- Chapter 1 by Poppy Z. Brite

Author:Poppy Z. Brite [Brite, Poppy Z.]
Language: deu
Format: epub
Publisher: Subterranean Press
Published: 2011-05-29T21:15:29+00:00

XII

THE WINE, THE MOONLIGHT, THE PROSCIUTTO

After closing the restaurant one night, Rickey and G-man drove out to a spot they liked on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. They brought a bottle of wine—neither of them was much of a oenophile, but G-man was slowly working his way through the Italian reds, learning about better versions of what had always been on his family table—and sat on the seawall passing it back and forth, legs dangling above the surf, not talking much, watching the moonlight ripple on the dark unquiet water. It was October now, often one of the most beautiful months in New Orleans, but this had been a hot one and the breeze from the lake felt good on their slightly kitchen-baked faces.

As the level in the wine bottle decreased, they began to lean against each other. Eventually Rickey was leaning a little more, and G-man slipped an arm around his shoulders. They weren't much given to public displays of affection, but there was nobody else out here to see. Rickey let his head nestle into the curve of G-man's neck. His hair stank of sweat and grease, his skin was sticky, and there was a crusty stain on the sleeve of his T-shirt, but to G-man he felt wonderful.

"G?" Rickey said sleepily.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"You think fourteen days is enough to make a good duck prosciutto?"

G-man sighed.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just never thought I'd be jealous of a hundred ducks."

"Fifty ducks. Fifty is all we're getting in advance. Then around a hundred more when we get there, depending on how the season goes."

"Half a duck per person, huh?"

"Maybe a little more for Bobby Hebert."

"Can't we round it out with some city ducks?"

"Mr. Fontenot says they don't want any city ducks. What was it he called 'em?. . .Oh yeah. Marshmallows."

G-man laughed, then turned his head and put his lips against the soft hollow behind Rickey's ear.

"Mmmm. . .hey, listen. . ."

"Wha?" said G-man, muffled.

"What if we wrapped duck breasts in the prosciutto and. . .OW! Goddammit, G! Jesus Christ, you fucking bit me on the fucking earlobe! I can't believe it!"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to bite down like that."

"Do you want to go home or something?"

"I guess we can talk about ducks just as well here as there."

"We don't have to talk about ducks."

"You sure you can stop for five minutes?"

"I been a little single-minded, huh?"

"Yeah, like the Saints are having a little bit of a losing season. . .Aw, don't worry about it," he said to Rickey's wounded expression. "I know you gotta be single-minded about stuff like this. It's just, you know, it's only October."

"Exactly! It's way too early to say they're having a losing season. They could still go twelve and four."

"Sure they could, Mr. Who Dat, but I was talking about the banquet. You can't spend your every waking minute between now and December thinking about it. You still got a restaurant to run."

"Course I got a restaurant to run. But I know how to do that. I don't know how to do this banquet.

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