Even with her detour Stella arrived at Mario's nearly ten minutes before Flack's ETA. The trains might be half empty this time of night, but the stools at the dark paneled bar were filled with that familiar brand of poor and artsy college student, and more of their brethren had spilled over into the family-style booths. Outside the sky still dripped, but the inside of the restaurant was a sauna of all the comforting smells and sounds of an Italian kitchen. Fresh bread and spiced tomato sauce, crackling fire and happy laughter.
Several pairs of eyes spared more than a glance as she made her way passed the bar to the counter but she ignored them. A quick turn of her head as she pretended to peruse the ever unchanging chalked menu found only an embarrassed smile and tight groups of goatees in impassioned discourse.
"Stella! I worried you had forgotten the way here."
She gave up the boards and turned to smile back at the familiar gold-trimmed grin. New York, or at least the New York of her childhood, prided itself on character and charm. Enrique might have bought the gutted restaurant only a few years before, but he might as well have been there forever. "Hi to you too Rick. Business looks good."
"Ah, them." He waved one hand carelessly at the bar area. "Wouldn't know between fine aged parmesan and parmigiano reggiano if I served it to them with labels attached." Even with the slight Spanish accent, the way he savored the pronunciation of the Italian syllables made her mouth water. "For them: the beer and the cheeseburgers. But for you: anything. I have today fresh scampi and very fine mozzarella, and excellenté new Chianti you will love."
"Save me a bottle. Can I get my usual?" She was famished, and knew she was eyeballing the shelves of perfectly shaped meats and cheeses with a predatory glint. Rounds of mozzarella crowded in their liquid bath like perfect eggs, smooth texture juxtaposed against the variously veined gorgonzola wheels and the mixture of spices visible below the outer casing of the salami. All artfully arranged around three perfect tomatoes and a bottle of imported olive oil to illicit drooling desire.
"Of course. For the take out? Fifteen minutes."
He was already turning away when she stopped him. "For here, tonight." She felt, rather than saw him turn back to her, now intently coveting the array of thinly sliced ham. "I'm meeting someone, Don Flack?"
"Ah, Donnie. Another very good taste buds. I always say you have very good taste for men."
At that, she looked up, and shot a grimace at his unflinching smile. "We work together. He said to order him his usual. I hope you know what that is or he'll be getting a cheeseburger."
"My heart! Tonight, you are cruel. Sit, sit." And in a perfect feign of horror, he was gone to the kitchen.
Stella prided herself on knowing people's points of vulnerability. The big ones and little ones, not to abuse but... to use if the situation ever required a little extra goading. And if one of Enrique's happened to be cheeseburgers, (or as he termed them, 'mass-produced affront to the taste bud'), that just made life more amusing. With a last longing glance at a bowled heap of shiny bowtie pasta, Stella made her way to the booth farthest from the bar and dropped her bag and overcoat next to her on the cracking red leather. The mozzarella had looked wonderful, and Enrique's hand picked cellar had furnished some of her most enjoyable glasses since her summer in the Mediterranean during college. If he was still pretending to be annoyed with her later, he'd make her beg for a bottle, but it would be worth it.
Five minutes later she was absently pondering whether to take the cheese and Chianti to Tracy's, or an appropriately matched white dinner wine, and carefully crunching through a Greek salad. The house salad might be healthier, but feta and olives were her weakness. Intent on spearing a morsel of each, she failed to notice Flack until suddenly an accusing voice was overhead and a black leather body was sliding into the booth across from her.
"I don't believe it."
Nearly avoiding a spit take, she lowered her fork. "I ordered for you. It's not out yet."
"You sit in one of New York's supreme Italian deli's, surrounded by the finest handmade pasta, cheese and sauces- and I find you eating a salad. A Greek salad."
She looked up at him, down at her plate, then back up with a lofted eyebrow. "I tried to order an Italian salad once. Twenty questions later I still wound up with a Greek salad. It's faster to call it by name."
"Touché. But this is still an insult to cuisine."
"Perhaps." Taking longer than strictly necessary to clear her fork and chew, Stella spent the time in appraisal. She herself kept a couple outfits in her locker in case of an unforeseen situation, but otherwise never changed out of her work clothes before reaching home or the gym. But she knew a lot of the men did most of their changing in the precinct locker room, since a couple of shirts and a couple of jackets would keep all but the most fashion conscious well clothed for a week. Whether this was Flack's MO, or he'd found time to stop off at home after work, he was no longer in the crisp suit and dark tie which required only a pair of dark sunglasses to project 'creepy FBI agent.'
He was, in fact, now revealed to be wearing a deep red hoodie, unzipped to display what appeared to be a t-shirt declaring itself property of a gymnasium. Stella felt a shock of discomfiture. As easily as it had been earlier to pictured him with tie missing and collar undone, she was now finding it impossible to visualize him talking to her like Detective Flack, but dressed like her garbage man. On the hypothesis that he had actually been at the gym she leaned over the corner of the table to check his lower half. Heavy black boots and jeans that had once been dark and now possessed evidence of fray. Well...
"Stella? Lose something?" His doubt and confusion convinced her that she had been perhaps a bit too obvious.
"What are you wearing?"
He gave her a grin but clearly had no idea where she was going with it. "I think mostly cotton, maybe some polyester. I never really got the hang of laundry."
"You know what I mean." Out of the corner of her eye she espied Enrique and notepad approaching. "What's with the duds?"
"Mario's has always been a joint for the working Joe. Ain't that right?" He delivered the lines to Enrique with perfect sincerity. He'd never made any attempt to abandon his accent; but here, or off duty, or just at this moment it sounded thicker, deeper, closer to the streets.
Stella had never had much of an accent. As a child she had tried to copy the other children, but nothing ever stuck. The generalized New England accent always predominated, as if the family who hadn't wanted her were never part of her life took with them any linguistic heritage she might wish to claim.
"Food is out in one minute. For a beverage, your usual?" At Flack's assent he turned nominally towards her, pencil still moving over his pad.
"And for ma'am?"
Stella gritted down and smiled back, acknowledging the returned insult had hit its mark. "Miss' when she was in favor, 'ma'am' when she was not. "How about a glass of Pinot Grigio, whatever's open."
"Okie." He drew out the syllable, clearly waiting for the bartender, who was already crossing towards them with a tray. Stella was not surprised to see that the glass was half-filled with crimson liquid. Without looking back but right on cue he reached over and picked up the bottle and glass, depositing them by Flack's elbow. Then with a flourish he presented her with her wine glass, letting a small whirlpool grow and die. "I trust this will be to your liking."
Under Flack's low laughter Stella arched an eyebrow. "I'm sure it's wonderful. But does it look to you like they used the wrong sort of grapes?"
"No no. The very best. This Chianti is to perfection." Ah, he was sure enough of the vintage to tempt her now, to deny her later. Brilliant, but unfair.
"You gave him a beer." She let a good deal of pout and whine into her voice before instantly regretted it. There were very few people with whom she was comfortable practicing this- what she had once thought of to herself as 'the fine art of flirting.' Not the kind founded entirely in words and wit but which also incorporated the coy and the vicious. A game to indulge in lost here in the city's belly, but not with her coworkers from the city's eye.
Enrique noticed the shift in her expression, the way her eyes flicked across the table guiltily. "Donnie is still a boy. One day I see him grow up. But if you like a beer... For you I will get one myself." He shrugged and his mustache drooped impressively.
"The Chianti will be fine, thank you." She accepted his resignation gratefully, and took an exploratory sip. "At least your taste is perfect. Can you wrap me up two bottles?" In response he nodded, made a careful mark on his pad, and left them alone in a cocoon of Led Zepplin.
"Two? Is this a cry for help?" As she feared, he had picked up too much of Enrique's familiarity, a too intimate grin shew too many nice teeth.
Behind another sip she settled her expression into her most disciplined. "They're for a friend. She's been breastfeeding and we're throwing a her a party to celebrate her return to being a grown up. And she really likes Chianti so I'm hoping this gets me out of babysitting duty."
"I'd say so. No one wants a sitter on the sauce." To pour his beer he'd sat forward at the table, and was now lazily resting on his forearms. This put them a bit too close, and so she was relieved when a boy she didn't recognize delivered their plates in between them.
"In the time of Family Guy it's gotta be a hound on the hooch."
"I never had you figured for much of a couch potato."
She shrugged. "I saw a commercial once."
Both sides of the table fell silent again as they each applied themselves to their meals.
Flack's usual turned out to be an overlarge calzone overstuffed with meat and things suspiciously green, a large order of mozzarella sticks and garlic toast. Her stomach quailed at the mere prospect of such a quantity of bread and cheese. By contrast her own tortellini in broth and hard roll looked so elegant that one had to be surprised both dishes originated in the same kitchen.
"So you've been here before?" When he finally spoke it was in the rhythm of their daily chatter.
She laughed. "It's that obvious?"
"The whole 'lack of respect for your order' thing is a good tipoff." He waved a cheese stick at her glass. "Rico may mutter behind your back, but he only bosses you around if he's sure you'll be back."
"I'm usually here once or twice a week. In fact, I been here every weekend since Rick made me my first meal after I moved into my apartment." And every year on that anniversary Enrique would have a beribboned bottle delivered to her doorstop.
"Couldn't find your pots?" For all that he had several times the amount of food to consume, it looked like he might be the one to finish first.
"More like the gas wasn't connected and I didn't have a fridge. It was this place or microwave popcorn."
"Wise choice. Time was I knew this kid, Jesse Shapiro - 'wanna be' gangster type - swore up and down this was where Gambino set up Anastasia. Wouldn't eat from anyplace else. He even took home boxes to keep in his closet, then fed his mom's cooking to the dog."
"And the dog was okay eating all that?"
"Fattest damn cocker spaniel I ever seen. One day his kid sister tells on him, and his mom finds thirty empty take out containers. He was grounded for a month."
Her own laughter blended with round of cheers from the other side of the room. "How old was he?"
"It was maybe fifth, sixth grade so we were what, twelve?"
He wasn't that young. "I thought Rick only bought the place ten years ago?"
"Bought it yeah. But he was working in the kitchens a few years before that, and all he did was add the deli when he took it over. The mozzarella sticks? Haven't changed since I was seven."
Especially with his hair damp and curling, and the sweatshirt hanging a bit too loosely at the shoulders, it was all too easy to picture a much younger Flack sitting in the same place, smiling up at his parents and making more of a mess with his marinara sauce. She pushed the image way.
"I was wondering how you got him to serve you beer." She paused knowingly, and waited until he took the bait.
"What?"
"I bet he was slipping them to you underage, and now you're a cop he doesn't want to get on your bad side."
She was rewarded with a chuckle. "I get the wine switching, but he really refuses to serve you a beer?"
In formulation of a reply, Stella was forced to cede nearly all of her territory. "I don't think I've ever tried to order one, actually."
"I don't get it."
"I've never wanted one. But it's the principle of it."
"Of what: not being served a beer you don't want and didn't ask for?"
"Exactly." She kept her face in a mask of perfect sincerity until at his continued silence she let it crack.
"So there's only the one way of gaining moralistic high ground." Flack was still playing it straight, only quirking a brow as offered her his glass.
It would be more effort to refuse than to keep playing so she took the glass with a nod. "You're right." And she took a sip, thankful that her lipstick didn't leave smudges on the rim. She raised playful eyes to his only to find him regarding her too seriously. Of course he wasn't hitting on her but it felt so very wrong nonetheless that she felt her cheeks flush and eyes shy away as she replaced his glass and then pushed her bowl away in the hopes that someone would come and offer them a check.
"I knew there was a reason I always order wine."
Flack was about to say something when Enrique appeared at her shoulder. "Coffee for you? Biscotti?" She ended every meal that way.
"Not tonight, I should get home." And arranged her scarf under her hair.
"Donnie?"
"Me either, thanks." He finished his beer in a final swig.
"I ring you up, whenever you're ready."
Stella rose immediately to pull on her coat. After a moment's hesitation she snagged her glass to finish at the register.
Enrique nodded at her glass. "It was as good as I tell you?"
"You've already got me buying two bottles. Can I pick them up Friday?"
"Of course, of course."
"Thanks." She fidgeted with her purse and scarf as Flack paid, wanting to leave but knowing it would be rude to bolt. When he turned, re-pocketing his wallet, she opened her mouth to say goodnight but he beat her to it.
"You taking the metro?"
She hadn't planned to, wishing instead to savor the city streets while the darkness masked the dirt and the chill air sharpened the senses. She feared he would try to walk her home, but feared more than he would see her onto the train, and they would thus be more trapped together than they were in the booth.
"I thought I'd walk home. Enjoy the night."
"Stella, come on. It's not safe." He pulled the door open and let her go through first.
Unease or not, she had her pride. "I'm a cop. I can take care of myself."
He remained unfazed by her anger. "I know that, but guys out here don't know that. They see a woman walking alone, and you've got paperwork tomorrow explaining why you beat down some punk kids. I'm walking you home."
She didn't have any response that would conquer his intention. It was only a half dozen blocks to her apartment, and they walked them in silence. The sharp raps of her heels set a good pace, which Flack matched without exceeding a stroll. Even when she couldn't feel him looking at her she kept her eyes ahead, and told herself that it was late, and they were both lost in thoughts of their own.
At the steps to her building they said their goodnights, and Flack left abruptly, having fulfilled his sense of duty.
Her key twisted in the lock and she stole a glance over her shoulder. He was passing underneath a street lamp, and in the uncertain shadows she saw two people walking away.
The detective she took pleasure in working with.
The child she had never wanted to meet.