Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Ms. Atta took a sip of her mushroom soup and sighed with pleasure. “I really shouldn’t order this,” she said. “But it’s so mushroomy! And the cream! Well, I don’t even want to know how many calories are in this bowl.

  “So, last Thursday. Well, I was on another floor teaching a class in makeup and clothing selection, so I didn’t see anyone go into Denise’s office carrying a knife, and I didn’t go downstairs until after the fuss was over. Then I took the middle stairs and the old ladies’ ramp because I had a meeting.

  “Let’s see. One woman left my room as soon as the screaming started. Cammie somebody. She’s a policewoman, so she’d be the person to ask. All I know about her is that she’s got good skin but dreadful taste in clothes.

  “As for motives, money would be my guess. Since Denise took over, no one can get funding for anything. I don’t mind providing Nightshades for the black and brown women. It’s good publicity for my product, although I’d have preferred to send an employee to teach the class. But Nora Hollis got hold of me, and nobody says no to her. But the white women can’t use Nightshades, so I’m buying the makeup for them. If I didn’t, there’d be accusations of reverse discrimination. I have to hire token white girls at my business for just that reason.

  “And it’s not that I can’t afford to buy the white-girl cosmetics. It’s the principle. But Denise said she didn’t have an extra penny to give my class. Now how could that be? Nora’s the best fundraiser in the city, and Myra, before she had to drop out with cancer—God, I need to call her. I’ve got her the name of a woman who makes breasts. Well, Myra got lots of grants. So where did all the money go?”

  “Is there anyone besides you who’s upset about Denise’s handling of the finances?” I asked, attacking another crab cake and swishing every bite through the sauce.

  Yasmin took another tiny sip of her soup and said, “The lesbians. I’d check them out. They’re furious because Denise said there wasn’t enough money to pay another staffer in the lesbian and transsexual group. They don’t think poor Kara really represents their interests.

  “Now there’s a woman with clothes problems. I gave her a few tips yesterday on how to overcome the width of those shoulders, but when push comes to shove, Kara’s going to end up looking like a pro basketball player in drag. Not that the lesbians care about her shoulders, but they purely hate the novels she writes, which aren’t half-bad. I told her she ought to write one with a black heroine, and we could do some sort of joint promotion.

  “Also the lesbians are miffed because they’re upstairs with the witches, who they consider kooks, but no one on two will switch with them, and Denise said the center couldn’t afford to hire furniture movers even if the Women of Color would agree. I think Bertha refused to swap because she’s a devout Christian and considers gays and lesbians flouters of God’s laws.

  “Well, I’ve got to run.” She glanced at her watch, waved to the waiter, and gave him her credit card.

  “Please,” I exclaimed, “let me pay.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I know you’re trying to help Vera Blue, and she’s the one person I don’t think would have killed Denise, not that Denise wasn’t a popular staffer until she had to give up Battered Women for finances. Is Vera a relation?”

  “Mother-in-law,” I admitted as Yasmin signed the credit card slip and rose.

  “Lucky you,” she said. “If I were married, she’s just the person I’d want for a mother-in-law. Someone who likes to see women making it in business. You can’t imagine how much more fun it is to run your own business than it was to be a model, where you’re just meat on the hoof. Of course, I’d prefer my mother-in-law to be black.” And she was out the door just as the waiter served my mushroom soup, which was really superb. Was that truffle oil floating on top? I ate every drop.

  These two recipes from Zaré in San Francisco can be made at home, but do visit the restaurant if you’re in the city. The food is wonderful, the décor gorgeous, and the service friendly.

  Zaré’s Wild Mushroom Soup

  Serves 4 to 5 people

  • Heat a large sauté pan and add 2 tbs. olive oil.

  • Sauté meripoir (1/3 cup each finely diced celery, onion, and carrots) until translucent.

  • Add 1 to 1 1/2 lbs. cleaned wild mushrooms (oyster, shiitake, button, morel, porcini, etc.) to the same pan and sauté until soft. The mushrooms can be rough cut or left whole.

  • Add 1 or 2 sprigs of lemon-thyme, 1/2 tsp. mild curry, 2 cloves peeled garlic, salt, and pepper. Sauté another minute and deglaze with 1/2 cup white wine. Let liquid reduce by half.

  • Add 1 1/2 cups chicken stock (or water), and let simmer over low heat for about 1/2 hour.

  • Add 1/2 cup heavy cream and continue cooking another 10 minutes.

  • Puree the soup, and adjust the salt.

  • Refrigerate overnight.

  • Bring soup back to a boil to heat through and then finish with drizzle of truffle oil on top.

  Dungeness Crab Cakes

  Serves 4 people

  CRAB CAKES

  • Mix gently in a large bowl 1 lb. fresh crab meat, 1 whole egg, 1/4 cup bread crumbs, 1/4 cup finely diced red and yellow bell peppers, cup diced chives or green onions, 1/4 cup lemon-garlic aioli, salt and pepper to taste. If mixture falls apart, add more aioli or bread crumbs as needed.

  • One portion is roughly equivalent to an ice-cream scoop made into a patty. Coat each patty in breadcrumbs.

  • Heat 2 tbs. vegetable oil and sauté patties in hot pan for 15 to 20 seconds on each side.

  • You can keep the patties in a 400 degree oven for a few more minutes to ensure cakes are heated through.

  SAUCE

  • Reduce 1/2 cup white wine with 1 whole finely diced shallot until only a few drops of wine remain in the pan.

  • Slowly add 1/4 lb. butter in small portions until mixture is smooth. Finish by adding 1 tsp. whole-grain mustard.

  • Once mixed, adjust for salt and pepper.

  • Place sauce in center of each plate. Place two crab cakes and arrange sprigs of watercress in between as garnish.

  These two recipes were provided by Chef/Proprietor Hoss Zaré of Zaré, a restaurant in the financial district of San Francisco.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Oak Bluffs Gazeteer

  33

  Leather Chic

  Carolyn

  When the cab dropped me off at Recycled Chic, I went inside with some trepidation. I’d never shopped in a secondhand store before. Was the clothing sized, or did one have to guess? What about dressing rooms? Their showroom space was long, narrow, and crammed with racks, both on the walls and running into one another and the customers on the floor. I asked a salesgirl for the leather section, and she shrugged. “Feel free to look, but we don’t carry anything kinky.”

  Kinky? Gingerly, I approached the left-side wall rack that began beyond the checkout counter. After spotting numerous sequined blouses and T-shirts with more down the line, I tried the other wall. In the center section I found three black leather jackets, none of them sized, so I tried on the largest and was able to zip it up. It barely reached below my waist, but it did fit, so I draped it over my arm and began to search the racks in the center section, while passing shoppers brushed me into tightly packed clothes. I don’t know how many times I said excuse me, more often than other customers said it to me. After a half hour, I was very tired and hadn’t come upon any leather pants.

  About then I discovered a box of boots under the sequin section, and in it was a pair of beautiful, soft leather boots. If I couldn’t find pants, the boots were long enough to give me some protection. First, I clung to the rack rail and held the sole of a boot against the sole of my shoe. It looked about right. Have you ever tried on a long boot while standing up? I managed, but I fell down once. The lady at the cash register heard the clunk and came over to help me up. “If you’re injured, don’t figure on suing us,” she
warned. “We got a sign up front. Not responsible for injuries or thefts of personal property.”

  I groaned and leaned on her, still clutching the second boot.

  “Why don’t you use the dressing room?” she suggested. “It’s got a chair.”

  “Where is it?”

  “All the way in the back. You’ll see the line.”

  “Do you have any leather pants?”

  “Second rack from the back. Center. That’s a great jacket. You better hang on to it. We don’t have that many tens.”

  She returned to the register, and I went in search of the leather-pants selection. They had two in red with fringe; one in yellow, size two; and four in black, no sizes. Without much hope, I took the two biggest pairs to the fitting-room line—six young women loaded down with skimpy tops and skirts that might cover their underpants if they were short-waisted.

  I waited at least a half hour to get to the head of the line, then another fifteen minutes, checking my watch frequently, because the girl ahead of me had half the store in her arms. When she exited, I went in and found two other women in there with me.

  I turned my back politely. One of them said, “If you don’t start undressing now, you won’t finish in your fifteen-minute allotment.” I started undressing. First, the pants. The smaller pair I couldn’t get into. The larger I managed, but when I looked in the mirror, I considered them too tight.

  “Perfect,” said a redheaded girl in her underwear. Then she pulled a sheer slip—perhaps it was a dress—over her head.

  “Yeah,” agreed the second occupant of the room. “I wish I could get a pair of leather pants that fit me that well. In fact, those might. If you don’t want them, let me try them on.”

  They fit me properly? I turned again in front of the mirror. Well . . . I pulled the leather jacket on over my blouse, shoved the blouse tails up underneath the jacket, and looked at myself. I’d never in my life worn anything like this, but it was . . . different. Sort of . . . interesting. And it would protect me from scrapes if we had an accident.

  I glanced at the boots. To get into those, I’d have to sit down. Could I sit down in these pants? Gingerly I bent to pick up the boots. So far, so good. I could bend. Then I went to the only chair, which was piled with clothes.

  “Hey,” cried the redhead, and ran to rescue her selections.

  I sat down. No embarrassing sounds of ripping, and the leather seemed to have some give to it. I struggled into one boot and then the other, stood up, and peered at myself. I must say that I looked like another woman and had to stifle the urge to laugh with pleasure. Did I have the nerve to actually wear these clothes in public? Would Sam make fun of me? Would Jason have a fit? Well, he didn’t have to see them. And didn’t I deserve to buy something outrageous once in a while?

  With rebellious determination fueling my courage, I gathered up the slacks and matching jacket that I had worn in. Behind me I heard the redhead say, “Did you ever see a woman her age look that cool?” I wasn’t that old, I told myself and went up front to pay. “I’m wearing the jacket, pants, and boots out,” I told the woman at the register when, after another lengthy wait, it came my turn. “The blouse is mine, as are these.” I displayed my linen-like jacket and slacks (real linen wrinkles horribly).

  “Nice color,” said the cashier. “How much do you want for those?” Nonplused that she was interested in buying my slacks suit, I decided to sell so I wouldn’t have to carry it home. “Fifty dollars,” I said.

  “Twenty,” she countered.

  “Forty-five.”

  We settled on thirty-five, which came off my leather bill, and I walked out in time to hear Sam pull up in front of the center two blocks away. He was taking off his helmet when I caught up, and he said, doing a double take, “What happened to you?”

  “My mother-in-law advised me to get leathers if I was going to be riding on a motorcycle,” I said primly.

  “Yeah? Well, Carolyn, that’s the hottest pair of rider’s leathers I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, taking that as a compliment, but not necessarily sexist since Sam is gay. Then we put on our helmets and set out for the interview with Mrs. Croker. During a wait at a traffic light, I told Sam what Yasmin had said, that the murder was probably over money because no one could get Denise to come up with any since she took over. “Doesn’t that add credibility to what Mr. Timatovich overheard and took to be evidence that she was stealing?” I asked at the next light.

  “Yeah, but we’d have to find out who knew besides the Russian and why they’d kill her instead of turning her in.”

  “A person who helped in the theft,” I suggested.

  In front of Crokers’ duplex, he said, “We’ll get into Denise’s apartment and see if we can find any evidence.”

  “Won’t it be locked? Maybe even taped off by the police?”

  “Tapes can be untaped and locks picked.”

  “You’re going to break into her apartment? Sam, I can’t—”

  “So you go home, and I’ll do it.”

  “Well, on second thought—” I began, no doubt having been lured into criminality by my leather clothing.

  “Right,” said Sam. “Now you follow the same routine with Mrs. Croker. Is he home? No? Good, it’s her you want to talk to. Tell her you’re a cop.” He laughed. “Tell her you’re a motorcycle patrolwoman, and you heard about her husband coming home Thursdays when he’s on duty for a romantic fuck, and you’d like to know how she got him to do that, because you’d like to get some action from your husband. I’ll be out here, keeping my eyes open for Croker.”

  I do not consider fuck a romantic word, or even an acceptable one. Would a motorcycle policewoman actually say fuck? Well, I wouldn’t.

  34

  Carolyn Undercover

  Carolyn

  Mrs. Croker was neither well groomed nor a good housekeeper. I doubt that she’d have let me in if she hadn’t liked my outfit. We sat in her living room with the television playing, amid a litter of magazines, dishes, and overflowing ashtrays, to which she added liberally in the time I was there.

  “So you’re with the motorcycle cops? That don’t look like any cop clothes I ever saw.” Without offering me one, she fixed herself a bourbon and water. Perhaps she’d been offended when I refused a cigarette.

  “These are my civvies,” I said, hoping that was the term for a police person’s off-duty clothes.

  “Mighta known. If they had uniforms like that, I mighta joined myself. I always liked motorcycles. What kinda bike you ride?” she asked.

  “A Harley,” I replied because I was unable to name any brand but Sam’s.

  “You don’t look like you could keep one a them big bikes from fallin’ on you. An’ aren’t you a little old for the bike patrol?”

  “My sergeant doesn’t think so,” I said, smiling coyly. “Say, the reason I stopped by, Nadine—you don’t mind if I call you Nadine?—there’s a rumor going around that your husband takes off every Thursday night just to come home and have . . . ah . . . sex with you.”

  “You with IAD?” she asked suspiciously.

  I’m sure I looked befuddled, but then I remembered a police show: Internal Affairs—they investigated other officers. “Not me,” I said. “I just wanna know how you managed it. Like, I wish I could get my husband to come home for a . . . a quickie now and then. We’re never working the same shift, my husband and I.” Quickie was a good touch, but I should have used me, not I. “A girl likes a little surprise in her love life. Know what I mean?” That was better. Or maybe not. She was glaring at me again.

  “I don’t know where you heard Marcus takes off Thursdays for me. So the question is: who does the bastard take off to see? Maybe I better catch up with that damn Arbus and find out what’s goin’ on.”

  Oh dear, if she did that, Officer Croker would know someone was asking questions about him. “Well, isn’t that just like a bunch of guys,” I improvised. “I bet they told me that so I’d make a
fool of myself with my own husband. That really . . . ah . . . sucks. I’m gonna get my partner good for this one.” Was I convincing her, or making her more suspicious? “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, Nadine, and I wouldn’t want to be the cause of acrimony between you and your husband—” Too much Carolyn-speak again. How did Sam do it? Switch from street language to normal language? “Just because my partner and his buddies are . . . practical joker . . . assholes.” I can’t believe I said that, but she looked more convinced. “Guess I’d better be going. Sorry if I—”

  “Oh, forget it,” said the terribly blonde Nadine. She lit another cigarette, and I headed for the door.

  “He doesn’t come home to her Thursday nights,” I reported to Sam, and we headed toward the apartment of the late Denise Faulk. I’d never have believed how easy it is to pick a lock if I hadn’t seen Sam do it. When I commented, he told me that a credit card was often good enough, but Denise had good locks. Then we went into a space that already seemed dusty and depressing. Sam put on gloves and gave me some.

  His first disappointment, although he wasn’t surprised, was the missing tape in her answering machine. Then I took the drawers in her bedroom, and Sam took her desk. I didn’t know exactly what we were looking for, but Sam found it in a kitchen drawer under a counter that held a second telephone. “Bingo!” he said. Since I heard him from the bedroom and was tired of looking through her coat pockets and shoeboxes, I joined him at the kitchen table, where he sat holding a small notepad.