by Thom Whalen
* * *
“Hey, Gunner, we need a T-bone,” Gwen said as she poked an order onto the wheel.
In all the time that I’d been working at Elsa’s, I’d never seen an order for a steak. I didn’t even know that it was on the menu.
“Where do we keep them?” I asked.
“At the A&P.” She waved a five-dollar-bill at me. “You got to walk over and buy one. Don’t take one of the packaged ones from the shelf. Talk to Tuski and make sure that he gives you a good one.”
“Who’s Tuski?”
“The butcher. Make sure that he knows that you’re Mrs. Everett’s cook. Maybe that will help a little. But you watch what he gives you, anyway. And bring back the receipt.”
I put the five in my pocket, told Gil to keep cooking, and shed my apron.
Yesterday was a weed run to Syracuse; today a steak run to the A&P across the street. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?
It was quickest to walk through the front rather than walking around the restaurant so that’s how I went.
Gwen stopped me before I got to the door and whispered, “Don’t carry the steak back through here. The customers don’t need to know that we buy the same meat from the same place they shop or they’ll realize that they could stay home, cook it themselves, and save a bundle.”
“Right.” Considering how seldom anyone ordered the steak, I suspected that most of the town already knew that they could cook one at home a lot cheaper.
Mr. Tuski turned out to be a middle-aged man with slightly swarthy skin and salt-and-pepper hair. He spoke with a foreign accent that I couldn’t identify. I suspect that the accent was a put-on to impress the customers.
“I need a T-bone steak for Elsa’s Grill,” I said.
“Elsa’s? Okay. I get. Wait.” He disappeared into a back room.
When he returned a minute later, his bloodstained apron might have sported a dab of red that was fresher than the others or it might not. I couldn’t tell.
He used a black grease pen to write “$1.15” on the brown paper package. “Special steak for Elsa’s,” he said and handed it to me. “Special price.”
“Thanks.”
I paid at the cash register in the front of the store and took it back to the grill.
When I unwrapped it, I couldn’t see what was special about it. I looked about the same as all the other steaks that were on display at the A&P.
I went to the order counter and waited for Gwen to come over.
“How do I cook this?” I asked as I passed the change and receipt to her.
“Medium rare,” she said.
“How do I do that?”
“Don’t you know how to cook a steak?”
“I never have.”
“Put it on the grill. Turn it over before the blood starts coming out the top, then take it off before the blood comes out the other side. Put it on a plate with a handful of fries and a generous spoonful of coleslaw.”
I threw it on the grill and wondered how I would know when it was ready to turn. According to Gwen, it would be too late when blood started coming out of it.
I turned it when the first drop of blood began pooling next to the bone. Assuming that meant that I had left it on for too long, I left it on the other side for only a couple of minutes.
I plated it with fries and slaw and gave it to Gwen.
She wrinkled her nose and pushed it back across the counter at me. “Put it back on the grill for another couple minutes,” she said. “You got blood running out of it too fast. That means it’s still rare. And replace those fries with ones that haven’t soaked up a pint of blood.”
I did as I was told and she was satisfied with the result.
I was a real cook now. I knew how to cook steak rare or medium rare. I hoped that the next steak order wouldn’t be medium well. Or that I’d be studying at Columbia by that time, which was more likely.
Gil was getting better at cooking. I had to close because it was up to me to cash out the waitresses and balance the registers, but now I could take a longer break in the mid-afternoon when it was slow.
I had time to go over to visit Randal.
When he asked how it was going, I told him about Gus getting busted and me almost getting nailed by the cops.
“It’s going to be hard for you to talk to Gus now,” he said.
That was what he got out of my story? That I couldn’t talk to Gus? “I almost got caught,” I snapped back.
He shrugged. “Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. What counts here is that you didn’t get caught.”
“What if Gus talks?”
“What does Gus know? Did you tell him your name?”
“No.”
“Address?”
“Of course not.”
“Then he can’t tell the cops who you are or where you live. What are you worried about?”
“Maybe he knows about Warts Weber. Maybe the cops will bust her next.”
“Same difference. She doesn’t know who we are, either. We run a cash business. Nothing is documented.”
“What if the cops find us somehow? Your picture’s been in the papers.”
“All the better. My lawyer will say that Gus saw my picture in the paper and that’s why he picked me to accuse when he was trying to buy himself a plea deal. When the cops ask us about Gus, we know nothing about him or what he’s talking about.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“It already has,” Randal said.
“What do you mean?”
“A cop from Utica was around this morning asking about Gus. I told him that I didn’t know anything and he left.”
I almost fell to my knees in terror. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought that I made myself pretty clear. A detective from Utica interrogated me about the marijuana business this morning. I said nothing so he decided that I didn’t know anything and left.”
“How’d he know to come here?” My voice sounded shrill in my ears. “You never told him your name.”
“Gus told the cops that he bought weed from Billy Paul. It’s safe for him to identify Billy as his supplier because Billy’s a dead end. Literally. Smart move for Gus. He can trade Billy for a plea deal and nobody on our side cares. But the cops think that I killed Billy so they got to talk to me to see what I know. But I know nothing about Billy’s marijuana business. They can buy that story because they think that I killed him because of Gwen, not over drugs.”
“What happens when they come around to talk to me?”
“Nothing. Why would they talk to you? You’re just a guy that I cook with.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The drug business is over. It’s too dangerous for me to do this any more.”
He sighed. “You’re probably right. It won’t do either one of us any good if you get busted.” He looked hard at me. “There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If you ever do get busted, never, ever say anything about Weber. It would cost you your life if you mentioned her to the cops. She’s not very high up the chain, but she’s high enough to carry some serious weight.”
“What should I tell the cops? If they do interrogate me?”
“Tell them that I got the drugs. That you were just along for the ride.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That I got the drugs from Gus. That he wholesaled a couple of keys to me. Gus and I can make a circle and let the cops run around it chasing their tails.”
“Okay.” It came out quavery. I was shaking at the thought of getting busted.
“Don’t worry,” Randal said. “It’s never going to come to that. Never. I guarantee it.”
That wasn’t a guarantee that would make me sleep well at night. How can a man who’s behind bars claim that he knows how to outfox the cops?
“One other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Billy’s brother, Johnny.”
“What
about him?”
“You still got to talk to him. He’s the key. He knows more than he’s saying.”
I still wasn’t convinced about that. “I don’t get a day off until next Tuesday.”
“Anything you can do, man. I’m running out of time here, so anything you can do.”
“What about the drugs?”
“What drugs?”
“The two keys that I bought off Wanda? I couldn’t offer them to Gus. He was busy getting busted.”
“Hang on to them until we find a way to unload them.”
“I can’t. I’ve got no place to put them. They’re under my bed right now, but if Mom looks under there, she’s going to freak out.”
“If you’re really worried about it, ditch them.”
“Ditch them?”
“Throw them in the garbage. Bury them in the woods. Whatever. Just don’t leave any fingerprints on them.”
“They cost twelve hundred dollars.”
He shrugged. “Cost of doing business.”
Expensive business.
“Just make sure that you talk to Johnny Paul.”
Dangerous business, too.