The dark rump of the Lower East Side, seventeen minutes after McCluskey’s message, a rare day of Manhattan work (Brooklyn her bread, the Bronx Hannah’s butter), homicide two floors above the Chinese car service, brick tenement building with red-painted fire escape, body still inside, probably nothing, probably drugs, but not much happening elsewhere, and besides, she likes to keep in with Manhattan South Homicide. The sound of screaming children issues from the schoolyard at the corner of the block, another same-old day about to start at the sound of the bell, and fifty yards up the street, outside the crime scene, more of the same-old as well, street gift-wrapped in yellow-black tape, two uniforms on the door, crowd milling about, the neighborhood starting to stitch its own story into the breeze, and McCluskey comes out, losing the gloves, clapping the first uniform on the back, shaking hands with the second, his eyes reaching for the distance, long breath as he buttons his suit jacket, rubs his nose back and forth, and then, eyes returning, sees Hannah there, waves. Smoothing his gray crest of hair, McCluskey stoops to climb through the tape—POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS—surprisingly nimble for a ten-ton truck of a man.
Hey, Aitch, how’s tricks?
Detective McCluskey. Detective Colón not with you today?
What, I’m not good enough for you now? He’s off procuring vital supplies.
Glazed or jelly?
Jeez, Hannah, you freakin hacks, you’re so full of clichés. That’s what you think, after what I just feasted my eyes on?
Sorry, Detective.
Yeah, well, at least whoever did this was good enough to take the bath part of bloodbath to heart.
So the body was in the tub, right?
Sure. Nine-tenths of him. But look, Colón can fill you in. I gotta go make a call, says McCluskey, pulling his phone from his jacket, but then looking at the screen as if he’s forgotten how to turn the thing on, tilting his head back to her, Oh, one more thing, Hannah—did someone tell me you were writing a book?
Supposed to be. True crime. Apparently that’s my wheelhouse.
You got a particular case in mind?
A couple of thoughts, nothing fixed.
You know what I think? You should do the Angie Bell homicide.
Sure, only I need something with an ending, McCluskey.
Oh, I’ve got your ending. It’s the psychic, no-brainer. The facts that little creep knew? What, from the magic fairy vibes in the air? No way, Hannah, that guy’s about as psychic as my big Irish balls.
McCluskey stands there, looking at her as if, after the gentle toss of a softball, Hannah has failed to go deep, hasn’t even taken a swing.
Hey, what gives, Hannah? Something up?
No … Go make your call.
McCluskey puts his phone back in its pocket. Come on, Aitch, this is me.
It’s just … Patrick, you know, my husband? He still can’t find another job. So … I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.
Tough freakin economy, Hannah. My neighbor, young go-getter, something in banking, the guy gets canned four, five months ago, now he lives out of his Lexus, trunk full of fancy suits, shaves every morning in Burger King … But Patrick? You know, I only met the guy once but I remember he cooked us the best brisket I ever ate. So maybe I was high on the meat vapors or something but he seemed kinda solid to me.
He is. Patch is. Solid.
And he’s not taking it out on you. Because, you know …
No, nothing like that.
Any money worries? If there are, just say the word, Aitch, I can …
On a cop salary?
What? I’m living the Miller High Life now. The boys are all packed up and gone. Hey, Lindy just started a business, she does this tai chi massage thing.
Tai chi?
Yeah, something like that. So anyway, shit’s good, Aitch. It’s like a Cinderella story, only this one’s Aladdin.
Go on then.
Rubs to riches.
She smiles. Cute, McCluskey, how long have you been holding on to that one?
It’s been stinking up the locker a few days, I won’t lie to you.
Thanks, she says. Moneywise everything’s good. But thanks.
Whoa, then that means you were talking about emotional stuff … Wait, about that phone call I gotta make … But McCluskey doesn’t reach for his phone.
Emotions? she says. I wouldn’t do that to you, Detective.
And he turns his head, eyes reaching for the distance again. Look, Hannah, he says, I’m sure you tell your husband you … whatever, you love him and everything, right? But make sure he knows you’ve got his back. No matter what. No matter what. Me? I’ll take loyalty every time. McCluskey nods as he looks up the street, squinting, and then lifting one of his double-big fingers. Hey, here he comes now, he says.
Hannah turns and sees Detective Colón, paper bag in one hand.
Just in time, says McCluskey.
So those are your vital supplies? Inside the Dunkin’ Donuts bag?
McCluskey snorts. Freakin hacks, he says. You know, Aitch, it just so happens they make excellent coffee, OK?
* * *
EVERY MEAL AT RED MOOSE Barn could begin with free snacks to nibble, popcorn served in brown paper bags. Sometimes the popcorn would be covered in salt caramel, on other nights buttery and dusted with flecks of crispy chicken skin. Or customers might be greeted with a mixture of nuts freshly roasted that day and flavored with an herb-scented sea salt. Rosemary, chives, sweet basil. Miniature pretzels, right out of the oven, cheddar and black onion seeds studding their crusts.
He writes it all down, saving it for later before clicking onto his email. And then, seeing the message and opening it in a hurry, Patrick stares in excitement at his computer screen, this new arrangement of pixels—
TribecaM Thu 6/5 9:58 a.m.
Re: Contact Form submission from Red Moose Barn
Dear Patrick,
Congratulations on your stunning website. Since stumbling across it several weeks ago, it has become by far my favorite place to spend an hour. I’m a terrific admirer of your blog.
Listen, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time—particularly yours—so why don’t I come out and say it:
I have a small business proposal for you. I promise you this could be very interesting indeed, and I’d value the opportunity to put my case face-to-face if you think that might be possible. Even if nothing were to come of it, I’d appreciate the opportunity to meet.
However, I realize that a message such as this one, coming out of the blue, could come across as creepy. (What if I’m some kind of weird food blogger stalker?) I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, so here’s my suggestion. Allow me to buy you lunch at an exceedingly expensive and perfectly public restaurant. At the very least you receive a good meal and some fine wine in return for your valuable time.
Now, forgive me if I’m wrong about this, but some of your recent recipes/techniques have hinted to me that you might be familiar with the cuisine of Jean-Jacques Rougerie (I loved the close-up of you spraying melted chocolate from a paint gun), and I just happen to be able to score a reservation at Le Crainois. Jean-Jacques is a very close personal friend of mine.
What do you say? How about one o’clock sometime? I can do tomorrow and Saturday. Or otherwise any day next week?
Yours,
A fan (TribecaM)
It feels like something is flowering in Patrick’s chest, the air blooming inside him. He reads it again. He reads it again. He feels the tears trying to push their way out.
Perhaps TribecaM works in publishing and wants to suggest a Red Moose Barn cookbook. He starts to think about test kitchens, photo shoots, book signings, cooking demonstrations on daytime TV …
Sure, Paddyboy, don’t go leaping too far ahead of yourself.
But food bloggers get offered book deals all the time. He sees them interviewed in magazines, on morning TV. They even made an entire movie out of one woman’s food blog.
Although what if it all means nothing? What if nothing comes of this?
At the very least you receive a good meal and some fine wine in return for your valuable time.
He wipes his eyes, checks the website for Le Crainois and discovers that the next available lunchtime slot is over seven weeks away. To snag a dinner reservation requires taking part in an online lottery. In April, Le Crainois was voted the number one restaurant in the world by a food magazine, and ever since Jean-Jacques Rougerie has been featured in every newspaper and magazine that has ever breathed a word about food. Several that have not.
This is what the wait has been for, thinks Patrick. This is it. The point at which everything changes.
* * *
OUT OF THE SUBWAY AT Twenty-Third, daylight surrendering to taillights and headlights, the walk home one long block, one short, a few golden minutes, Hannah’s workday slipping away, and then into the building, fresh flowers in the lobby, and the doorman Jorgé there to greet her, Hello, lady, I hope you had a pleasant day, Thanks, Jorgé, you have a good night, and she makes it into the elevator with no neighbors in tow, thirty seconds of peace, a few golden breaths, not exactly a wildly successful day, not really much point.
A man was found dead in his bathtub yesterday on the Lower East Side, hacked to death in an apparent drug-related attack, police sources said.
The victim, whose name was withheld pending family notification, was found at 8:43 a.m. in an apartment at 47 Ludlow Street.
Police responding to an anonymous phone call recovered drug paraphernalia including scales.
And that’s it, ten hours’ work reduced to fifty-eight words for the New York Mail’s CRIMINAL RECORD column, page sixteen or so, maybe as high as twelve, now that Obama v. Hillary is mostly played out, but when they go big they go big, Hannah missing the thrill of her weeks after the bloodbath in Washington Square (Jeez, what a job) when it was she who broke the news that the innocent bystander had been killed by a bullet from the gun of a cop (But oh, what a week), because it is she, Hannah Jensen, who cracks wise with the Manhattan South Homicide squad.
Open door, kiss husband, sit down, kick off shoes, maybe he seemed brighter, Patch stepping back into the kitchen, tiptoeing away as he does every night after their kiss and a confirmation of okayness, a few more golden minutes, which, for some time, she has been needing more and more, not that her life spent with Patch has become dark, but he is saddened and hurt, and she can’t fix him, but she loves him, and sometimes after a hard day at work, a tough job, she just wants to …
McCluskey would take loyalty every time. And she’s loyal, surely Patch knows that she’s loyal. She throws her shoes in the closet and steps into the kitchen.
You seem in a good mood, she says. Did something happen?
His back to her, stirring risotto. No, he says. Well, an email. But it might not mean anything.
Tell me about it.
I’ll tell you if anything comes of it.
Good, she thinks, good, then everything’s taken care of, and she tells him about her morning on the Lower East Side, the body in the bathtub, details McCluskey passed on to her that didn’t make the story, because just another drug homicide, another humdrum New York murder, not really much point.