Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

With the darkness crowding his shoulders, and the flicker of the candle flames causing the shadows of his five forks to undulate as if slinking slowly toward the plate, Basil resolved to look upon the whole evening as a set of suggestions for his next noir production. Use it, don’t fight it, he told himself.

Sloan entered. He carried two plates of something that surely must not be what it looked like. Surely it was just the low candlelight that made the lumps appear reddish and bloody and undercooked.

As the plate touched down in front of Basil with scarcely a sound, he saw it was indeed raw meat.

‘‘Steak tartare,’’ Falkland said. ‘‘A small portion makes a perfect appetizer. As a main dish it becomes a bit much, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Uh, is he serving just us two? What about Pamela?’’

‘‘Oh, Pamela won’t be long. As I was about to say, as an appetizer I have Sloan serve it without the raw egg. Although if you can buy fresh new eggs from green-run chickens, there is really no danger. And of course with these new methods of preventing salmonella in chickens-something about the properly inoculated feed-you can be quite confident. Nevertheless, for the sake of my guests’ equanimity, I forgo the egg and serve the steak tartare as an appetizer.

‘‘Traditionally, of course, it is chopped fillet steak or sirloin, twice run through the grinder. Then mixed with chopped onions and garlic and capers and raw egg. Salt and pepper. And the patty is shaped with a depression in the center. Into that depression is dropped a perfect golden yolk. It is a beautiful presentation, really, the yolk a deep cadmium yellow, and the meat around it rich red. Well, like this, actually. So fresh it glistens. Do you see?’’

‘‘Uhhh, yes.’’

‘‘Of course,’’ Charles said, steepling his fingers as the manservant stepped back, ‘‘it can only be the very, very freshest meat.’’

‘‘Uh, yes indeed.’’

‘‘And never, never ground beef from the supermarket.’’ He uttered the word ‘‘supermarket’’ the way another person might say ‘‘latrine.’’ The man, Basil thought, should have been an actor himself. He certainly got all the juice out of a word.

‘‘You’re not eating. Now, these are the traditional accompaniments around it-capers, chopped onion, and minced parsley.’’

‘‘Mmm-mm.’’

‘‘Not used to steak tartare, Basil?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Some chefs mix in cognac as well, and garnish it with caviar. The Swiss even add anchovies. But it seems to me if you’re going for the taste of fresh, raw meat, tarting it up with extraneous flavors is a waste. Don’t you think so?’’

‘‘Uhhh.’’

‘‘Still, to revert to our earlier topic, I wonder why it had to be The Taming of the Shrew . There are more interesting Shakespeare pieces you could do.’’

‘‘Uhhh. The trustees, actually.’’

‘‘The trustees wanted it? Well, then I suppose you’re stuck with it. They do hold the purse strings. But I wonder, as time goes on, if you could convince them to do Shakespeare’s unappreciated masterpiece. I’m speaking of Titus Andronicus, of course.’’

‘‘Mmm.’’

‘‘It’s reassuring to me, as a Shakespeare enthusiast, that the Julie Taymor film of it is coming out, at least. But there isn’t any substitute for the immediacy of the stage.’’

‘‘I agree, of course,’’ Basil half whispered.

‘‘Real human beings near enough to touch. And Titus Andronicus is so Grand Guignol. It was Shakespeare’s breakout play, you know. Made his name. Although at the time people claimed to be upset at all the violence.’’

‘‘Media violence-’’

‘‘Fascinating to think that without it, without all that excess, we might never have known the name Shakespeare.’’

Basil picked up a heavy Francis I fork. He touched the chopped meat. It was lumpy and bright red, with tiny flecks of gristle or fat. He wondered whether he could tell anything if he touched it with his finger. If it was warm-? Had it been in the refrigerator, or was it body temperature?

But he couldn’t bear to touch it.

Falkland went on. ‘‘And what a story. The son of Tamora, queen of the Goths, has been killed by Titus. For revenge, she has her other two sons rape Titus’s daughter and cut out her tongue.’’

‘‘I know,’’ said Basil in a strangled voice.

‘‘Then Titus, in an antic burst of exquisite revenge, invites Tamora to dinner and unknown to her, serves her a pasty-we’d call it a potpie, I imagine-made from her two sons’ heads.’’

‘‘I’m familiar with Titus Andronicus, dammit!’’

‘‘Oh, of course you are, dear boy. You’re a director. Terribly sorry.’’

‘‘Uhhh.’’

‘‘My word, Basil, you aren’t eating.’’

‘‘Auuhhh-’’

‘‘You haven’t touched your steak tartare.’’

It could not be what he thought. It could not. How long had they been down in that cellar? And how would Falkland dispose of the-of the rest? But then he recalled the dock, the boathouse. The mansion backed directly onto Lake Michigan. Well, of course it did. It was on the high-rent side of Sheridan. But what about Sloan? Could Falkland possibly have Sloan so much in his pocket that he would do anything Falkland asked?

Inadvertently, Basil glanced up at Sloan, standing silent and lugubrious just left of the dining room door.

Falkland caught his glance. ‘‘Sloan is such a gem,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s been with me for twenty-three years now.’’

‘‘Oh, yes?’’

‘‘Since I agreed to accept him from the parole board. You see, they would only let him go if he had permanent residential employment.’’

‘‘Oh, yes, I see.’’

‘‘In a home with no children.’’

Basil stared at his plate. If he so much as sipped a smidgen of water, he would be sick. Staring at his plate was worse. He averted his eyes. But it was too late. Perspiration started up on his forehead and he could feel sweat running into his hair. His face was hot and his abdomen was deeply cold.

Basil threw his napkin down next to the army of forks. He half rose. ‘‘I don’t think I’m feeling very well-’’

‘‘Oh, please. We were so looking forward to this evening.’’

‘‘I think I’d better go.’’

He gagged out the words and could hardly understand what he himself had said. It sounded like ‘‘guhguh-go.’’

The swinging door from the pantry opened. Pamela stood in the spill of kitchen light, holding a dusty glass bottle.

‘‘It’s a terrible cliché, I know,’’ she said, smiling apologetically, ‘‘but I picked out everything else and finally went back to the Château d’Yquem.’’

‘‘Uh-uh-uh,’’ Basil said, trying to stand upright, but bent by the pains knifing through his stomach.

‘‘Basil! Are you ill?’’ she said.

Basil ran at a half crouch out of the dining room, through the long hall and the marble foyer, and pushed out the front door into the glorious cool night air.

‘‘Oh dear,’’ Pamela said, still smiling.

Falkland said, ‘‘Fun, darling?’’

‘‘Fun? The best we’ve ever done.’’

‘‘G’day,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m Kylie Kendall. I’m here to see Arnold.’’

The bloke who’d opened the door of the flamboyant Beverly Hills mansion looked at me without enthusiasm. ‘‘Oh, yes. The Australian. Lisette told me you’d be coming by.’’

With his thick, curly black hair, deep brown eyes, straight nose, and jutting jaw, he was handsome, and he knew it. ‘‘Where’s the blonde?’’ he asked. ‘‘She’s the one who usually does the inspection.’’ His expression warmed slightly as he added, ‘‘Good-looking woman.’’