The house belonged to the bank now, all of it, everything, and his daughter and Robbie were there helping him pack up. He was leaving California whether he liked it or not, and he was going to be living, at least temporarily, in Robbie’s soon-to-be-vacated bedroom in Rye, New York. Everything was chaos. Everything was black. He was sitting in his armchair, waiting for the moving van to take what hadn’t been sold off in a succession of what Angelica called “estate sales” and haul it across the country to rot in her garage. In Rye, New York. For the moment all was quiet, the walls just stood there, no dog barked, no auto passed by on the street. He was thinking nothing. He couldn’t even remember what Jan looked like anymore. He got to his feet because he had an urgent need to go fetch a particular thing before the movers got hold of it, but in the interval of rising, he’d already forgotten just what that particular thing was.
So he was standing there in the ruins of his former life, a high desperate sun poking through the blinds to ricochet off the barren floorboards, when the phone rang. Once, twice, and then he picked it up.
“Mason?”
“Yes?”
“Graham Shovelin here. How are you?”
Before he could answer, the deep voice rolled on, unstoppable, Old Man River itself: “I have good news, the best, capital news, in fact! The funds will be released tomorrow.”
“You’re”—he couldn’t find the words—“you’re okay? The, the treatment—?”
“Yes, yes, thanks to you, my friend, and don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I’m weak still, of course, which is why you haven’t heard from me in some time now, and I do hope you’ll understand… but listen, we’re going to need one more infusion here, just to assure there are no glitches tomorrow when we all gather in Mr. Oliphant’s office to sign the final release form—”
“How much?”
“Oh, not much, Mason, not much at all.”
Michael Bracken
SMOKED
from Noir at the Salad Bar
When Beau James raised the twin service-bay doors of the converted Conoco station at 11 a.m. Tuesday morning, he had already been smoking brisket and ribs for more than eight hours, just as he had six days a week since opening Quarryville Smokehouse twelve years earlier. Rain or shine, Tuesday through Sunday, he served a two-meat menu, offering a single side and no dessert, and closing when he had no brisket, ribs, or coleslaw remaining.
Beau worked the indirect-heat pit alone, not allowing anyone to learn his technique for preparing fall-off-the-bone beef ribs and moist brisket with dark peppery crust, and four days a week he also worked the counter alone. He only hired help—his girlfriend’s teenage daughter, Amanda—on the weekends, when business typically doubled. The Quarryville Smokehouse lunch plate consisted of a choice between chopped brisket, sliced brisket, or beef ribs, accompanied by a scoop of coleslaw, four bread-and-butter pickle slices, a slice of sweet onion, two slices of Mrs Baird’s Bread, and a twelve-ounce can of Dr Pepper. He offered no sauce and had been known to refuse service to anyone who requested it.
That Tuesday morning he wore his graying black hair in a ponytail that hung below his shoulders and a red paisley bandanna covered the expanding bald spot on the crown of his head. He had on an untucked black T-shirt that covered the tattoo on his left upper arm, faded blue jeans, and well-worn black harness motorcycle boots, a clothing selection that never varied and simplified dressing in the dark. He had gained a few pounds since opening the smokehouse, but at six foot two, he remained slender.
Like most mornings, Tommy Baldwin was sitting at one of the picnic tables beneath the canopy that had once sheltered the gasoline pumps. He had retired from Shell Oil after a lifetime spent as a roustabout, was living comfortably on his pension, and had nothing better to do each morning than read, eat barbecue, and visit with Beau. As the service-bay doors rolled up, Tommy stood and grabbed the popular state-named magazine he had been reading. He walked through the six picnic tables arranged in the service bays and into the former Conoco station’s showroom, which had been transformed into the smokehouse’s order and pickup counter.
“The usual?” Beau asked of the grizzled retiree.
Instead of answering, Tommy tossed the open magazine on the counter. “Have you seen this?”
Beau wasn’t much of a reader, so he hadn’t. He picked up the magazine and found himself reading a review of Quarryville Smokehouse, a review that referred to his place as “the best-kept secret in West Texas, certain to be a serious contender in the forthcoming roundup of the fifty best barbecue joints in the Lone Star State.” Next to the review were a photograph of the chopped brisket lunch plate and another of him working behind the counter—a photograph for which he had not posed.
“Jesus H.” He threw the magazine down and glared at Tommy. “When did you get this?”
“This morning’s mail.”
Beau swore again. He had been relocated to Quarryville thirteen years earlier so no one could find him. Without asking again if Tommy wanted his usual order, Beau scooped chopped brisket into a Styrofoam three-compartment takeout container, added coleslaw and accessories, and shoved the container across the counter, not realizing he’d gone heavy on the brisket, light on the coleslaw, and had completely forgotten the pickles. He slammed a cold can of Dr Pepper on the other side of the still-open magazine.
Tommy slid back exact change. “I thought you’d like the publicity, maybe get more business. You can’t be making much from this place.”
“I get by.” Beau glared at his most reliable customer. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
“What about that girl of yours? You want to take care of Bethany, don’t you? Her and her daughter?”
“What do they have to do with it?”
“I see the way she looks at you,” Tommy said. “I’ve never had anybody look at me the way Bethany looks at you. I’ve seen you look at her the same way.”
“So?”
“You can’t live for yourself, Beau. You have to live for the people you love,” Tommy explained. “I thought I could help, so about a year ago I sent a letter to the editor, telling her about your barbecue.”
Beau stabbed at the magazine article with his forefinger. “This is your fault?”
“I suppose so.” Tommy glanced at the magazine and the open Styrofoam container next to it. “You forgot my pickles.”
“Fuck your pickles.” Beau didn’t bother with the serving spoon. He reached into the pickle jar, grabbed a handful of bread-and-butter pickle slices, and threw them on top of Tommy’s chopped brisket lunch plate, flinging juice across the counter, the magazine, and Tommy.
The retiree shook his head, tucked the magazine under his arm, and carried his lunch to one of the picnic tables outside, where he adjusted the holster hidden at the small of his back and set aside most of the pickles before he began eating.
The lunch rush, such as it was, kept Beau busy for the next few hours. After he sold the last order of ribs, put the cash and checks—he didn’t accept credit or debit cards—in the office safe, and shut everything down, he saw Tommy still reading his magazine. He rolled down the service-bay doors, carried two cold cans of Dr Pepper outside, and settled onto the picnic table bench opposite Tommy. “Don’t you ever go home?”
Tommy looked up. “There’s nothing there for me.”
Beau put one Dr Pepper in front of Tommy and opened the other. After a long draw from the can, he said, “About earlier.”
“Sorry for the surprise,” Tommy replied. “I didn’t think a little publicity would be a problem.”