Page 26 of Rest In Pink

“It’s tied to the development,” Vince said. “But I’m wondering, too. There’s no guarantee that the development will even get off the ground—”

He stopped as the door to the bar banged open, and Mayor Patrick O’Toole came in with his wife, Honey, a pretty, blowsy brunette now rapidly going to seed and misery, probably because she’d been married to Patrick O’Toole for the past fifteen years and had just lost a great cook to Anemone. Even if Honey’s chief goal in life had been to be married to a mayor, O’Toole was a steep price to pay, his body paunchy from too many high-starch meals, his face blotchy from too many drinks, and his jaw slack from too few brains. The thinning hairline did not help, and neither did the shadow of the bruise on her jaw, covered in make-up but not very well.

And now Honey had no omelets from Marianne to make up for it. No wonder she had resting bitch face.

O’Toole’s hairline made me think about what Vince would look like if he started to lose his hair. Probably just fine, the guy had a good skull. But I was leaving in September, so I wouldn’t be around to see it anyway.

“Ah, Vince, my boy.” O’Toole said, coming over to clap him on the back. “And the lovely Liz.”

“Hi, Pat,” I said. We didn’t know each other well, but if I was Liz, he was damn well gonna be Pat.

Honey oozed her way over and we exchanged mutually disdainful smiles.

“How’s our boy Bartlett doing at his new job?” O’Toole boomed.

“He fell over backward in his chair today,” Vince said. “We think tomorrow is going to be even better for him.”

O’Toole lost his smile for a moment and then got it back. People were watching. “Better watch out,” he said jovially. “He’ll be climbing the ladder in no time.”

“He fell off his chair,” Vince said, “I don’t see him doing well on a ladder,” but O’Toole wasn’t listening.

“You’ll be working for him some day,” he said, smiling in that way that people who think they’ve just verbally shivved somebody smile.

“No, I won’t.” Vince would never make it as a politician.

“Don’t you forget who you’re talking to,” Honey said sharply.

“He knows exactly who he’s talking to,” I snapped back at her. “Let your husband fight his own battles. You want to throw down with somebody, come at me.”

“Thatwe could charge admission to,” Vince said, to nobody in particular.

Jill came down the bar then with two plates, each with a giant bun with a breaded tenderloin sticking out both sides and an equally giant pickle riding shotgun. And, of course, a pile of broad cut fries. I don’t think I’ve ever had a restaurant meal in Burney without fries. She put a plate in front of each of us, said, “Let me know what you think,” and left us to go get our drinks, Coke for Vince, Diet Coke for me. We live on the edge.

“Since when did this place start serving food?” O’Toole asked, eyeing the tenderloin with more lust than he’d probably shown Honey in years.

“Since now,” I said.

“Booth?” Vince said to me, and I said, “Oh, yes,” and we slid away from the bar and the O’Tooles and into a vacant booth.

“It’s gonna be hot,” Vince warned me as I picked up my sandwich.

“I’m not achild,” I said, and then I bit into the great squishy sandwich and burned my tongue, which proves I am, basically, a child.

Oh, but it was worth it. There’s something about juicy, gristly, crispy breaded thin pork tenderloin that is just a cheap thrill. Put some salt on it, stick it in into a pillow of white bread, squirt mustard around and fling some pickle slices on it, and you have a hot, tangy, chewy, blue-collar taste riot in your mouth.

“So good,” I said after I’d chewed and swallowed, which took a while. “Might need onion.”

“No,” Vince said. “Everything does not need onion.”

“I think that’s a matter of taste,” I began and then Molly pushed in next to Vince and put three Cokes on the table—one full octane, the other two wimpy Diet—and I slid over, waiting for Mac, who was not there.

“Did you lose Mac?” Vince asked her.

“I do not have custody of Mac,” Molly said, reaching for a fry on his plate.

“Touch my fries and die,” Vince said to her in a very level voice, and she yanked her hand back and reached for one of mine.

I could learn a thing or two from him about boundaries.

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