Couples
Chapter 117
Kate gives a warning wave as she approaches with Rick and Lily. "Hey, Espo!"
Esposito turns, a vanilla-flavored drip falling from his cone to his shirt. "Beckett, Castle, what are you doing here?"
Bambi immediately crouches in front of Lily. "And who's this?"
"I'm Kate Beckett. Javi and I work together. This is my husband Richard Castle and our daughter Lily."
"Rick," Castle interjects.
Bambi beams at the toddler. "Hello, Lily. Did you come to see the animals?"
"Pink!" Lily pipes up.
"She means the flamingos," Rick explains. "And she wants ice cream."
"Pink. I-ream. Bird," Lily confirms.
Bambi looks up at Rick and Kate. "Sounds like Lily wants pink ice cream and pink birds. I'm Bambi Rosenthal, by the way. I teach little ones."
"If Lily's an example, you must understand them pretty well," Rick observes. "I hope they have strawberry." He glances back and forth between Bambi and Esposito. "Are you two here together?"
"Um, Bambi wanted to do some research," Esposito explains. "I thought I'd come along. You know, get some air, look around."
Rick's mouth twitches. "I see. We'll get Lily her ice cream and move along. She's talked about pink all the way here. We need to take her to see those birds."
"Don't let us keep you," Esposito inserts. "Bambi's got a lot to check out."
As she and Esposito move off, Bambi looks back at the child, waiting impatiently for a sweet and no doubt sticky treat. "Maybe we'll see you again later, Lily."
Lily's attention strays for a moment from the server scooping frozen confections into cones. "Bambi."
Bambi flashes a sunny smile. "That's my name."
Rick notes the instant rapport between teacher and child. "Javi's friend has the kid-reaching knack. I wonder where she teaches. Something to think about for the future."
"If we see her and Espo again today, maybe you can ask," Kate suggests. "Otherwise, I can bring it up at the precinct tomorrow."
From the alley behind Imagination Patch, Madison Conrad inspects the contents of the dumpster. It wasn't cold enough last night to preserve the leavings from dinner, and nothing's been added yet for the new day. He considers moving on. But in his short experience in the area, what gets tossed out from Imagination Patch is better than what appears on the plates in the few places he's been able to scrape enough money together to patronize.
If there's one thing Madison knows, it's food. The son of a Jamaican father and a Spanish mother, he's been cooking since he was 14 and regarded restaurant kitchens as home. In his home base of London, he was rising as a chef before deciding to make the leap to come to the United States. But, unfortunately, he was unable to get a green card, and no one could hire him – not officially anyway. So he did what he could, cooking for anyone who would take him and getting paid under the table while he tried to figure out his immigration problem.
Then the crackdowns began. Businesses caught employing undocumented workers started having to pay fines. In the restaurants where he worked, the margins were so slim that the owners couldn't take the risk. As a result, Madison found himself homeless and hungry.
He picked up odd jobs here and there, sweeping floors, washing dishes, anything he could find. But that well dried up too. Right now, he's down to zero cash. Worse, he was rousted from the steam grate where he'd been sleeping and spent a very uncomfortable night without the rising heat. But he's located the best dumpsters, and at least he's been eating.
The couple of times Madison's managed to peek into the kitchen at Imagination Patch, he could tell the place needed help, especially when the sous chef was on by herself. Maybe he can offer to cook for food and a warm place to sleep. With no money changing hands, the restaurant would be in no danger. And he's heard that the owner is rich anyway. Unlike most local eateries, Imagination Patch doesn't have to scrounge for every penny, explaining the superior ingredients he samples in the dumpster.
There's no way a sous chef would have the power to hire him, and he's heard tales about the head chef, Benedict Auchincloss. They weren't encouraging. But the worst the man can do is say no. Well, that's wrong. He could call immigration. But if Madison sees them coming, he knows how to move on and hide. He'll wait for someone to come out the door to dump something. He's noticed that it closes slowly and sometimes doesn't fully latch. If he blocks the lock, he can pick a time Auchincloss is most likely to be there and sneak in and talk to him. After the Sunday midday rush will probably be the best time. All he has to do is wait.
The number of order tickets for Sunday lunch/brunch isn't as high as for Saturday night, but it's considerable, Mark notes with satisfaction. But the stream of customers, except for the writers in residence, will slow to a trickle until picking up again for dinner. He can take the opportunity to spend a few hours at home. Holly is playing a concert as part of a series at the Historical Society, and he can cover with Itzhak.
The boy seems to grow and change by the hour, and Mark doesn't want to miss any more than he has to. Neither does Holly. Between the two of them, they've worked out minimal need for sitters. And most of those are Holly's students who are more like family than employees. In fact, some of them trade sitting for lessons they could otherwise never afford. It's a strange arrangement, but it seems to work. Mark is all for utilizing skills where they can be found, especially when the situation is win-win, and everyone is happy.
Tables are beginning to stand empty. Mark checks his watch. He figures he will be able to take off in about 20 minutes. And the rest of the staff should be able to draw a breath or two.
Imagination Patch customers usually don't leave much on their plates, but even so, the leavings are beginning to fill the bags destined for disposal. Madison lurks as close as he dares when a server brings two out to the dumpster. He just manages to jam a piece of trash cardboard between the door's bolt and the strike plate. To Madison, even the discards smell wonderful. But he doesn't dare to take the time to hunt a snack. The position of the sun tells him that it's the hour of the restaurant's greatest lull. This is his chance.
Christine yelps as she sees the large, unfamiliar figure come in the back door. While working on preparations for his dinner special, Auchincloss hears her cry and whirls to see the intruder.
Madison raises his hands above his head. "Please, I'm not here to hurt anyone or take anything. I've seen how busy you are. I'm a chef, and a good one. But I'll trade any kind of work for food. Your floors will be spotless, and your dishes shine."
Auchincloss stares at the tall, dark man. "I know you. I was at a cooking competition in London. You won, and not by just a point or two. You were on your way to the top of the culinary world. What happened to you?"
"Bad timing and bad luck," Madison explains. "My visa expired, and…."
"You couldn't get a green card. I know that story," Auchincloss interrupts. "I almost ended up where you are. But good people helped me. So I'm going to help you. We don't need floors swept or dishes washed. Some of the beginning writers who come here feed themselves that way. I'm opening a new restaurant and spending more and more time at that site." Auchincloss gestures toward Christine. "Chef Azaria has been taking over here, but she can use a line cook during our high load hours. You can help her. And when my new place opens, I'll need some help there as well. Do you have a place to sleep?" Madison shakes his head. "You can crash in the storeroom. And we have a staff shower you can use. But we'll have to do something about your status. You'll need a sponsor. The organization that helped me may be able to help you. In the meantime, as long as you're not on the payroll, you won't raise questions with our manager. With new starving writers often looking for spots here, we have all sorts of people in and out of the kitchen. You'll be the latest. Now, do you need a meal?"
Madison gazes around a kitchen that already feels like a new home. "Yes, Chef, I do."