“She said she didn’t think she was well-enough dressed to come in the front door,” Patrice told the writer.
“She?” Danny said. How he hoped it was Lady Sky!
“I had to look twice to be sure,” Patrice said, with a shrug. “But she’s definitely a she.”
In that Crown’s Lane alleyway behind the restaurant, one-eyed Pedro had spotted the tall woman; he’d graciously shown her to the service entrance to the kitchen. The former Ramsay Farnham had said to Six-Pack Pam: “Even if it’s not on the menu, they often have cassoulet at this time of year-I recommend it.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for a handout,” Six-Pack told him. “I’m lookin’ for a fella, name of Danny-a famous writer.”
“Danny doesn’t work in the kitchen-his dad did,” one-eyed Pedro told her.
“I know that-I’m just a back-door kinda person,” Pam said. “It’s a fuckin’ fancy-lookin’ place.”
The former Ramsay Farnham appeared momentarily disdainful; he must have suffered a flashback to his previous life. “It’s not that fancy,” he said. In addition to whatever snobbishness was in his genes, Ramsay still resented his favorite restaurant’s change of name; though no one had ever seen it, Kiss of the Wolf would always be a porn film to one-eyed Pedro.
There were other homeless people in the alleyway; Six-Pack could see them, but they kept their distance from her. It was perhaps fair to say that one-eyed Pedro was only a half-homeless person. The others in the alley were wary of Pam. Six-Pack’s rough north-woods attire notwithstanding, she didn’t look like a homeless person.
Even one-eyed Pedro could see the difference. He knocked at the service entrance to Kiss of the Wolf, and Joyce-one of the female sous chefs-opened the door. Before Joyce could greet him, Pedro pushed Six-Pack ahead of him into the kitchen.
“She’s looking for Danny,” one-eyed Pedro said. “Don’t worry-she’s not one of us.”
“I know Danny, and he knows me,” Six-Pack quickly said to Joyce. “I ain’t some kinda groupie, or anythin’ like that.” (At the time, Pam was eighty-four. It’s not likely that Joyce mistook her for a groupie-not even a writer’s groupie.)
Kristine ran to get Patrice, while Joyce and Silvestro welcomed Six-Pack inside. By the time Patrice brought Danny back to the kitchen, Silvestro had already persuaded Pam to try the duo of foie gras and duck confit with a glass of Champagne. When Danny saw Six-Pack, his heart sank; Six-Pack Pam was no Lady Sky, and Danny guessed that something had to be wrong.
“Is Ketchum with you?” the writer asked her, but Danny already knew that Ketchum would have come in the front door-no matter how the old woodsman was dressed.
“Don’t get me started, Danny-not here, and not till I’ve had somethin’ to eat and drink,” Six-Pack said. “Shit, I was drivin’ all day with that fartin’ dog-we only stopped to pee and gas up the truck. Ketchum said I should have the lamb chops.”
That’s what Six-Pack had. They ate together at Danny’s usual table by the window. Pam ate the lamb chops, holding them in her fingers, with her napkin tucked into the open neck of one of Ketchum’s flannel shirts; when she was done eating, she wiped her hands on her jeans. Six-Pack drank a couple of Steam Whistles on tap, and a bottle of red wine; she ordered the cheese plate in lieu of dessert.
Ketchum had given her very detailed directions to Danny’s house, warning her that if she arrived near dinnertime, she would probably find Danny at Kiss of the Wolf. The logger had also provided Six-Pack with directions to the restaurant. But when she looked inside Kiss of the Wolf-Six-Pack was tall enough to peer over the frosted-glass part of the large window facing Yonge Street-some of those overdressed types among the restaurant’s Rosedale clientele must have discouraged her from just walking in. She’d gone searching for a rear entrance instead. (That Rosedale crowd can be snooty-looking.)
“I put Hero’s dog bed in the kitchen-he’s used to sleepin’ in kitchens,” Pam said. “Ketchum told me to let myself in, ’cause you never lock the place. Nice house. I put my stuff in the bedroom farthest away from yours-the one with all them pictures of that pretty lady. That way, if I have one of my nightmares, I might not wake you up.”
“Hero’s here?” Danny asked her.
“Ketchum said you should have a dog, but I ain’t givin’ you one of mine,” Six-Pack said. “Hero ain’t the friendliest critter to other dogs-my dogs sure as shit won’t miss him.”
“You drove all this way to bring me Hero?” Danny asked. (Of course the writer understood that there was probably more purpose to Six-Pack’s visit than bringing him the bear hound.)
“Ketchum said I was to see you in person. No phone call, not a letter or a fax-none of that chickenshit stuff,” Six-Pack told him. “Ketchum musta meant it seriously, ’cause he put everythin’ in writin’. Besides, there’s other crap he wanted you to have-it was all in his truck.”
“You brought Ketchum’s truck?” Danny asked her.
“The truck ain’t for you-I’m drivin’ it back,” Pam said. “You wouldn’t want it for city drivin’, Danny-you wouldn’t want it anyway, ’cause it still smells like a bear took a shit in it.”
“Where’s Ketchum? What happened?” the writer asked her.
“We should go walk the dog, or somethin’,” Six-Pack suggested.
“Someplace more private, you mean?” Danny asked.
“Christ, Danny, there’s people here with their noses born outta joint!” Six-Pack said.
Kiss of the Wolf was crowded that night; since the name change, and Patrice’s back-to-bistro renovation, the restaurant was packed most nights. Some nights, Danny thought the tables were too close together. As the writer and Six-Pack Pam were leaving, Pam appeared to be favoring her bad hip, but Danny soon realized that she’d meant to lean on the adjacent table, where a couple had been staring at them throughout their dinner. Because he was famous, Danny was used to-almost oblivious to-people staring at him, but Pam (apparently) hadn’t taken kindly to it. She upset the wineglasses and water on the couple’s table; suddenly seeming to catch her balance, Six-Pack struck the seated gentleman in his face with her forearm. To the surprised woman at the wrecked table, Six-Pack said: “That’s ’cause he was gawkin’ at me-as if my tits were showin’, or somethin’.”
Both a waiter and a busboy rushed to the ruined table to make amends, while Patrice smoothly glided up to Danny, embracing the writer at the door. “Another memorable evening-most memorable, Daniel!” Patrice whispered in Danny’s ear.
“I’m just a back-door kinda person,” Six-Pack said humbly to Kiss of the Wolf’s owner and maître d’.
Once they were out on Yonge Street, and while they were waiting for the crossing light to change, Danny said to Six-Pack: “Just tell me, for Christ’s sake! Tell me everything. Spare me no detail.”
“Let’s see how Hero’s doin’, Danny,” Six-Pack said. “I’m still rehearsin’ what I gotta say. As you might imagine, Ketchum left me with a shitload of instructions.” As it had turned out, Ketchum put several pages of “instructions” in an envelope in the glove compartment of his truck. The door to the glove compartment had been left open purposely, so that Pam couldn’t miss seeing the envelope, which was pinned under Ketchum’s handgun. (“A better paperweight bein’ unavailable at that time,” as Six-Pack said.)
Now Danny saw that Ketchum’s truck was parked in the driveway of the Cluny Drive house, as if the former riverman had changed his mind about coming for Christmas. Appearing to guard his dog bed, Hero growled at them-a surly greeting. Pam had already put the sheath for Ketchum’s foot-long Browning knife in the bear hound’s bed; maybe it served as a pacifier, the writer considered. He’d spotted the long Browning knife on the kitchen countertop, and had quickly looked away from the big blade. The dog’s farting had filled the kitchen-possibly, the entire downstairs of the house. “God, what’s wrong with Hero’s eye?” Danny asked Pam.