02 I Know a Trick Worth Two of That by Samuel Holt

Author:Samuel Holt [Holt, Samuel]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

29

It’s been a long while since I made my own meals. In the old days I fed myself with no trouble, but somewhere along the line I lost the skill for it. These days, Robinson does the cooking at home, a job he’s good at because he enjoys it. In the kitchen he’s master of his domain, director and star and entire cast, and if from time to time he improves upon the script—that is, the recipe—there’s no one to complain. Certainly not me. Robinson may not be among the world’s great chefs, but within his sphere he’s very good.

And it is his kitchen, dammit, not mine. Back from Harvey Mallon, with the limousine scheduled to return at two, I wandered around the kitchen trying to put together a simple lunch and realized I had no idea where Robinson keeps things. What would I do if he left me forever for that goddamn series? The search for the right pot, the right knife, the right spoon, finally wore me out and I just gave up and phoned a deli over on 6th Avenue. Among sandwiches, the turkey and cheese and tomato and lettuce with Russian dressing on a roll was the simplest they could offer; I ordered one, and allowed as how I could make my own coffee, thank you.

With the phone in front of me anyway, I called Brett at the number he’d given my service and an irritable young woman answered. I was really interrupting her day, but she went off and got Brett, who sounded his usual cheery self when he came on the line, saying, “Welcome back. You gonna stick around?”

“Awhile.”

“What are you doing this afternoon? Want to come watch Maria shoot aprons?”

Shoot aprons? With a camera, presumably. “Sure,” I said, and he gave me the address, and I told him I’d be over in mid-afternoon sometime. Then, reluctantly, I took that list out of my pocket and spread it on the chest-high butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen. Everything in this room was clean and neat, except where I’d made small disturbances in search of utensils, and now this list was in the middle of it, spoiling things. The piece of paper had creases and wrinkles now, from my pocket, angling across the handwritten names.

It was strange how the existence of that list depersonalized the people involved. As nothing more than one of a group of names, “Anita Imperato” meant almost as little as “Vera Slote,” and “Terry Young” was as anonymous as “Helen Mayhew.” Well, it was time to bring those names back to life, wasn’t it? Always bearing in mind Bly’s phrasing of the question: Which nine of these people had not betrayed my friendship? Remembering that, I started phoning them, and had made dates with three when the doorbell announced the arrival of my sandwich.

The kid recognized me, and wanted my autograph, which I gave him on a piece of my memo paper, then went back down to the kitchen and transferred the huge sloppy sandwich to a plate.

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