Having missed breakfast because of the murderous Chang, having missed lunch because of the need to teleport to Montana and gear up for a monster hunt, having had only coffee and a cookie at Erika’s place, with Mary Margaret’s incomparably delicious apple dumplings now a thousand air miles away, Carson and Michael decided that the first order of business, after checking in to Falls Inn, would be an early dinner.
Still in their California clothes, but too self-conscious to stroll into a restaurant in storm suits and ski boots, they walked two blocks, shivering, to the Andy Andrews Café. Copper ceiling, pine-paneled walls, red-and-white checkered tablecloths: The place was clean and cozy, a haven in a madhouse world.
As New Orleans police officers, then as homicide detectives, and subsequently as private investigators, they had always done their best work when well fed. Indeed, in Carson’s mind—and in Michael’s, too—cop work and good eats were inextricably linked. You couldn’t bust bad guys with high style and aplomb if you didn’t eat great food with gusto. Conversely, if you weren’t busting bad guys—if, say, you spent the week doing paperwork or giving depositions or, God forbid, on vacation—even the most exquisite culinary creations seemed to have less flavor than usual.
Before they were seated at their table, she knew that the Andy Andrews Café was aces. The aromatic air and the mouthwatering look of the comfort food on the other diners’ plates made her stomach flutter and her knees go weak.
They ordered a bottle of superb California cabernet sauvignon; because whatever Victor the clone might be up to, he wasn’t likely to detonate a nuclear device at the intersection of Cody Street and Beartooth Avenue later this evening or commit an equivalent atrocity requiring them to be abstinent and ready. Assuming the clone was as drunk with pride and as given to vainglory as his cloner had been, his experiments would be fraught with setbacks, resulting in the perpetual revision of his schedule for world domination.
“I kind of like Rainbow Falls,” Michael said.
“It’s quaint,” she agreed.
Indicating two different couples, he said, “We could have worn our storm suits.”
Referring to a few other customers, she said, “Or cowboy hats.”
“They don’t seem to go in for the goth look around here.”
“Or motorcycle-gang chic.”
“There’s definitely less nostril jewelry.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” she said.
“If we lived here, Scout could grow up to be a rodeo cowgirl.”
“Fine with me, as long as there’s a way she can transition from that to the presidency.”
“Her campaign slogan could be, ‘No bull ever threw me, and I won’t throw any bull.’”
“Now if the country can just survive until she’s old enough to run for office.”
They ordered the same thing: homemade meat loaf with green chiles and cheese sauce, which came with a glistening mound of paper-thin home fries, baked corn, pepper slaw, cornbread, and enough whipped butter to grease an eighteen-wheeler.
Everything was so delicious that neither of them spoke for a minute or two, until Michael said, “Do you remember—on the menu, do they give the name and number of a cardiologist?”
“They don’t have cardiologists in towns as small as this. You just call up Roto-Rooter.”
After the dishes had been taken away and as Carson and Michael were lingering over the last of the wine, a young woman entered the café and crossed the room to a table near the wall, without waiting for the hostess to seat her. She might have been such a regular that she had privileges, but there was something odd about her behavior that suggested otherwise.
“Pretty girl,” Michael said.
“Anything else, Casanova?”
“She’s stiff.”
“By which you don’t mean drunk.”
“By which I mean wooden—the way she moves.”
The woman sat with her arms slack, hands in her lap. Motionless, she stared not at anything or anyone in the room but as if at some distant curiosity.
“Michael, there’s something wrong with her.”
“Maybe she’s just had a rotten day.”
“Look how pale she is.”
“What’s that face jewelry?” he asked.
“Where? On her temple?”
A waitress approached the woman’s table.
“I’ve never seen jewelry like that before.”
“How’s it held on?” Carson wondered.
“Are people now gluing things to their faces?”
“Life’s getting too weird for me,” she said, and her words were like an incantation that summoned more weirdness into the world.