Chapter 53

Lousy luck, thought Bruno, as he drove back toward Gardenfield a few minutes later. There were a few moments there when she and I were starting to hit it off. He’d have to admit the Chief was right. And then there was the red string. “I can’t believe it’s authentic; I’m sure it was acrylic, not wool.”

Just then Bruno realized how hungry he was. That reminded him. He’d forgotten that Chris, the guy at Tano’s, wanted to see him. What better way to turn his day around than with a cheesesteak? It seemed like a lifetime had passed already since the morning he got out of jail. He hoped Chris would still be there since the lunch rush was probably over.

He needn’t have worried. “Hey, Bruno, where you been, you loser?” shouted Chris as he walked in the door. This was more like it: an island of sanity in a demented universe.

“Hey, Chris, make it the usual, with everything on it.”

Instantly he could smell the onions frying on the grill. “I been waiting for you to come by,” Chris called out over the roar of his exhaust fan. “You know those security guards that are all over town?”

“Sure. How could you miss them?”

“Right. Well. They keep coming by for lunch. You ever talk to any of them? No? Well, take it from me, they don’t spikka-de English too good. And they’re not Italian, because I told them to va … a … fare … in … culo, y’know, real slow and distinct, but they just smiled. Anyway, I think my steaks remind ’em of their home cooking.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah, I asked one of them for a patch for my collection. Since they work in security and all, they must have a shoulder patch. But I couldn’t get through to him. I thought maybe you could explain it.”

“Why me? I don’t speak French,” said Bruno. Knowing the parent company for NewGarden Biosciences was French, he assumed the security detail was probably French-speaking.

“Hmm,” mused Chris. “I wondered if they might be Israeli or something. They kept making this sound like they were clearing their throats. You know, cha-kha-rissa.” He made a series of horrible gagging noises deep in his throat. “So I figured it was Hebrew or something.”

Bruno laughed. “That’s not Hebrew. It sounds like they were saying harissa with a Middle Eastern pronunciation. Harissa’s hot sauce. Your steaks must remind them of couscous, which they usually eat with harissa. So that’s French, not Hebrew.”

“How am I going to get them to give me one of their patches, then, if you don’t speak French?”

Bruno thought for a moment. “You could try Peaches. You know her? P.C. Cromwell. I’ve heard her speak French and I can tell you, her accent is almost perfect.”

“That lady who works for the Pest?” said Chris. “She speaks French?” He served Bruno his cheesesteak, adding, “She doesn’t come in here too often, but I know her. She’s a piece a work.”