Uptown Local and Other Interventions by Diane Duane Page A

over, were still wafting out of that kitchen. Some of those scents Annabelle knew very well: she was one of SPQR’s many suppliers. White marjoram, she thought, instantly catching the aroma, along with someone else’s homegrown oregano. I can’t believe they’re putting that in spaghetti sauce. Well, yes, considering the prices, I guess I can—
    She had no more time for critique of a dish she could only smell and not see. The room was empty now, the thick glass tables naked. Back near the stainless-steel front wall of the open kitchen was a large circular table, with a very unfashionable linen cloth on it, and at it sat two people: a slender, dark little woman in a trim business suit, and a large, broad, tall, man with a mustache that reminded her of Harl’s. That man Annabelle knew, if only from Sunday supplements in the Tribune, and repeats on the local PBS station: Adelio Famagiusta, sorcerer and TV chef, famous all over the Midwest for the chain of restaurants of which SPQR was flagship, as well as for his never-ending succession of cookbooks, his relentless self-promotion, his flamboyant lifestyle, and his temper. As they headed for the table, Famagiusta got up to greet them, scowling. “Ah now,” he said, “you bring me a pretty lady, is that all this meeting is about, this big hurry hurry phone call, don’t you know I’m flying out to Napoli this evening?”
    “No I don’t,” George said, going straight to the chef and hugging him, “and no you’re not, not when you hear what we have to tell you. Annabelle, this is Adelio Famagiusta. Adelio, Annabelle. Let’s all sit down.”
    They sat. There was already wine on the table, and the chef poured Annabelle a glass and pushed it across to her. “Barolo,” he said. “Good enough for me, good enough for you. Giorgio, what is this about? You tell me, bring money? I bring money.” He nodded at the little dark woman with the long hair.
    She smiled at Annabelle, waggled her eyebrows. “Janine Weller,” she said. “I’m with Dolph Millett Grond.”
    It was one of the biggest accountancy firms in the city, suitably lofty to be handling the accounts of a one-man microindustry. Annabelle smiled at her, as much to cover up how at sea she felt as for any reason of mere courtesy.
    “Annabelle,” George said, “tell Adelio about the lady who came in yesterday morning, and again today.”
    She looked at George, confused. George just closed his eyes and made a “Go on…” gesture with his head: so Annabelle told the story. At first Famagiusta made no particular reaction. Neither did Ms. Weller, who just sat between Famagiusta and George doodling on the linen tablecloth with a ballpoint pen, as unconcernedly as if it was a paper placemat. She seemed hardly to be paying all that much attention until Annabelle mentioned the numbers, the price of the scrolls. That figure got jotted down, and the accountant’s pen began playing with the numbers, as if of its own accord.
    When Annabelle got to the part about Mrs. Kaftan setting the scrolls on fire, she was surprised to see the expression that fleeted across Famagiusta’s face: alarm. “Now,” George said, “the scrying.” He turned to Annabelle. “Can you reproduce the results of what you saw last night?”
    She blinked. “You mean, not a new scrying? Just a repeat? Well, yes—”
    Annabelle reached into her purse, pulled out the broken compact. “Wine,” she said, “that we have. Can I get some water?”
    “Still or sparkling?” Adelio said.
    “Uh, still, please.”
    The chef got up, still wearing that faintly alarmed look, and went back into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Enough?”
    “Yes, thank you—” Annabelle opened the bottle, pit a finger into her wine glass, carefully pulled out one drop of wine, a second, a third, and dropped them into the water bottle. Then she said the appropriate spell under her breath, opened the compact, and poured out