Читать книгу In Violet's Wake - Robin Devereaux-Nelson - Страница 9

chapter 3

Marshall watched Costa stir tomatoes and onions into the scrambled eggs. The Greek looked up, his face shiny with sweat. “You want some feta, sonny boy?” he said. Marshall nodded. He watched the big man pull a plastic bin of the salty cheese in brine out of the cooler and wondered what Violet had ever seen in this fat fuck.

“Don’t call me sonny boy.” Marshall took a long swig of his coffee.

“I make you eggs, you godda be an asshole?” The big man slid a spatula under the scrambled eggs and plated them. He topped them off with a fistful of crumbled feta and slid the plate across the counter to Marshall. “Here. Eat. You look like shit.” He chuckled. “Sonny boy.”

“Fuck you.”

Costa put his hands over his heart dramatically. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Really. Whatever, man.” Marshall scooped a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Costa pulled the frying pan from the stove and took it to the big stainless steel sink and ran hot water in it. “How’s your head?”

“Not worth a shit.” The eggs were good though. Violet used to make him eggs like this. Thinking about it, part of Marshall wanted to puke, knowing the Greek made them for her first. Probably taught her how, right here in this kitchen. He wondered if she’d thought of Pavlos when she made Marshall eggs on Sunday mornings after they’d made love. The bitch.

Christ, he missed her.

Costa pulled a metal stool over to the counter and sat down across from Marshall. “Know what you need?” he said.

“Decapitation?” Marshall rubbed at his sore, red eyes. His head was throbbing.

“Nah,” said Costa, producing a bottle of clear liquid from under the counter. “Little hair of the dog.” Costa winked at Marshall, opened the bottle of ouzo, and poured a shot in his cup. He slid the bottle across the counter.

Marshall covered his cup with his hand. “No way, man,” he said.

“Okay,” Costa said, shrugging. Marshall looked the older man over. Considering the night they’d had, Pavlos looked remarkable. His eyes were clear, and he was wearing a clean white T-shirt. He even looked like he’d shaved.

“Oh, what the fuck.” Marshall pulled the bottle toward him and poured a shot of the sweet liquor into his coffee. It smelled surprisingly good.

“Your health.” Costa raised his cup.

The men clinked their cups together and drank.

“Look,” Marshall said, “About last nigh—”

“No worries,” Costa replied. “That’s why I got insurance.” Both men turned to look at the side window. It was covered with heavy cardboard and duct tape. One of the restaurant chairs was lying on a table, three of its legs smashed off.

“Sorry I had to pop you in the face,” Costa said. “You godda nice shiner.”

“Yeah.” Marshall probed his left cheek with a finger and winced. “Hey, I’ll fix the window. No use running your premiums up. I was being an asshole.”

“We’re all assholes.” Costa laughed. “Just ask Violet.”

Marshall snorted at the mention of Violet’s name. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Except for Dead Winston,” said Costa.

Marshall blinked in recognition. “Oh, yeah. The sainted Dead Winston.” He raised his cup. “To Dead Winston.” The men drank again.

“He was one lucky son of a bitch,” said Costa.

“You got that right.”

Marshall stared down into his coffee, thinking about Winston Montgomery. He’d been Violet’s first husband, and thirty-two years her senior. They’d met when Violet Benjamin was twenty-two and working one of the many snack bars at Detroit Metro. They’d struck up a conversation over martinis and smoked almonds. He was on his way to Japan to promote one of his company’s newest computer programs. She was a college student, still trying to figure out her major. She was bubbly and bright. He was well read and adventuresome.

According to Violet, Win went right out and bullied the girl at the ticket counter, purchased a first-class seat for Violet next to his, and their whirlwind romance began in Tokyo. They came home thirty days later Mr. and Mrs. Winston Montgomery, much to the horror of Marilyn and Tom Benjamin, Violet’s parents. Tom referred to him as the Goddamn Cradle Robber until Winston died of a heart attack three years into the marriage. Marilyn never said much about him and secretly nursed a crush on her handsome, distinguished son-in-law so unlike her GM line-working husband.

“Know what I did one time?” Costa said, pulling Marshall out of his reverie. “She used to keep this picture of him on the mantle. Her Poor Dead Winston, she always called him.”

“She had a picture of him up in your house while you were married to her?”

“Yeah. Right in the living room so the son of a bitch could watch me watching the Wings game. Used to creep me out. I bitched about it, but she wouldn’t get rid of the goddamned thing. Said ‘he’s my angel watching over me from heaven.’ Can you believe that shit? Jealous of a dead guy, that was me, if you can believe that.”

Marshall leaned back in his chair. “I can believe it.” He hadn’t had to endure Winston’s photograph, but he’d sure listened to his share of all-the-things-Winston-did-for-me-stories. “So, what’d you do?”

“One night me and Violet were fighting about something.” Costa scratched at his head. “Oh, yeah. She went out and bought some clothes and shoes and stuff, and we were kinda hurting for money at the time, you know? Anyhow, I was mad about it. We were standing right there in the living room, and she tells me what a stingy asshole I am being, and we have our own business and whatnot, and how we should be able to afford ‘little extravagances,’ she called them. Then she says how generous Poor Dead Winston was and blah blah, and she goes stomping to the bedroom and locks herself in.” Costa got up from the stool, his knee popping, and crossed to the coffee maker. He filled his cup with steaming black brew. “So, I’m sitting there, right? Having a beer? And I’m looking at the dead guy’s picture, smiling at me with all those big white teeth, up there on the fireplace with all these candles and crap, like a goddamned shrine. So I go out the back door and walk over into the neighbor’s yard. They have this St. Bernard, right? And he craps all over the fucking place. Everybody in the neighborhood used to bitch about it. So, I go over there and scoop up this big dog turd.”

Marshall set his cup down on the stainless counter with a thump. “Jesus! That’s disgusting!”

“I scooped it up with a plastic bag. You think I pick up something like that with my hands? Jesus Christ.” Costa swirled the coffee around in his cup. “Anyway, I have this gigantic turd, right? And I take it in and put it on the mantle and squash the dead bastard’s picture right down in it.” Costa sat on the stool and poured another shot of ouzo into his cup. “Laughed my ass off,” he said, taking a mouthful of coffee.

“Holy shit.”

“Wasn’t exactly holy, but it sure was shit!” Costa laughed. “She didn’t talk to me for a week.”

“Who cleaned up the crap?”

Costa leaned on his forearm and peered over the black plastic frames of his glasses. His licorice breath wafted across the counter. He gave Marshall an incredulous look. “Me. Who do you think cleaned it up?”

Marshall sighed. “Yeah, right.”

Costa looked down into his cup. “That one cost me at least two weeks of friggin’ therapy.”

“You, too, huh?”

Costa nodded. “She was always going to some shrink or other.

Cost us a mint.” He gestured around the room. “You got your own business, you gotta pay your own insurance premiums, take care of your property.”

“I hear that,” Marshall said. “Started my own office about a year and a half ago.”

“Yeah?” Costa said. He patted Marshall’s shoulder. “Good for you. So, what happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“Between the two of you. You and Violet.”

“I don’t know for sure.” Marshall rubbed his throbbing head. “She said I was unhappy. I guess I wasn’t ecstatic about how things were between us, but all couples go through stuff, you know? I didn’t think things were bad. I mean, hell. We weren’t talking as much as we used to, and certainly things changed—you know, in the bedroom. But it wasn’t bad, you know? Shit, my mom and dad—hell, they’d fight like crazy. My mom would be screaming, and she’d take her shoes off and throw them at my dad.”

“She Greek?”

“French and Polish.” Marshall hunched over his coffee, his voice going quiet. “But, you know, for all their fighting, they stayed together. My mom totally lost it when my dad died, said he was the love of her life.” He chuckled softly. “All us kids could remember was yelling and flying shoes. But me and Violet? Things weren’t bad enough for . . . this.” Costa nodded. “Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Marshall said. “Come back, you know. Maybe she’s just . . . wanting some . . . space. Or something.” Marshall thought about Violet’s wedding ring, lying in a little dish next to the kitchen sink at home.

“Sure, maybe she’ll, you know, come back,” said Costa, but he looked down into his coffee when he said it, and Marshall could tell he didn’t think that was going to happen.