Read Online Madman's Thirst by Lawrence de Maria - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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pleasantly,
if not Darfur-like, slim. Scarne, who had opted for the charred sea bass, was
debating how to deconstruct the tower of fish, potatoes and greens on his
plate. Alfred Portale, the bistro’s famous chef, was noted not only for the
quality of his food, but also for its presentation. If the stacked entrée in
front of Scarne was any higher, he’d have to call Emma on her cell phone to
continue their conversation.
“Watch your food, Jake. It’s
beginning to tilt.”
Scarne’s tower of fish was indeed
swaying. He tried to right it, but overcompensated. The entire concoction
collapsed in a heap across his plate.
“The hell with it,” he said as he
stuck a fork into the nearest edible portion. “Alfred’s food is as good
horizontal as it is vertical.” Scarne picked up a strange looking vegetable.
“What do you think this is?”
“No idea. Just eat it. Maybe it
was in the chum line.”
They talked respective shops until
they finished eating. Scarne didn’t have to ask about dessert. Emma never
looked at the card the waiter handed them.
“I’ll have the flowerless
chocolate cake,” she said. “And perhaps you can add a little extra scoop of
vanilla ice cream.”
Scarne, who was now on a bit of a
health kick, passed on dessert, and they both ordered coffee. There was a tap
on the window behind Emma. She turned to return a wave from two women who had
been walking by. They were attractive, in that 40-ish, nip-and-tuck Hamptons
way that Scarne always found faintly annoying. Neither could hold a candle to
Emerald Shields, who was un-nipped and un-tucked. The women took long languid
looks at Scarne and crossed the street to the Strip House.
“Recognize the blonde? She drove
her BMW through the front door of that bar in Sag Harbor last summer. Did her
community service in a soup kitchen on the North Fork.”
“They have soup kitchens in the
North Fork?” Scarne made a show of reaching for his cell phone. “I want to call
my broker. This recession is more serious than I thought.”
Emma laughed.
“Don’t be an ass. She was serving
the migrant workers. Probably the only time she’s been near a kitchen in her
life. Now she wants to start a non-profit to help the disadvantaged.”
Scarne snared a piece of chocolate
cake from Emma’s plate.
“Somebody should start a
non-profit for the poor bastards who are funding their lunches at the Strip
House.”
“Don’t be such a cynic. I know
their husbands. They will never be poor. Now, what have you been up to?”
Scarne knew it was a loaded
question. Like all his friends, Emma had been worried about Scarne’s mental
equilibrium after the Ballantrae affair.
He told her about the Pearsall
case, leaving nothing out. It didn’t take long, mainly, he realized, because he
was discouragingly short on facts, clues and ideas.
“Jake, that’s terrible. What are
you going to do?”
They were almost finished with
their coffee. There was one piece of cake left. Emerald Shields put it on her
fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jake feigned indifference, but was not
surprised when the fork stopped short of her delectable mouth and moved across
the table and she fed him the cake.
“It’s obvious that I’m going to
have to look into the NASCAR thing. It doesn’t make any sense now, and probably
never did. But it’s the only string I have to pull.”
“Perhaps I can help with that,”
Emma said. “Do you know Aristotle Arachne?”
“The mini-Trump?”
“Oh, God. You’d better never say
that in his presence. He’s very sensitive about The Donald. Anyway, we’ve
become quite good friends.”
“Yes, I know. I read Page Six.”
Scarne’s reference to the New
York Post gossip page was made with a casualness that didn’t quite hide
another agenda. Emma Shields did not miss the undercurrent. She smiled.
“Don’t believe everything you
read. Ari is married.”
“Three times, I believe.”
“Who’s counting,” she said.
“Anyway,
if not Darfur-like, slim. Scarne, who had opted for the charred sea bass, was
debating how to deconstruct the tower of fish, potatoes and greens on his
plate. Alfred Portale, the bistro’s famous chef, was noted not only for the
quality of his food, but also for its presentation. If the stacked entrée in
front of Scarne was any higher, he’d have to call Emma on her cell phone to
continue their conversation.
“Watch your food, Jake. It’s
beginning to tilt.”
Scarne’s tower of fish was indeed
swaying. He tried to right it, but overcompensated. The entire concoction
collapsed in a heap across his plate.
“The hell with it,” he said as he
stuck a fork into the nearest edible portion. “Alfred’s food is as good
horizontal as it is vertical.” Scarne picked up a strange looking vegetable.
“What do you think this is?”
“No idea. Just eat it. Maybe it
was in the chum line.”
They talked respective shops until
they finished eating. Scarne didn’t have to ask about dessert. Emma never
looked at the card the waiter handed them.
“I’ll have the flowerless
chocolate cake,” she said. “And perhaps you can add a little extra scoop of
vanilla ice cream.”
Scarne, who was now on a bit of a
health kick, passed on dessert, and they both ordered coffee. There was a tap
on the window behind Emma. She turned to return a wave from two women who had
been walking by. They were attractive, in that 40-ish, nip-and-tuck Hamptons
way that Scarne always found faintly annoying. Neither could hold a candle to
Emerald Shields, who was un-nipped and un-tucked. The women took long languid
looks at Scarne and crossed the street to the Strip House.
“Recognize the blonde? She drove
her BMW through the front door of that bar in Sag Harbor last summer. Did her
community service in a soup kitchen on the North Fork.”
“They have soup kitchens in the
North Fork?” Scarne made a show of reaching for his cell phone. “I want to call
my broker. This recession is more serious than I thought.”
Emma laughed.
“Don’t be an ass. She was serving
the migrant workers. Probably the only time she’s been near a kitchen in her
life. Now she wants to start a non-profit to help the disadvantaged.”
Scarne snared a piece of chocolate
cake from Emma’s plate.
“Somebody should start a
non-profit for the poor bastards who are funding their lunches at the Strip
House.”
“Don’t be such a cynic. I know
their husbands. They will never be poor. Now, what have you been up to?”
Scarne knew it was a loaded
question. Like all his friends, Emma had been worried about Scarne’s mental
equilibrium after the Ballantrae affair.
He told her about the Pearsall
case, leaving nothing out. It didn’t take long, mainly, he realized, because he
was discouragingly short on facts, clues and ideas.
“Jake, that’s terrible. What are
you going to do?”
They were almost finished with
their coffee. There was one piece of cake left. Emerald Shields put it on her
fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jake feigned indifference, but was not
surprised when the fork stopped short of her delectable mouth and moved across
the table and she fed him the cake.
“It’s obvious that I’m going to
have to look into the NASCAR thing. It doesn’t make any sense now, and probably
never did. But it’s the only string I have to pull.”
“Perhaps I can help with that,”
Emma said. “Do you know Aristotle Arachne?”
“The mini-Trump?”
“Oh, God. You’d better never say
that in his presence. He’s very sensitive about The Donald. Anyway, we’ve
become quite good friends.”
“Yes, I know. I read Page Six.”
Scarne’s reference to the New
York Post gossip page was made with a casualness that didn’t quite hide
another agenda. Emma Shields did not miss the undercurrent. She smiled.
“Don’t believe everything you
read. Ari is married.”
“Three times, I believe.”
“Who’s counting,” she said.
“Anyway,
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