Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

He looked back down at his coffee. Problem was, nobody was scared of the Cry County Courier. It was more like a local joke. How could they respect him as a reporter when he came by the next day selling ad space, and came by again the day after at the wheel of the delivery truck because his driver, Pol Ketchum, had to take his wife to Dodge City for chemotherapy?

Here was the biggest story of his career and he had nothing for tomorrow’s paper. Nothing. Course, he could always recycle what he had reported yesterday, work a new angle, hint about leads, play up the “no comments,” and produce passable copy. But the savagery and strangeness of the crime had aroused sleepy Medicine Creek, and people wanted more. And a part of him wanted to rise to the occasion, to do well by the story. A part of him wanted—now that he finally had the chance—to be a real journalist.

He smiled at himself and shook his head. Here he was, wife passed away, daughter long gone to greener pastures on the West Coast, paper losing money, and him nearing sixty-five. A real journalist. It was a little late for that. What was he thinking?

Ludwig noticed that the low susurrus of conversation in the diner had suddenly faltered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black form hovering outside Maisie’s. It was that FBI agent, examining the menu taped to the glass. Then the figure moved to the door and pushed it open. The little bell tinkled.

Smit Ludwig rotated slightly on his stool. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe he could get something out of the agent. It seemed unlikely, but it was worth a try. Even the tiniest crumb would do. Smit Ludwig could do wonders with a crumb.

The FBI man—what was his name?—slid into one of the banquettes and Maisie shoved off to get his order. There was no problem hearing Maisie—her booming voice carried into every corner of the diner—but he had to strain to hear the agent’s soft replies.

“The blue plate special today,” Maisie boomed out, “is meatloaf.”

“Of course,” the FBI man said. “Meatloaf.”

“Yup. Meatloaf and white gravy, mashed garlic potatoes—homemade, not out of the box—and green beans on the side. Green beans have iron, and you could certainly use some iron.” Ludwig had to suppress a smile. Maisie was already starting in on the poor stranger. If he didn’t gain ten pounds by the time he left, it wouldn’t be for lack of browbeating.

“I see you have pork and beans,” the man said. “What type of legumes, precisely, do you employ?”

“Legumes? No legumes in our pork and beans! Only fresh ingredients. I start with the best red beans, toss in some fatback, molasses, spices, then I cook ’em overnight, with the heat on low as a whisper. The beans just melt in your mouth. One of our most popular dishes. Pork and beans, then?”

This was starting to become entertaining. Ludwig swiveled a bit farther to get a better view of the action.

“Fatback, my goodness, yes, how nice . . .” the agent repeated vaguely. “And the fried chicken?”

“Double-dipped in Maisie’s special corn batter, deep fried to a golden crisp, smothered in white gravy. Goes great with our special sweet-potato fries.”

The man looked from the menu to Maisie and back again, a strangely blank expression on his face. Then he spoke. “You must have access to high-quality Angus beef in these parts.”

“We certainly do. I can cook a steak ten ways from Sunday. Fried, chicken-fried, grilled, broiled or pot-roasted or broasted. With Velveeta steak fries and green goddess salad. Rare, medium, or well done. You tell me how you want it and if I can’t do it, it don’t exist.”

“Would you happen to have a sirloin cut?” he inquired. The man had a silken, almost buttery voice that, Ludwig noticed, had at least half the diner listening raptly.

“You bet. Top sirloin, filet, New York strip, you name it, we got it.”

There was a long silence. “You say you’re willing to prepare steak in any fashion?”

“That’s right. We take care of our customers.” Maisie glanced over at Smit Ludwig. He smiled quickly. “Right, Smitty?”

“That’s right, Maisie,” he replied. “The meatloaf is heaven.”

“Then you better get to work and finish it!”

Ludwig nodded, still grinning.

Maisie turned back at the FBI man. “You tell me how you like it, and I’ll be glad to oblige.”

“I wonder if you would be so kind as to bring me out a well-trimmed top sirloin of about six ounces for my inspection.”

Maisie didn’t bat an eye at this request. If the man wanted to see the steak before she cooked it, the man would see the steak before she cooked it. Ludwig watched her go in the back and return with a nice filet. The best, Ludwig knew, she would save for Tad Franklin, who she had a soft spot for.

She angled the plate under the man’s nose. “There you are. And you won’t find its equal until you get to Denver, I promise you that.”

The man looked at the steak, then picked up his knife and fork and trimmed off the fat along one side. Then he handed the plate back to her. “I’d be grateful if you would run it through a meat grinder, set on medium.”

Ludwig paused. Run a filet mignon through a meat grinder? How was Maisie going to react now? He practically held his breath.

Maisie was staring at the FBI agent. The diner had gone very still. “And how would you like your, er, hamburger cooked?”

“Raw.”

“You mean very rare?”

“I mean raw, if you please. Please bring it back to me with an uncooked egg, in the shell, along with some finely chopped garlic and parsley.”

Maisie swallowed visibly. “Sesame or plain bun?”

“No bun, thank you.”

Maisie nodded, turned, and then—with a single backward glance—took the plate and disappeared into the kitchen. Ludwig watched her depart, waited a beat, and then made his move. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his coffee and strolled over, pausing in front of the FBI agent. The man looked up and fixed Ludwig with a long, cool gaze from a pair of extremely pale eyes.

Ludwig stuck out his hand. “Smit Ludwig. Editor of the Cry County Courier. ”

“Mr. Ludwig,” said the man, shaking the proffered hand. “My name is Pendergast. Do sit down. You were at the press conference early this morning. I must say you asked some rather insightful questions.”

Ludwig flushed at the unexpected praise and eased his creaky and not exactly youthful frame into the banquette opposite.

Maisie reappeared in the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she carried a plate mounded with freshly ground sirloin, in the other, a second plate with the rest of the ingredients, and an egg in an egg cup. She set both plates before Pendergast.

“Anything else?” she asked. She looked stricken—and who wouldn’t be, Ludwig thought, running a decent sirloin like that through a meat grinder?

“That will be all, thank you very much.”

“We aim to please.” Maisie attempted a smile, but Ludwig could see she was thoroughly defeated. This was something utterly foreign to her experience.

Ludwig—and the entire diner—watched as Pendergast sprinkled the garlic over the raw meat, added salt and pepper, cracked the raw egg on top, and carefully folded the ingredients together. Then he molded it with his fork into a pleasing mound, sprinkled parsley on top, and sat back to contemplate his work.

Suddenly, Ludwig understood. “Steak tartare?” he asked, nodding toward the plate.

“Yes, it is.”

“I saw somebody make that on the Food Network. How is it?”

Pendergast delicately lifted a portion to his mouth, chewed with half-closed eyes. “All that is lacking is a ’97 Léoville Poyferré.”