CHAPTER 13. KISSES OF WOLVES

AT 7:30 ON A SATURDAY EVENING-IT WAS DECEMBER 23, the last night before the restaurant closed for the Christmas holiday-Patrice was chock-full. Arnaud was jubilant, greeting everyone at each table as if they were family. The owner’s excitement was infectious. All the diners were informed of the upcoming changes ahead for the restaurant; a more casual atmosphere and menu awaited them in the New Year. “Lower prices, too!” Arnaud told them-shaking hands, bussing cheeks. When the restaurant reopened, even the name would be different.

“No more ‘Patrice,’” Arnaud announced, gliding from table to table. “The new name is one you won’t easily forget. It has, I think, a certain edge!”

“The new restaurant is called Edge?” Ketchum asked the Frenchman suspiciously. The old logger was increasingly hard of hearing-especially in his right ear, and Arnaud was speaking at the woodsman’s right side. (There was a noisy crowd that night, and the place was crammed.)

Too much gunfire, Danny Angel was thinking. Ketchum had what he called “shooter’s ear,” but the writer knew that Ketchum was chainsaw-deaf in both ears. It probably wouldn’t have mattered which ear Patrice was addressing.

“No, no-the name isn’t Edge, it’s Kiss of the Wolf!” Arnaud cried, loudly enough for the new name to register with Ketchum.

Danny and the logger had a window table for two, overlooking what they could see of Yonge Street -above the frosted glass. When the restaurateur had glided on to the next table, Ketchum gave Danny a penetrating stare. “I heard what the Frenchie said,” the old river driver began. “Kiss of the fucking Wolf! Shit-that sounds like a name only a writer would have thought up!”

“It wasn’t me,” Danny told him. “It was Silvestro’s idea, and Patrice liked it. Dad didn’t have anything to do with it, either.”

“Mountains of moose shit,” Ketchum said matter-of-factly. “It’s as if you fellas are trying to get caught!”

“We’re not going to get caught because of the restaurant’s name,” Danny told the logger. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ketchum. The cowboy can’t find us that way.”

“Carl is still looking for you-that’s all I’m saying, Danny. I don’t know why you want to help the cowboy find you.”

Danny didn’t say anything; he believed it was crazy to think that Carl could ever connect Kiss of the Wolf to the Baciagalupo name. The retired deputy sheriff didn’t speak Italian!

“I’ve seen wolves. I’ve come upon their kill, too,” the old woodsman said to Danny. “I’ll tell you what a kiss of the wolf looks like. A wolf rips your throat out. If there’s a pack going after you, or some other critter, they get you turning to face them, every which way, but there’s always one who’s getting ready to rip your throat out-that’s what they’re looking for, the throat-shot. Kisses of wolves aren’t so pretty!”

“What do you feel like eating?” Danny asked, just to change the subject.

“I’m fairly torn about it,” Ketchum said. He wore reading glasses-of all things!-but they failed to lend him a scholarly appearance. The scar from the eight-inch cast-iron skillet was too pronounced, his beard too bushy. The plaid shirt and fleece vest had too much of Twisted River about them to give Ketchum even a vestige of city life-not to mention fine dining. “I was considering the French-style grilled lamb chops, or the calf’s liver with Yukon frites,” the woodsman said. “What the fuck are Yukon frites?” he asked Danny.

“Big potatoes,” Danny answered. “They’re Yukon Gold potatoes, cut on the large side.”

“The côte de boeuf kind of caught my attention, too,” the logger said.

“The côte de boeuf is for two,” Danny told him.

“That’s why I noticed it,” Ketchum said. He had been drinking Steam Whistle on tap, but he’d switched to Alexander Keith by the bottle; the ale had a little more to it. “Constipated Christ!” Ketchum suddenly exclaimed. “There’s a wine that costs a hundred and sixty-eight dollars!”

Danny saw that it was a Barolo Massolino, from Piedmont. “Let’s have it,” the writer said.

“Just so long as you’re paying,” Ketchum told him.

OUT IN THE KITCHEN, it was bedlam as usual. The cook was helping Scott with the profiteroles, which were served with caramel ice cream and a bittersweet-chocolate sauce; Dominic was preparing the croutons and the rouille for Joyce and Kristine’s fish soup as well. It had been the cook’s task, earlier, to make the tagliatelle for the veal scallopini, and tonight the pasta would also be served with Silvestro’s duck confit. But Dominic had made the tagliatelle long before the restaurant (and the kitchen) got busy; he’d started a red-wine reduction with rosemary, too.

It was noisier in the kitchen than usual that Saturday night, because Dorotea, the new dishwasher, had a cast on her right wrist and thumb, and she kept dropping the pans. Everyone was taking bets on what Ketchum was going to order. Silvestro had suggested the special cassoulet, but Dominic said that no sane woodsman would willingly eat beans-not if there was another choice. The cook predicted that Ketchum would have the côte de boeuf for two; Joyce and Kristine said that the old river driver would probably order both the lamb chops and the liver.

“Or he’ll split the côte de boeuf with Daniel, and have either the lamb chops or the liver, too,” Dominic speculated.

Something about the feel of the warm handle on the skillet with the red-wine reduction was distracting him, but the cook couldn’t locate the true source of his distraction. Lately he’d noticed that his old memories were clearer-he meant more vivid-than his more recent memories, if that was actually possible. For instance, he’d found himself remembering that Rosie had said something to Ketchum just before, or just after, they’d all gone out on the ice together. But had Ketchum first said, “Give me your hand”? The cook thought so, but he wasn’t sure.

Rosie had very distinctly said: “Not that hand-that’s the wrong hand.” She’d quickly created a little distance between herself and Ketchum, but was this before or somehow during the damn do-si-doing? Dominic did but didn’t remember, and that was because he’d been drunker than Rosie and Ketchum.

Anyway, what was the wrong-hand business about? the cook was wondering; he didn’t really want to ask Ketchum about it. Besides, Dominic was thinking, how much would the eighty-three-year-old logger remember about that long-ago night? After all, Ketchum was still drinking!

One of the younger waiters ventured a guess that the old riverman wouldn’t order anything for dinner. He’d already had three Steam Whistles on tap and a couple of Keiths; the old logger couldn’t possibly have room for dinner. But the young waiter didn’t know Ketchum.

Patrice popped into the kitchen. “Ooh-la-la, Dominic,” Arnaud said. “What is your son celebrating? Danny ordered the Barolo Massolino!”

“I’m not worried,” the cook replied. “Daniel can afford it, and you can count on Ketchum drinking most of the wine.”

It was their last night in the kitchen before the long vacation; everyone was working hard, but they were all in a good mood. For Dominic, however, the unknown source of his distraction lingered; he kept feeling the familiar handle of the warm skillet. What is it? he was wondering. What’s wrong?

In the cook’s bedroom in the house on Cluny Drive, the bulletin boards with those countless photographs all but eclipsed from view (or consideration) the eight-inch cast-iron skillet. Yet that skillet had crossed state boundaries and, more recently, an international border; that skillet surely belonged in the cook’s bedroom, though its once-legendary powers of protection had probably passed (as Carmella once speculated) from the actual to the symbolic.