John Irving - Last Night In Twisted River

“I remember,” the cook told his old friend. It had turned into something more serious than an arm-wrestling match, as Dominic remembered it, but Ketchum had walked away with the single-shot Ithaca -there was no disputing that.

“Hell, just work on your story ,” Ketchum told them. “If the story is good enough, maybe you won’t have to shoot the bastard.”

“Did you come all this way just to bring us the gun?” the cook asked his old friend.

“I brought the Ithaca for them , Cookie-it’s for your friends, not for you. I came to help you pack . We’ve got a little traveling to do.”

Dominic reached back for Carmella’s hand-he knew she was standing behind him-but Carmella was quicker. She wrapped her arms around her Gamba’s waist and burrowed her face into the back of his neck. “I love you, but I want you to go with Mr. Ketchum,” she told the cook.

“I know,” Dominic told her; he knew better than to resist her, or Ketchum.

“What else is in the duffel bag?” the busboy asked the logger; the kid had come out of the kitchen and was looking a little better.

“Fireworks-for the Fourth of July,” Ketchum said. “Danny asked me to bring them,” he told Dominic.

Carmella went with them to the walk-up on Wesley Place. The cook didn’t pack many things, but he took the eight-inch cast-iron skillet off the hook in their bedroom; Carmella supposed that the skillet was mostly symbolic. She walked with them to the car-rental place. They would drive the rental car to Vermont, and Ketchum would bring the car back to Boston; then he would take the train back to New Hampshire from North Station. Ketchum hadn’t wanted his truck to be missing for a few days; he didn’t want the deputy sheriff to know he was away. Besides, he needed a new truck, Ketchum told them; with all the driving he and Dominic had to do, Ketchum’s truck might not have made it.

For thirteen years, Carmella had been hoping to meet Mr. Ketchum. Now she’d met him, and his violence. She could see in an instant what her Angelù had admired about the man, and-when Ketchum had been younger-Carmella could easily imagine how Rosie Calogero (or any woman her age) might have fallen in love with him. But now she hated Ketchum for coming to the North End and taking her Gamba away; she would even miss the cook’s limp, she told herself.

Then Mr. Ketchum said something to her, and it completely won her over. “If, one day, you ever want to see the place where your boy perished, I would be honored to show you,” Ketchum said to her. Carmella had to fight back tears. She had so wanted to see the river basin where the accident happened, but not the logs; she knew the logs would be too much for her. Just the riverbank, where the cook and young Dan had stood and seen it happen-and maybe the exact spot in the water-yes, she might one day want to see that.

“Thank you, Mr. Ketchum,” Carmella said to him. She watched them get into the car. Ketchum, of course, was the driver.

“If you ever want to see me-” Carmella started to say to Dominic.

“I know,” the cook said to her, but he wouldn’t look at her.

COMPARED TO THE DAY HER GAMBA LEFT, the day Carl came to Vicino di Napoli was almost easy for Carmella. It had again been at the time of their midafternoon meal, and it was nearly the end of that summer-sometime in August ’67, when they’d all started to imagine (or hope) that the cowboy wasn’t ever coming.

Carmella saw the cop first. It was just as Gamba had told her: When Carl was out of uniform, he still looked like he was wearing one. Of course Ketchum had remarked on the jowls, and the way the cowboy’s neck was bunched in folds. (“Maybe all cops have bad haircuts,” Ketchum had said to her.)

“Someone go back in the kitchen,” Carmella said, standing up from the table; the door was locked, and she went to unlock it. It was Paul Polcari who went back in the kitchen. The second the cowboy came inside, Carmella found herself wishing it had been Molinari back there.

“You would be the Del Popolo woman?” the deputy sheriff asked her. He showed them all his badge while saying, “ Massachusetts is out of my jurisdiction-actually, everythin’ outside Coos County is out of my jurisdiction-but I’m lookin’ for a fella I think you all know. He’s got some answerin’ to do-name of Dominic, a little guy with a limp.”

Carmella started to cry; she cried easily, but in this case she had to force herself.

“That prick,” Molinari said. “If I knew where he was, I’d kill him.”

“Me, too!” Paul Polcari cried from the kitchen.

“Can you come out of there?” the deputy called to Paul. “I like to see everyone.”

“I’m busy cooking!” Paul screamed; pots and pans were banging.

The cowboy sighed. They all remembered how the cook and Ketchum had described Carl; they’d said the cop never stopped smiling, but it was the most insincere smile in the world. “Look,” the cowboy said to them, “I don’t know what the cook’s done to you, but he’s got some explainin’ to do to me-”

“He walked out on her!” Molinari said, pointing to Carmella.

“He stole her jewels!” the busboy cried.

The kid is an idiot! the others thought. (Even the cop might be smart enough to know that Carmella wasn’t the sort of woman who had jewels.)

“I didn’t figure Cookie for a jewel thief,” Carl said. “Are you people bein’ honest with me? You really don’t know where he is?”

“No!” one of the young waitresses cried out, as if her companion waitress had stabbed her.

“That prick,” Molinari repeated.

“What about you?” the cowboy called into the kitchen. Paul seemed to have lost his voice. When the pots and pans commenced to banging again, the others took this as a signal to move a little bit away from the cop. Ketchum had told them not to scatter like a bunch of chickens, but to get some necessary separation between the cowboy and themselves-just to give the shooter a decent shot at the bastard.

“If I knew where he was, I would cook him!” Paul Polcari shouted. He held the Ithaca in his heavily floured hands, which were shaking. He sighted down the barrel till he found the cowboy’s throat-what he could manage to see of it, under Carl’s multiple chins.

“Can you come out of there, where I can see you?” the cop called to Paul, squinting into the kitchen. “Wops,” the cowboy muttered. That was when Tony Molinari got a glimpse of the Colt. Carl had put his hand inside his jacket, and Molinari saw the big holster that was awkwardly at an angle under the deputy’s armpit, the fat man’s fingers just grazing the grip of the long-barreled handgun. The handle of the Colt.45 was inlaid with what looked like bone; it was probably deer antler.

For Christ’s sake, Paul! Molinari was thinking. The cowboy’s already looking at you-just shoot him! To her surprise, Carmella was thinking the same thing-just shoot him! She had all she could do not to cover both ears with her hands.

Paul Polcari just wasn’t the one for the job. The pizza chef was a sweet, gentle man; now he found that his throat felt as if a cup of flour had clogged it. He was trying to say, “Hey, cowboy!” The words wouldn’t come. And the cowboy kept squinting into the kitchen; Paul Polcari knew that he didn’t have to say anything. He could just pull the trigger and Carl would be blinded. But Paul couldn’t-more to the point, he didn’t- do it.

“Well, shit,” the deputy sheriff said. He was moving sideways, toward the restaurant door. Molinari was worried, because the cowboy was out of sight from Paul’s spot in the back of the kitchen; then Carl reached inside his jacket again, and they all froze. (Here comes the Colt! Molinari was thinking.) But now they saw it was just a small card that the cowboy had pulled out of his pocket; he handed it to Carmella. “Call me if that little cripple calls you,” Carl said to her; he was still smiling.