Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

It read J. P. Guidry.

5

The view from my balcony was almost enough to make me shed tears of joy. There were tiki torches surrounding the deck, giving the entire courtyard a flickering golden glow, and the big table in the middle looked like a photo shoot for one of those fancy food magazines. At one end was an old tin bucket, its sides sweating in the warm air, filled with ice and two bottles of white wine attended by four chilled wineglasses, all glittering with the reflected light from the torches. At the other end of the table was a big bowl of elkhorn lettuce, arugula, endive, and Swiss chard, tossed with big shaves of Parmesan, sliced red onion, and black olives—not the yucky canned type but the nice ones from the Italian market. In the center, practically glowing in all its glory, was a platter full of fresh grilled fish.

I knew right away that Paco must have been in charge of the meal. Michael is the true chef in the family, but every once in a while one of us steps in to give him a break. If it’s my turn, I order takeout—I’m not much of a cook—but when Paco takes over, it’s a special treat.

Paco is the kind of man who women dream about turning straight. He’s of Greek American descent, but with his dark good looks and facility with languages he could pass for almost any nationality in the world. I can barely master my own native tongue, but Paco speaks at least six fluently, and he’s always learning more. He’s been studying Korean for two years now, usually at the end of the day when everybody else is watching TV or playing Sudoku or staring at the wall. That kind of dedication comes in handy when you’re an undercover agent. His family name is Pakodopoulos, but that’s a mouthful for most people, so we call him Paco for short.

His parents immigrated to the States before he was born, but his mother taught him all the recipes she remembered from her own mother’s Mediterranean kitchen. Tonight he’d made striped bass, filleted and sprinkled with lemon juice, freshly ground cayenne, and coarse sea salt, then grilled to utter perfection on a quilt of fennel, tops and all. White fish tends to dry out on the grill, but as the fennel steams, the moisture rises up through the fish, keeping it moist and lending a note of anise and celery, while the charred, feathery greens curl up around the fish and give it smokiness. Paco served it on a bed of wilted kale with couscous and roasted pine nuts, sprinkled with ground peppercorns and paper-thin slices of lemon.

If I ever meet Paco’s mother, I’ll get down on my hands and knees and kiss her feet.

As I joined them at the table, Michael handed me a glass of wine. “Hank called from the firehouse and asked if I could be on call tonight. He said there was a bad accident on Ocean. Some guy in a convertible got hit by a garbage truck head-on.”

Before I could stop myself I said, “A landscaping truck.”

“Huh? How’d you know that?”

I winced and glanced at Ethan for help. “Um, yeah, I drove by there on my way home from work.”

At the same time, Ethan said, “Yeah, it was on the news.”

I grabbed my fork and shoved a big bite of salad in my mouth while Ethan reached for his wine.

Michael shrugged. “Oh. I guess Hank got it wrong. Anyway, he said it was pretty bad. Two people had to pull the guy out of his car.”

I tried not to choke on my salad. “Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Yeah, he said the car was on fire, so this blond girl and another guy literally picked the dude up and carried him to safety.”

“Huh,” I said.

“And then the dude’s car exploded.”

Ethan was looking down at his plate, moving his couscous around with his fork. “I guess they probably saved that guy’s life.” He looked up and flashed me a sly smile.

Michael nodded. “Oh yeah, definitely. Luckily the guys were right on it. They got everything hosed down before it could spread anywhere. Hank said the blonde was cute but a little broad in the beam.”

I paused. “Huh?”

Michael held his plate out over the table, and Paco put some salad on it. “You know, broad in the beam—isn’t that what Grandma used to say? I think he meant she had a big butt.”

I put my fork down and calmly took a sip of wine.

“He said she was kind of cute, but with a huge big fat butt, and she was wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts. Oh, and she drove a pale yellow Ford Bronco.”

I looked Michael levelly in the eyes. A big, mischievous grin spread across his face. I said, “I am going to come over there and personally beat you up.”

Paco burst out laughing, and Michael raised his hands in mock surprise. “What did I say?”

I turned to Ethan. “You traitor. You told them!”

“I swear I didn’t say a word!”

Michael said, “Dixie, did you think the guys down at the firehouse wouldn’t recognize you?”

I said, “Look, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t think you’d want to see me all messed up.”

“What do you mean, all messed up?”

“Michael, the guy was in a head-on collision. There was a little blood involved.”

He frowned. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Right.”

“Okay, I get it. Yeah, I would not have enjoyed that. Thanks for sparing me.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, the truck didn’t hit him. He hit the truck. I was coming down Ocean from my last client, I was on my way to the bookstore, and he was tailgating and weaving in and out of the road. So I pulled over and let him go by.”

Paco said, “That was mature of you. Nothing annoys me more. People don’t understand you shouldn’t be closer than one car length for every ten miles per hour you’re traveling. And they’re not just putting you in danger, they’re putting themselves and everybody else in danger, too.”

I said, “I know, but this guy was in a hurry. I don’t think safety was very high on his priority list at that point.”

Ethan said, “Was he local?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I doubt it. By the time I got to him he was barely conscious, and he didn’t have any ID. They put him in the ambulance, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

Paco sighed. “I wonder if he made it.”

We all sat there in silence for a few moments. I didn’t want to say, but suddenly the way Baldy had looked up at me when he was lying there on the sidewalk made me less than hopeful about his chances—that serene smile on his face, almost as if he were at peace …

Michael was peering at me across the table. “Wait a minute. What happened to your lip?”

I said, “Oh, it’s fine. I bit it when the girl rear-ended me.”

He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “Oh my God. What girl?”

I sighed. “Oops. Yeah, I forgot that part. The head-on caused a pile-up. I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of me, but the girl driving behind was on her phone, so she was a little slow on the uptake. But Michael, she barely tapped me. I mean, the Bronco only flew forward like maybe a foot.”

He let out a little groan.

“And my neck is kind of sore…”

He groaned again and said, “Let’s just change the subject.”

I nodded vigorously. “Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject.”

I looked at Paco and Ethan, but they weren’t any help, so in my most cheerful voice I said, “Oh, while I was waiting for the street to open back up I found a really cool book at the bookstore. You’re gonna love it.”

Still cradling his head in his hands, Michael peered at me through his fingers. “You pulled a bloody man out of a burning car and then went to the bookstore?”

“Well, it was right there, so…”

Paco said, “Umm, didn’t they wonder about the bloodstains all over your clothes?”