Reinhart's Women (33 page)

“You’re a real criminal,” said Reinhart, winking at her.

“Are you angry?”

“You betcha.” He touched the back of her near hand, and started the engine.

She did not speak again until they were on the motorway. “I’ve met some nice people in our building—at the mailboxes and around. I met Winona!”

“That’s a pretty nice building,” said Reinhart. “We’ve always liked it.”

Edie asked anxiously: “Is your apartment satisfactory?”

“It’s quite nice. It’s my favorite of all the places I’ve ever lived in.”

“Good,” she said. “Because if any thing’s wrong I wish you’d let me know.”

“With the apartment?”

“My father owns the building.”

“I see,” said Reinhart, speeding up to the fifty-five mark on the dial. “That’s right, now that I think of it, there’s that sign on the front corner of the building, isn’t there? ‘The Mulhouse Corporation.’ That’s your father?”

“I guess so,” Edie said, flinching.

“Nothing wrong with that. I’ve seen the name on quite a few buildings around town. Your father must own a good portion of this city.” Furthermore, Mr. Mulhouse was probably no older than he, perhaps even younger.

Edie said fearfully: “I just have a studio apartment. I’m not taking up any extra space that should go to couples with families.”

Reinhart smiled at her. “You’re too apologetic, Edie. You don’t have to ask the world’s permission for everything! Did anyone ask you whether you wanted to be born?”

He grinned at her. She was apparently a real-life example of the poor little rich girl, but in the course of life, he had become aware, it is routine to encounter at least one example of every legendary type.

CHAPTER 16

R
EINHART HAD BEEN DRIVING
for some time as it were unconsciously. An exit sign was coming up.

“Look where we are already: Brockville. We’d better get off here if we’re ever going to get anything to eat.”

He sent the little car down the ramp, at the bottom of which was a blacktopped county road.

Soon they were entering Brockville. Reinhart could not remember having visited this community, though it was not an uncommon name in his personal gazetteer. Now and again throughout the years “Brockville” would be pronounced by someone as being a point in space from which something else could be measured. “Worthing? Oh, that’s on out north of Brockville.” The town itself, into which within a moment or two they had penetrated to the heart, had a business district one block in length and occupied really less than that measurement of distance would imply, for on only one side of the street were there any establishments of “business,” if a café-restaurant and a little delicatessen, both of them of the seedy if not flyblown character, could be said to have a serious association with the term.

Brockville was the kind of place in which at noon you could park at the curb directly in front of the only restaurant in town.

Reinhart shifted into neutral and switched off the ignition. “Shall we try this place? If it looks too bad inside, we can just have a cup of coffee and leave. It has been my experience to be horribly disappointed in life when I’ve looked for anything quaint.”

He had meant that in ironic jest, but Edie said soberly: “I don’t think I’ve ever looked for anything of that kind, unless I just don’t know what it is.”

They left the car. Reinhart noted with approval that the façade of the place had not yet suffered the hand of the routine renovator who applies solid siding or wooden shingles, leaving only a tiny window displaying a neon beer-sign and a framed liquor license. No, the Center Café had the big plate-glass front window of yore, though seeing clearly through it was another matter.

They entered. If the population of Brockville was at lunch, it obviously ate at home, for few representatives were currently in the only eatery. Of the three options, far-left counter, central tables, far-right booths, only the first-named was in use: three men, spaced intermittently, sat at the counter, but only one of them seemed honestly a diner: that is, only he had a plate before him. Another simply sucked at what looked to be a stark coffee cup. The third man partook of nothing at the moment, though it was possible he had already fed. He was dressed in dark-green work clothes, shirt & pants, and he talked with, or rather listened to, the proprietress, a blousy, voluble, spirited woman of about Reinhart’s age.

She shouted at him and Edie: “Take a booth, kids.” Reinhart waved at her, and she refined the invitation: “Take
any
booth.”

“Who knows what we’re in for?” Reinhart muttered as they went along the far-right aisle. There had been a time in life when he would have chosen the farthest booth, and another when the nearest would have been most attractive to him, and again there had been eras for the nearest-but-one and the next-to-the-last. No doubt a man’s philosophy could be measured in hashhouse seating arrangements.

He said now to Edie: “Let’s boldly take the one in the middle. We’ve got nothing to hide.” But once again his little witticism was accepted almost dolefully by her.

By the time they had, leggy persons that they were, inserted themselves at their respective sides of the table—though there was plenty of room here, Reinhart always felt a certain emotional pressure when bending to penetrate a booth—the woman said good-bye, with a jovially rude sound, to the man in the green uniform, and crossed the room. She seemed more loose of flesh than actually fat, but it was hard to tell. She was wearing a kind of smock, in pale orange; it was clean enough. She had small and blue but warm eyes.

“Well, sir,” said she, including Edie in the address, her little eyes swiveling, “what can I do for you today?”

“What’s the specialty of the house?” asked Reinhart.

The woman winked at Edie, jerking an elbow in Reinhart’s direction. “There’s a brave man.” She turned to him. “Sure you wanna know?”

Reinhart said: “I live dangerously.” He winked at her. “Does a fellow have a choice in Brockville?”

“Say.” The woman put her hands on her hips. “You serious? The shopping center’s got ’em all: the Colonel, King of Burgers, Chinky Chow Mein...”

“Well, lucky for us, we missed all of that,” said Reinhart. “We’re from the city, and are trying to get away from all the known junk.”

“O.K.,” the woman said robustly. “I sure hope your will is in order! I don’t have a long menu, because I don’t have many customers for any meal after breakfast, and in fact I don’t stay open very long for supper. But I’m here as of four thirty
A.M.
, and I get enough business from the truckers to keep my head above water. I’ll tell you what I’ve got all day, every day: I’ve got eggs any style. I’ve got ham and cheese sandwiches. I’ve got hamburger of course. I’ve got chili con carne. And then I always have a daily special. Today it’s red-flannel hash.”

“The hash sounds terrific,” said Reinhart, “but I think I’ll try the chili if it’s homemade.”

The woman shrugged. “It is.”

“Edie, what do you think?”

Edie said: “Oh.”

“Two chilis, then,” cried the woman in her energetic way.

Reinhart liked her a lot, though he feared the worst with reference to her cuisine, suspecting her of carelessness.

“Say,” he said, “I don’t suppose you sell beer?”

She bent and pressed her midsection against the edge of the table. “Hon, I’m going to take a chance you’re not a state inspector. I don’t have a license, but I’ll be glad to step over to the store and bring you back some brew. They keep it ice-cold.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Reinhart. The woman went away. He noticed that she wore sneakers. He spoke to Edie: “Seems to be a little place that time forgot. At least, the old part of Brockville. No doubt the shopping mall’s in the new part. Did you notice those houses on the opposite side of the street? Imagine that in the middle of a business district these days, little houses with porches. At least one is equipped with a swing that hangs from chains. I can remember when those were routine on front porches, and the people who wanted to be up-to-date replaced the old swings with a sofalike thing that rested on the floor and was called a ‘glider.’”

Edie gave him a long, intense, probably worshipful stare.

“Of course,” he added, “that was during the Depression, and one had to have money to buy a glider. There were men, neighbors of ours, who had been out of work for years, and there was a form of welfare then called ‘relief,’ but some people were too proud to take it. Another word from those days was ‘prosperity,’ but that didn’t really come until the war. A good many people had to be killed, in other words, before others had a good life in the material sense.” He picked up the nearby salt shaker. Its chromium top was shining; its contents were as loose as dry sand. “This place is cleaner inside than it looks from out. Also the woman seems to be here alone, and she trusts the two guys at the counter, and of course us, not to open the cash register while she’s over at the beer store. You don’t see that kind of faith every day.”

Whenever he looked at her Edie’s eyes were fastened so intently on him that he could not bear to meet them, for fear that his own would water in sympathy.

It was with relief that he saw the woman returning with the beer. She carried a whole six-pack but went first to the counter and took two bottles from their slots in the carrier. She brought these to the booth, along with two squat water tumblers.

“Sorry I don’t have any nice glasses,” said she. “But the beer is cold. I brought the whole six-pack to be on the safe side, but you don’t have to pay for what you don’t drink. Now’s the time to put the cuffs on me if you are state inspectors.” She put down the bottles and thrust her wrists at Reinhart.

“Thanks for not getting cans,” said he, “and in fact for getting the beer in the first place.”

“I’m just trying to soften you up for the food.” She laughed widely but silently. “It isn’t much of a risk. My old man’s the Brockville chief of police, which is more of a job than you might think if you’ve only seen this part of town. The new part’s where the shopping center is. We live in back of it, in a new ranchhouse. The café’s got sentimental value for me. My folks used to run it when I was a kid, and I grew up in the apartment upstairs. I don’t make enough nowadays to hardly pay the expenses, but it’s a good hobby for me.” She withdrew her hand from a pocket in the apron and produced an old-fashioned bottle-opener made from one continuous piece of brass wire. Reinhart could not remember having seen one of those in forty years.

After she had poured a glass for each of them and gone to fetch the food, he raised his tumbler at Edie and took a swallow. It was a local brand and, thank God, one that chose to be yeastily flavorful rather than insipidly “light.”

Edie gave him a strained smile and with a sudden effort picked up her own glass and drank deeply from it. She swallowed with a wince.

The woman arrived with two heaped plates.

“What’s this?” Reinhart asked admiringly. He had expected the kind of chili that contains at least as many kidney beans by weight as beef, ground beef—but the plate before him held a lovely dark-chocolate-colored and chunky stew, with meat that looked tender enough to embrace the tines before they could pierce it, and the fragrance that rose from the sauce, which was so thick that a spoon thrust into it and raised would not have dripped, was almost of cinnamon.

“This is the real Tex-Mex McCoy, isn’t it?”

“I learned how to make that down in the Panhandle,” said the woman, “when my husband was in the service. That’s pinto beans and rice underneath the meat.”

Reinhart dug in. “By George,” said he, after having chewed and swallowed a specimen forkful. “Marvelous. What all’s in it? Chili powder, garlic, what else? Bay leaf? But something else. What am I missing: cinnamon, ginger?”

She rolled her small eyes and sucked the air from her cheeks. “Well, sir,” said she, laughing slyly. “That’s my secret weapon.”

Edie spoke up: “Do you know who you’re talking to? The TV Chef, that’s who!”

Reinhart protested. “Come on, Edie.”

“TV?” asked the woman. “You’re not kidding?”

“Aw, well...”

“Cumin and oregano.”

“Is that right?” Reinhart repeated the names of the spices, and he tasted the chili again. “You know, these pinto beans and rice, what could be a better complement to the chili? This is an excellent” dish, Mrs. ...”

“Huffman, Mrs. Gerald T., but you can call me Marge. When are you on television? I don’t want to miss it.”

Reinhart introduced himself and Edie. “I’m not appearing on a regular schedule at the moment. But I’ll tell you something that’s more important right now. I have a connection with a food company, a firm that sells specialty products. At the moment it’s mostly that fake gourmet stuff: instant sauces, canned liverwurst
pâté,
et cetera. How about my selling them on your chili? What about a deal in which they make it up in bulk according to your recipe and can it?”

Marge looked as if she were in pain. She squinted as though she were about to weep.

Edie said again: “Do you realize he has the power to do this? He’s on
television.”

Reinhart reached across the booth and took Edie’s wrist in his fingers. “She knows,” he said.

“God Almighty,” said Marge. “Who ever thought something like this would happen to me?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes too high,” Reinhart said quickly. He should have said that earlier. “I can’t guarantee they’ll want to handle it. All I can do is to take the chili to them. I’m just sort of a consultant.” Or whatever you could call a man whose daughter was the lover of a female executive, a man who had been given some make-work but no money, a man who—“But listen,” he said aggressively, “I’m going to tell them they had
better
take it unless they want me to go to their competition.” This was more than bravado; he had a certain feeling of strength: was cumin an aphrodisiac of power?

Marge went to the refrigerator back of the counter and returned with two more bottles of beer, though Reinhart had as yet drunk only half the first bottle. However, he noted with surprise that Edie had finished her own and was now diligently applying herself to the second, though her chili had scarcely been touched.