Brian Freeman - The Crooked Street

Herb nodded. “I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ll put the word out that you want to talk to Ms. Drake. After that, it’s up to her. But be careful, Frost. If you’re looking for poisonous snakes, there’s no better place to start than the world of public relations.”

The gathering of food trucks in the SoMa street park on Saturday night always turned into a party. Bluegrass music twanged from the stage. The aromas in the air mixed into a multiethnic blend of Tex-Mex, sweet Asian, Caribbean jerk spices, and wood-fired pizza. Hundreds of city dwellers crowded together for date nights, most of them young enough to make Frost feel strangely old. He’d brought Shack with him in a carrier, which meant that he had to stop for girls to crouch down and giggle as Shack licked their fingers.

As he crossed the park, he heard a shout rise above the raucous crowd. “Bro! Over here!”

His older brother, Duane, waved from a picnic table near his food truck. Seating was always at a premium in SoMa, but Duane’s table had a sign that read: Reserved for Chef Duane on Penalty of Death and/or Garlic Breath. Everyone respected the rule. It helped that Duane often handed out free samples of whatever he was cooking.

Frost put Shack’s carrier on top of the picnic table and slid onto the bench across from his brother. Duane had his arm around Tabby Blaine. His brother wore a contented smile that Frost had never thought he would see on Duane’s face. For years, Duane’s life had been his work, and his only relationships had been an endless series of flings with each new sous chef. Tabby had changed that. Duane was in love, and Frost was happy to see it.

“Hey, guys,” he said over the din of the people and the music.

“Glad you could make it, bro!” Duane greeted him with his usual zest.

“Hello, Frost,” Tabby murmured, looking at him with a slow blink of her green eyes and then looking away. His stare lingered on her longer than was healthy, and he had to force himself to stop.

Duane poked his finger into the carrier. “Shackster! Shack Attack! You want some poutine there, buddy?”

His brother dipped a French fry into gravy that had a sweet-spicy aroma and then stuck the end into the carrier for Shack to have a little taste. The cat didn’t always approve of everything Duane made, but pad thai poutine was apparently a hit. Shack licked it up and put out a paw for more.

It was Canada Day in March. Duane wore a red hockey jersey from the Montreal Canadiens. The picnic table and the truck were decorated with Canadian flags, and somehow Duane had managed to procure a life-sized cardboard cutout of Justin Trudeau.

“Is it going well?” Frost asked.

“Terrific. Raymonde made Montreal smoked meat sandwiches. They’re incredible. You have to try them.”

“I don’t see a Mountie,” Frost pointed out.

“Yeah, the street-park people gave me a hard time about the horse,” Duane replied, “and without the horse, what’s the point?”

Duane eyed the long line at his food truck, but it wasn’t long enough for his taste. He climbed onto the bench of the picnic table and waved one of the miniature Canadian flags. “Pouuuuuuuutine!” he bellowed into the night. “We’ve got the best poutine south of Hudson Bay! Smooooooked meat that melts in your mouth! Right over here, get it over here!”

Then he began singing “O Canada” in a surprisingly impressive baritone. The drunk crowd around him applauded, and a few of them joined the chorus.

Frost smiled at the performance. This was peak Duane. If there was one thing Frost admired about his brother, it was his relentless, caffeinated energy. He rarely slept. He never seemed to sit down or stop talking. Like their father, Duane was an extrovert who thrived on people, which made him very different from Frost.

Someone called out Duane’s name from the rear door of the food truck. Frost caught a glimpse of a pale, carrot-topped sous chef who didn’t look any older than nineteen. His voice had barely changed, and his accent sounded French. “Duane, we need you over here!”

Duane waved back in reply. He hopped down from the bench and kissed Tabby on the cheek. “Be right back!”

Frost’s brother shoved through the crowd, shaking hands and passing around samples of poutine as he went. Duane was several inches shorter than Frost, and he had long black hair tied behind his head in a ponytail. The hockey jersey he wore was a couple of sizes too big, and his pants were a couple of sizes too small. He jogged up the rear steps of the food truck and disappeared inside. The tenor of his voice changed immediately, and Frost could hear him bellowing complaints at the sous chefs. When it came to preparing the food, Duane lived up to his nickname, which was the Beast. He even had a name tag that read “Duane Beaston.”

With his brother gone, Frost was alone with Tabby on the bench. Her profile was lit up in the multicolored glow of neon. She had no smile on her lips, and her green eyes stared blankly into the crowd. She sat straight up, like someone trying to hold strong against a stiff wind. There was something both fearless and fragile about her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She looked back, startled, as if she’d forgotten that he was there.

“Oh, sorry, Frost. I’m not myself tonight.” Tabby pushed her red hair away from her face. She reached over to tickle Shack’s chin inside the carrier, and Shack nudged forward for more attention. The cat was in love with her and didn’t try to hide it.

“What’s going on?” Frost asked.

“It’s just been a crappy day. I don’t want to bother you with it.”

“Bother me,” he told her.

Tabby shrugged. “Up is down, down is up. That’s my life these days.”

“Is it your niece?” he asked. Tabby’s only sister had a four-year-old who was battling a rare form of cancer. “You’ve been pretty quiet about her lately. How is she?”

“Hanging on. She’s a brave little kid.”

“And is the insurance company finally playing ball?”

Tabby gave him a smile that came and went like a flickering candle. “It’s under control.”

He could feel her distance tonight. She obviously didn’t want to talk, but having her pull away made him want to chase her.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Oh no. Thanks.”

“Is there anything else going on?”

“Like I said, it’s just a bad day. I’ve got problems of my own. I have an important catering job scheduled, and the chef I wanted bailed on me. Now I’m scrambling to get a replacement. I’m not used to relying on other people, you know? I miss being the one in the kitchen myself.”

Frost didn’t say anything, but he felt a stab of guilt that he tried to keep off his face. It didn’t work. Tabby took a moment to catch up to what she’d said, and then her eyes widened with regret as she saw his expression. “Oh my God, Frost, why did I say that? Please don’t think I blame you. It’s not your fault.”

He waved off her comment as nothing, but he still blamed himself for her situation. When he’d met Tabby, she had not only been Duane’s girlfriend but also an up-and-coming chef at one of the city’s top restaurants. Then Frost had faced down a killer who’d been holding a knife to Tabby’s throat, and the only way to rescue her had been to fire a shot that hit both of them. Tabby survived, but the price was permanent nerve damage to two of the fingers on her right hand. She was never going to cook in a professional kitchen again.

“Really, I’m sorry,” she went on. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know that.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything at all,” he replied.