Neil? What is it?” Larry said. Neil seemed to be in a trance. Larry knew there were only two things that had that effect on his cousin—Isabella Tortellini and gourmet food. He didn’t hear Isabella or her giant bodyguard, Jones, come in, so presumably there was a delectable dish being served somewhere. “C’mon, snap out of it, chef-boy,” Larry said, snapping his fingers in Neil’s ear.
Neil continued to ignore him. He walked out of the office and into the kitchen . . . where Gary was hovering over the farthest stove, humming and stirring something on the burner in front of him.
The powerful aroma filled Neil’s nose.
“What are you doing?” Neil asked slowly.
Gary spun around with a surprised look on his face. He had been so engrossed that he hadn’t heard Neil and Larry walk up behind him. He dropped the spoon. It clattered to the floor.
“Hey, dude, you, like, scared me. Don’t mess with my head like that, okay?”
“What are you doing?” Neil repeated.
“I’m just making a snack. I get hungry being around all this food.”
Neil walked past him and stood over the pot Gary had been stirring so meticulously. The aroma hit him like a ton of bricks—bricks of glorious fresh seafood. Gary was making a bouillabaisse—a simple fish stew, but it smelled amazing.
The distinct aroma reminded Neil of something. It was the smell of a longhouse ceremony, when he’d been eleven. He’d been invited as a special guest by the great aboriginal chef Joe Chinook after Neil had helped Chinook recover a stolen stash of incredibly valuable spiny scallops.
No one could stumble upon a mixture like this by chance.
He turned on Gary with a furious look. “Where did you learn to make this? Who are you?” Neil glared.
Gary looked scared. He’d only known Neil for a few hours but had already heard him shatter glass with his voice. “Gary, man. Just Gary.”
Neil grabbed a ladleful of stew and held it accusingly in front of Gary. “Okay, just Gary . . . where did you learn to make just THIS? Living under the Burrard Street Bridge?”