The eight-inch cast-iron skillet hung just inside the doorway to Dominic’s bedroom, where it went almost unnoticed. Why had the cook been thinking about it so insistently-at least since Ketchum had arrived (in his usual unannounced fashion) for Christmas?

Dominic wasn’t aware that Danny had lately been thinking about the old frying pan, too. There was a certain sameness about that skillet; it was unchanged. The damn pan just hung there in his father’s bedroom. It was a constant reminder to the writer, but a reminder of what?

Okay, it was the same skillet he’d used to kill Injun Jane; as such, it had set Danny and Dominic’s flight in motion. It was the same skillet Dominic had used to whack a bear-or so the myth began. In fact, it was the same eight-inch cast-iron skillet Danny’s dad had used to clobber Ketchum-not a bear. But Ketchum had been too tough to kill. (“Only Ketchum can kill Ketchum,” the cook had said.)

Danny and his dad had been thinking about that, too: Even at eighty-three, only Ketchum could kill Ketchum.

The young waiter now came back into the kitchen. “The big man wants the côte de boeuf for two!” he announced, in awe. Dominic managed a smile; he would smile again when Patrice popped into the kitchen a little later, just to tell him that his son had ordered a second bottle of the Barolo Massolino. Not even a côte de boeuf for two, and uncountable bottles of Barolo, could kill Ketchum, the cook knew. Only Ketchum, and Ketchum alone, could do it.

IT WAS SO HOT IN THE KITCHEN that they’d opened the back door to the alley-just a crack-though it was a very cold night, and an uncommonly strong wind repeatedly blew the door wide open. In the cold weather, Crown’s Lane, the alleyway behind the restaurant, was a hangout for homeless people. The restaurant’s exhaust fan blew into the alley, creating a warm spot-a good-smelling one, too. An occasional homeless person appeared at the door to the kitchen, hoping for a hot meal.

The cook could never remember whether Joyce or Kristine was the smoker, but one of the young women chefs was once startled by a hungry homeless person when she was smoking a cigarette in the alley. Since then, all of those working in the kitchen, and the waitstaff, were aware of the homeless people seeking warmth and a possible bite to eat in the near vicinity of the kitchen door. (This was also Patrice’s delivery door, though there were never any deliveries at night.)

Now Dominic once more went to close the door, which the bitter wind had again blown wide open, and there was one-eyed Pedro-Patrice’s most popular homeless person, because Pedro never failed to compliment the chef (or chefs) for whatever food he was given. His real name was Ramsay Farnham, but he’d been disowned by the Farnham family-a fine, old Toronto family, famous patrons of the arts. Now in his late forties or early fifties, Ramsay had repeatedly embarrassed the Farnhams. As a last straw, at an impromptu press conference at an otherwise forgettable cultural event, Ramsay had announced that he was giving away his inheritance to an AIDS hospice in Toronto. He also claimed to be finishing a memoir, explaining why he’d half-blinded himself. He said he had lusted after his mother his whole adult life, and while he’d never had sex with her-nor murdered his father-he had truly wanted to. Hence he’d blinded himself only in one eye, the left one, and had renamed himself Pedro-not Oedipus.

No one knew if Pedro’s eye patch covered an empty eye socket or a perfectly healthy left eye, or why he’d picked Pedro for his new name. He was cleaner than most homeless people; while his parents would have nothing to do with him, perhaps there were other, more sympathetic members of the Farnham family who allowed Ramsay (now Pedro) to have an occasional bath and wash his clothes. Of course he was insane, but he’d received an excellent education and was preternaturally well-spoken. (As for the memoir, either it was forever a work-in-progress or he’d not written a word of it.)

“Good evening to you, Dominic,” one-eyed Pedro greeted the cook, while Dominic was dealing with the windblown kitchen door.

“How are you, Pedro?” the cook asked. “A little hot food might do you some good on a cold night like this one.”

“I’ve been entertaining similar thoughts, Dominic,” Pedro replied, “and while I’m aware that the exhaust fan is most imprecise, I believe I detect something special tonight-something not on the menu-and unless my nose deceives me, Silvestro has outdone himself, yet again, with a cassoulet.”

Dominic had never known Pedro’s nose to deceive him. The cook gave the homeless gentleman a generous serving of the cassoulet, warning him not to burn himself on the baking dish for the beans. In return, Pedro volunteered to hold the kitchen door open-just a crack-with his foot.

“It is an honor to smell the aromas of Patrice’s kitchen firsthand, unadulterated by the exhaust fan,” Pedro told Dominic.

“Unadulterated,” the cook repeated quietly, to himself, but to Pedro he said: “You know, we’re changing our name-after Christmas.”

“‘After Christmas’ is a curious name for a restaurant, Dominic,” the homeless man said thoughtfully. “Not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know. The duck is exquisite, by the way-and I love the sausage!” Pedro added.

“No, no-we’re not calling the restaurant After Christmas!” the cook cried. “The new name is Kiss of the Wolf.” The homeless man stopped eating and stared at the cook. “It wasn’t my choice,” Dominic told him quickly.

“You have to be kidding,” Pedro said. “That is a famous porn film-it’s one of the worst porn films I’ve ever seen, but it’s famous. I’m certain that’s the title.”

“You must be mistaken, Pedro,” Dominic said. “Maybe it sounds better in Italian,” the cook added meaninglessly.

“It’s not an Italian porn film!” the homeless man cried. He handed the unfinished cassoulet back to Dominic, the baking dish for the beans sliding across the plate of duck and sausage. (The baking dish briefly burned the cook’s thumbs.)

“Kiss of the Wolf can’t be a porn film,” Dominic said, but Pedro was retreating into the alley, shaking his huge mane of hair, his grizzled beard wagging.

“I’m going to be sick,” Pedro said. “I can never forget that film-it was disgusting! It’s not about sex with wolves, you know, Dominic-”

“I don’t want to know what it’s about!” the cook cried. “I’m sure you’re wrong about the title!” he called after the homeless man, who was disappearing down the dark alleyway.

“There are some things you can’t forget, Dominic!” Pedro called, after the cook could no longer see him. “Dreams of incest, desiring your mother-bad oral sex!” the crazy man shouted, his words whipped by the wind but audible, even over the deep drone of the exhaust fan.

“Pedro didn’t like the cassoulet?” Silvestro asked, when the cook brought the full plate and the baking dish back into the kitchen.

“He was bothered by a name,” was all Dominic said, but the incident struck the cook as a bad omen for Kiss of the Wolf-even if Pedro had been wrong about the title of the terrible porn film.

As it would turn out, neither the cook nor his writer son could find a porn film called Kiss of the Wolf. Not even Ketchum had seen such a film, and Ketchum claimed to have seen everything-at least everything pornographic that was available for viewing in New Hampshire.

“I think I would have remembered that title, Cookie,” the old logger said. “In fact, I’m sure I would have sent it to you. But what happens in it that’s so special?” the woodsman asked.

“I don’t know what happens in it-I don’t want to know!” the cook cried. “I just want to know if it exists!”

“Well, don’t get your balls crossed about it,” Ketchum said.