoes and socks and in his big, powerful hands wrings them out on the floor.
“Did you or did you not drink?”
“I was saved by my guardian angel.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not a drop. The bartender was my guardian angel.”
“Suddenly you’re an old-time Catholic?”
“Bred in the bone.”
“Was she good-looking?”
“Who said she?”
“I did.”
“She was young, she was kind, and she distracted me from myself and what I wanted to do.”
“Distracted how? Do I want to know?”
“No idea. I wanted one bad. Then I didn’t want one.”
“She charmed you.”
“Good thing you’re not the jealous type.”
“Says who?”
“Eat your pasta, Catherine, before it cools off, and next time consider adding parsley in with the sautéing garlic and some flakes of chili pepper. If you’re cooking for yourself, lots more black pepper. If for me too, hold the black pepper or I’ll pee every ten minutes for a week.”
“Thank you, Chef. Having dinner with the bartender?”
“Anthony Senzalma.”
“That what she calls herself?”
“Really. Anthony. At Joey’s.”
“What you two have in common beats the hell out of me.”
He reaches across the table and takes her hand.
“I was saved by my guardian angel’s youthful kindness.”
“I’m pretty young. I try to be kind.”
“You are pretty, you are young, and you are always kind.”
“Where did you get it?”
“What?”
“Don’t play games. The shell casing. We have to know.”
“Somebody gave it to me.”
“Stop this game.”
“I’ll never tell, but I will tell you where this party found it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“In the vicinity of Freddy Barbone’s blasted head.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I just told you a fact, Catherine.”
“Wait till Don hears this.”
He pulls her plate and fork over and starts in on the pasta.
“What exactly do you think I’ve just told you, Catherine?”
“Same person who shot Bobby’s dog. Obviously.”
He savors. He swallows:
“Same gun, sure. Not necessarily same shooter. That conclusion won’t hold up, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Because, as you’ve heard, that particular weapon was located in the Utica PD headquarters’ storage, where any number of noble officers of the law have access.” (Pointing his fork:) “You agree?”
“Yes. Now give me the normal human opinion rather than the pitch of a soulless lawyer.”
“Where’s the irrefutable linkage of gun and shooter? Okay, okay. Totally likely the same shooter,
“I expected you a lot sooner.”
“Where’s Don? Be careful that garlic doesn’t blacken.”
“Have I ever let the garlic go black and bitter? Don got a call from the Chief to report immediately to the Chief’s house. An hour ago.”
“Reason?”
“Antonio wouldn’t give one over the phone. I made enough for the two of us.”
“The garlic—”
“I know what I’m doing. Do you? Where were you, if I may ask?”
Takes saucepan off burner.
“Your last supper or mine?”
“Don’t change the subject. What kept you?”
“I’ll sit with you, but I have plans for dinner.”
“So what kept you?” Her suspicion is palpable.
“Let me drain the pasta. Sit. I’ll take care of the rest.”
She sits—he serves.
“I’m very sorry, Eliot. It somehow slipped my mind that you don’t know Russian. Let me spell it out in English: What kept you?”
“Varick Street.”
Puts her fork down. Chews and swallows: “You fell off the—”
“We don’t say that anymore if you’re
in
The Program. They only say that in the movies. We, in The fucking Program, say, I went
out
. You want to know if I went
out
?”
“Did you?”
“I went to Varick Street for the purpose of going out. Yes.”
“And you went out?”
“I definitely got my feet wet.”
“Spit it out, Eliot. You slipped.”
“I walked into a deep puddle, that’s what I did.”
“You’re telling me you had quite a few?”
He takes off his shoes and socks and in his big, powerful hands wrings them out on the floor.
“Did you or did you not drink?”
“I was saved by my guardian angel.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not a drop. The bartender was my guardian angel.”
“Suddenly you’re an old-time Catholic?”
“Bred in the bone.”
“Was she good-looking?”
“Who said she?”
“I did.”
“She was young, she was kind, and she distracted me from myself and what I wanted to do.”
“Distracted how? Do I want to know?”
“No idea. I wanted one bad. Then I didn’t want one.”
“She charmed you.”
“Good thing you’re not the jealous type.”
“Says who?”
“Eat your pasta, Catherine, before it cools off, and next time consider adding parsley in with the sautéing garlic and some flakes of chili pepper. If you’re cooking for yourself, lots more black pepper. If for me too, hold the black pepper or I’ll pee every ten minutes for a week.”
“Thank you, Chef. Having dinner with the bartender?”
“Anthony Senzalma.”
“That what she calls herself?”
“Really. Anthony. At Joey’s.”
“What you two have in common beats the hell out of me.”
He reaches across the table and takes her hand.
“I was saved by my guardian angel’s youthful kindness.”
“I’m pretty young. I try to be kind.”
“You are pretty, you are young, and you are always kind.”
“Where did you get it?”
“What?”
“Don’t play games. The shell casing. We have to know.”
“Somebody gave it to me.”
“Stop this game.”
“I’ll never tell, but I will tell you where this party found it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“In the vicinity of Freddy Barbone’s blasted head.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I just told you a fact, Catherine.”
“Wait till Don hears this.”
He pulls her plate and fork over and starts in on the pasta.
“What exactly do you think I’ve just told you, Catherine?”
“Same person who shot Bobby’s dog. Obviously.”
He savors. He swallows:
“Same gun, sure. Not necessarily same shooter. That conclusion won’t hold up, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Because, as you’ve heard, that particular weapon was located in the Utica PD headquarters’ storage, where any number of noble officers of the law have access.” (Pointing his fork:) “You agree?”
“Yes. Now give me the normal human opinion rather than the pitch of a soulless lawyer.”
“Where’s the irrefutable linkage of gun and shooter? Okay, okay. Totally likely the same shooter,
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