Scarpetta's Bad Mood Pasta Primavera
She set a colander in the sink and dusted a cutting board with flour. She readied the pasta machine she had given her mother several Christmases ago. It was a simple Rollecta 64 made in Torino, Italy, and the best macchina per fare la pasta Scarpetta had ever used. She set the noodle width and turned a knob to narrow the opening between the smooth rollers, and soon she was working with sheets of pasta so light and thin they were translucent. She rolled them up and cut them by hand into tagliolini. This she did expertly and swiftly because she was very skilled with knives. Rarely did Scarpetta cut herself. She had good reason to be very careful in this day of mutant viruses and vicious infections.
"What time is Dorothy coming over?" Scarpetta forced herself to ask.
"She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago," her mother answered, rattling the paper loudly.
Her breathing was labored from a life of smoking that had eventually hospitalized her with emphysema.
"Mother, would you like me to get your oxygen?" Scarpetta asked.
"No."
Sinbad languidly strolled into the kitchen. He stopped and gave the chef a crooked stare. His tail twitched. Scarpetta began heating the skillet. She opened the refrigerator and found a Buckler she poured into a glass.
"Well, dinner will be ready in ten minutes," she said. "Take it or leave it. If we waited for Dorothy every time she was supposed to show up, we'd turn into skeletons."
Her mother sighed. Sinbad squeezed himself between Scarpetta's feet as she turned on the burner to heat the water.
"How about boiled cat over pasta," Scarpetta said, booting Sinbad out of the way yet one more time in life.
"YUCK!" Mrs. Scarpetta protested with disgust. "How can you say such a thing?"
Scarpetta began crushing cloves of garlic and sauteing them with the vegetables.
She stripped fresh basil from its stems and sprinkled it in, adding salt and ground pepper.
"This is going to be light and healthy," Scarpetta said, knowing full well how her mother would react to this.
Momentarily, Scarpetta felt no guilt about not pleasing her mother, who did not believe in healthy food and was offended by it and took it personally. Scarpetta had learned long ago to take care of herself, to alleviate pain, and not be victimized. With her family, she would take but so much. She had been down here for almost a week. Frankly, she'd had enough, her disk was full, her nerves overloaded, she could take no more.
"What about meatballs?" her mother complained. "I can't believe you aren't serving sausage, prosciutto, or something."
"Not tonight," Scarpetta said.
5
In Richmond, at the precise moment Scarpetta was placing pasta in boiling water many miles south, Pete Marino was looking out at the weather. He was grateful his Dodge Ram Quad Cab pickup truck was safely under the aluminum carport. Otherwise it would, by now, be covered with at least three inches of snow-the soft, wet sort that he hated most. It inspired the neighborhood brats to fashion snowballs and hurl them in the direction of his small house in its quiet neighborhood south of the James River, just off Midlothian Turnpike.
These assaults inevitably occurred at night, resulting in soft thuds against windows, doors, and aluminum siding. By the time Marino was out on the porch, the suspects had fled, vanishing in the deep shadows of trees and to various residences along his street. He was an experienced officer of the law, and following footprints in snow was about as easy as arresting a rapist who leaves his wallet on the floor of the crime scene, or the thief who records his driver's license information on the back of the stolen check he's cashing. Oh yes, this had happened more times than well-behaved citizens would believe, but tracking children through the dark, frigid night, slipping and sliding, was a different matter altogether.
Marino lit a Marlboro and opened another can of Budweiser as he waited, ready in coat and boots, the television turned down low, an ear to the front of his house, as big flakes fell thickly. When he was growing up in New Jersey, he had committed far worse offenses than throwing snowballs at people. But in his case, violence was always justified and appropriate, for there were bullies and vandals in the blue-collar community of his youth. He had beaten the hell out of others only when he was picked on first or was protecting someone weaker. Marino was certain he had done nothing in this instance to justify the rude and thoughtless acts perpetrated by his small neighbors.
He had not factored in the many times he had chased them away from his above-ground swimming pool, or scattered them when they had dared to play football in his yard without asking. The occasions he had yelled and smacked a newspaper at the SPCA puppy that belonged one block away had not gone over very well, either, nor had the occasion when he had stopped his unmarked car and ordered Jimmy Simpson, who was ten, to pick up the candy wrapper he had just tossed on the street.
"You're lucky you aren't getting fined," he had told the blue-eyed boy.
"I'm not lost," Jimmy indignantly had said.
Marino believed, with no evidence, that Jimmy Simpson was the leader of the pack, and soon enough Marino would catch the vandal in the act and snatch him up by the scruff of his neck. He would march the boy into his single-parent residence and enlighten him and his mother about detention homes and jail.
The first artillery fire hit at exactly 8 P.M., snowballs pelting the front of the house. Marino didn't wait for a second round. Instantly he was out the front door, the enemy in sight. Jimmy Simpson was alone and no more than twenty feet from where Marino stood on the porch. Caught in the act, the boy was too frightened to run. He froze, eyes wide with terror. Marino stomped down the steps, his heavy boots crunching through snow.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" he bellowed.
Jimmy began to cry. He cowered, arms in front of his face, as if he had been hit before by people bigger than he was.
"I knew it was you!" Marino severely went on, and he had reached the boy by now. "I've known it all along, you little scum bucket! What if you broke a window, huh?"
Jimmy was shaking as he sobbed.
"I didn't throw any at a window," his small voice barely said.
Marino had no evidence to the contrary.
"Yeah? Well, how would you like it if I threw snowballs at your house?" he gruffly said, his voice not quite as loud.
"I wouldn't care."
"Yes, you would."
"Would not."
"Well, your mother would care."
"Not if you didn't hurt anything."
"You're full of crap," Marino said, peering through snow at the milky smudges of windows lit up in Jimmy's two-bedroom brick home.
"You're not nice to me," Jimmy said, lowering his arms as fear began to leave him. "That's why! You started it!"
Marino had to think about this for a minute, his balding head getting cold.
"You mean that time I told you to get away from my pool?" Marino tried to remember.
The boy vigorously nodded.
"More than once!" Jimmy exclaimed. "And you give me mean looks when you pass me on the street in your police car."
"No, I don't."
"Do too."
"Only when you litter."
"That was one time! And there was chocolate all over the wrapper, and if I got it on my clothes, my mom would have gotten mad. So I dropped it by the road. So what!"
"What's your mom doing now?" Marino asked, as he began to feel something deep inside that made it hard for him to hate this lousy little kid.
"Stuck at her sister's house."
"Where's that?"
"I don't know," Jimmy quietly said, staring down at his feet. "I know it's near the park."
"Byrd Park?"
"The one with the lake and little boats. They sell cotton candy."
"She's not coming home?"
»Jimmy shook his head. "She said her car's stuck," he said.
"So you're all by your scrawny-ass self out here throwing snowbal
ls."
"Yes, sir."
"You eaten yet?"
"Not since lunch."
"You like chili?"
"I don't know," Jimmy said.
"What about your mother's sister? Your aunt, I guess," he asked Jimmy.
"She's really my dad's sister."
"Should we call him?" Marino asked.
"No, sir. I don't know… He…"
Jimmy stared harder at his feet as snow frosted his hair. He was shivering in a denim jacket that was at least five sizes too big.
"Well, maybe you know your aunt's number?" Marino said. "Uh-uh."
"Well, you sure as hell should."
"It's somewhere, I guess."
"Come on. Let's get out of the cold," Marino said.
6
They trudged through the yard and up Marino's front steps. He called Jimmy's house, and sure enough, no one was home. He left a message for Mrs. Simpson on the answering machine, saying that if it was all right with her, Jimmy would stay the night so he wouldn't have to be alone.
"I got Dr. Pepper, if you want some," Marino said, as he got ground beef out of the freezer.
Jimmy's eyes lit up.
"Sure!" he said.
Marino's Last Minute Chili
Marino's quick chili requires a number of considerations that differ from what most likely goes on in other kitchens. First, the chef should drink Budweiser out of the can or Rolling Rock out of the bottle. Second, finding the appropriate pot requires digging and much clanging in jumbled cupboards, and locating the matching lid may not happen, in which case Marino fashions one from Reynolds Wrap. Third, the ground beef should be regular versus lean, and thawed in the microwave oven on high to hurry things along. The TV should be left on at all times, and one should be irritable when the phone rings.
"Mr. Marino?" said Jimmy, who was perched on a barstool. "Is it all right if I have some ice in my Dr. Pepper?"
"Nope, it ain't all right," Marino said.
He opened the freezer again and pulled out a frosted beer mug. He poured the Dr. Pepper in it while Jimmy's lips parted in awe.
"Be a man," Marino said.
"Cool!" was Jimmy's response.
Within half an hour, ground beef and bacon were browning in the pot. Marino was hacking up onions and green chili peppers, and opening cans of kidney beans, field peas, and Richfood tomato sauce.
"You ever eaten anything hot before?" Marino asked, as he chopped.
"Soup."
"Not that kind of hot."
"I don't know."
"Believe me, you'll know," Marino promised. "Let me tell you something, kid. Before the night's out, you're gonna learn something."
"You think there'll be school tomorrow, Mr. Marino?"
"Look, I'm either Captain Marino or Pete. Got it? And no way there'll be school tomorrow. I just hope your mom can get home so I'm not stuck with you another day."
Jimmy smiled. He knew Marino didn't mean it.
"I guess I could go get her in my truck," Marino went on.
"I'd rather stay here." Jimmy sipped his soda.
A more obvious ingredient in Marino's last minute chili is packaged seasoning. He prefers the very spicy Texas style, and dumps in two packages along with the tomato sauce he has on hand. In this case, it was three fifteen-ounce cans. To this he added an amount of water that he did not measure, but it wasn't a lot because he likes his chili thick enough to serve as spaghetti sauce when he needs a little variety. Next, he drained the beans and dumped them in, along with four beef bouillon cubes that initially stuck stubbornly to their wrappers.
"That smells really good," Jimmy marveled, as football players mauled each other on ESPN.
"Thirty minutes, and we're good to go," announced Marino, washing his hands and wiping them on his pants. "I got bread I can put some butter and garlic on, toast it in the oven."
"No, thank you."
"What about salad? Maybe I got some lettuce in here somewhere."
He searched inside the refrigerator, yanking open drawers.
"No, thank you," Jimmy replied. "I don't like salad."
"It's all in the dressing. You ever had Thousand Island? Mix mayonnaise, ketchup, and chop up bread and butter pickles. Mix it all up, put it on your salad, your burger, whatever. Now, you really want a manly meal, you make a really thick sandwich with corn beef and put Thousand Island and sauerkraut on it. Some Swiss if you got it. Hell, I've used mozzarella before. So you put that all together and grill it in butter."
"I don't like mayonnaise," Jimmy politely informed him.
"Won't even know it's there," Marino promised. "Maybe we'll do that for lunch tomorrow."
"I thought you didn't want me here."
"I don't," Marino said.
The snow had almost spent itself by the time the eleven o'clock news came on, and Marino was in his recliner, barely interested in what an anchorwoman was saying about a shooting in one of Richmond's numerous housing projects. It wasn't his problem. His jurisdiction was the police academy. He was in charge of training rookie cops and got involved in heinous, violent cases only when he was called out on an ATF or FBI response team.
"…the thus-far unidentified man was found face down on the street in a pool of blood…"
"Drugs," Marino muttered.
"…and is believed to be drug related…"
"See?" Marino said to Jimmy. "You know what that kind of homicide's called?"
The boy was stretched out on the brown vinyl couch, a blanket pulled up to his chin. Marino had given him a Richmond police academy T-shirt to sleep in, and the sleeves came down to Jimmy's hands, the hem over his feet.
"No, sir," Jimmy sleepily said.
"It's called urban renewal."
"What does that mean?" Jimmy yawned.
"You'll figure it out when you get older. Sometimes we call them misdemeanor murders, too."
Jimmy was clueless.
"Oh," he said.
Marino took one last swallow of beer. That was his quota for the night. His guest had devoured two helpings of chili topped by melted mozzarella that had been stringy on Jimmy's spoon and had gotten on his face and sleeves, and everywhere, really. Marino had put out a plate of saltine crackers and had shown Jimmy how to crumble them into his bowl. For dessert, Marino had spread Chunky Monkey ice cream between two large sugar cookies, making a sandwich that Jimmy had dripped on his jeans. "What are we having for breakfast?" Jimmy asked.
"Snow with maple syrup on it," Marino replied, switching to NBC.
"No way."
"It's okay as long as you stay away from yellow snow."
Jimmy Simpson guffawed.
7
Dessert was on Lucy's mind, and the longer she and her friends sat before the fire telling war stories about law enforcement and the cruelty of former lovers, the more it seemed a good idea for them to have one last forage before bed.
"Milk and cookies before bed," Lucy announced, getting up from the floor, where she had been lazily leaning against her aunt's handsome blue-and-maroon striped couch.
"Forget the milk part."
"Really."
"We'll figure out something," Lucy assured them. "You guys don't do anything fun without me. I'll be in the kitchen. And talk loud so I can hear everything you're saying."
Lucy's Felonious Cookies
She set a deep Pyrex dish on the counter and hunted down brown and white sugar, all-purpose flour, vanilla extract, eggs, salt, and baking soda. When she was ten, her aunt had taught her to make these special, lawless cookies. By now, it was instinctive. Lucy never measured or timed anything. She had learned long ago to speed up the process and dirty as few dishes as possible. An important start was to melt a cup of Breakstone butter in the Pyrex dish, making sure the butter was warm but not hot.
Next, she stirred in dark brown and white sugar, forming a thick paste. Eggs followed, and her experience guided her to use two before mixing in enough flour to reach a moist, crumbly consistency that was neith
er too wet nor dry. Baking soda must not be overlooked, and she sprinkled in maybe a teaspoon of it before adding salt and vanilla to taste. By now, the dough was cool, and, with clean hands, Lucy kneaded in chopped pecans and semi-sweet chocolate and butterscotch chips. Although her aunt did not agree with her, Lucy believed in erring on the side of too much.
She turned on the oven to 350 degrees and lightly coated cookie sheets with a cholesterol-free vegetable oil that made Lucy smile. Her aunt was fastidious about good health.
"That's because you've seen so many dead people," Lucy frequently chided her, when Scarpetta would not buy her soft drinks or bubble gum or take her to fast-food restaurants except in an emergency.
During Lucy's many visits while she was growing up, there had always been fresh fruit juice in the refrigerator, and apples, bananas, tangerines, and white grapes. Popcorn at the movies was not a problem, but Scarpetta would not buy Lucy sweets, especially hard candies such as lemon drops or Fire Balls that potentially could choke. Suckers were out of the question, especially the sort from the bank or the doctor's office that were impaled on a hard stick.
"Imagine if you had that in your mouth and fell or ran into something," Scarpetta used to say.
"Why can't I just bite it off the stick?"
"Bad for your teeth. Actually, there's nothing about a lollypop that's of any benefit to you, Lucy. They don't even taste very good, if you think about it."
Perhaps it wasn't the lollypop as much as it was the fact that Lucy had been rewarded with it for enduring a tongue depressor halfway down her throat or waiting forever in line while her aunt deposited her state paycheck. The list of verboten foods and safety concerns got longer with time as her aunt discovered yet one more way someone could die. But Lucy's life with Scarpetta was not so severe as it might seem. Scarpetta had always given Lucy her time; Aunt Kay had enlightened and educated her with books, computers, and, now and then, church.
Scarpetta's Winter Table (kay scarpetta) Page 3