This is one of my personal favorite chapters, and it includes one of the quotes I am most proud of (hint: It involves the word "houseplant.").
Part Nine
Sam slipped his arms gingerly through the sleeves of his shirt, which was nice and warm, freshly cleaned and pressed. His skin felt tender all over, sensitive to even the softest brush of fabric against it. He started to button up the front, wincing whenever his fingers or the shirt came in contact with the dark bruises that crossed his stomach and ribs.
"Feeling any better, Boss?" asked Chris with genuine concern.
Frustrated by pain and weakness, Sam had to fight down the urge to snap at the young officer. He bit his tongue, grimacing as he fumbled with the last few buttons of the shirt. "I'm fine, Chris," he said finally.
"That's good." Chris stood awkwardly by the sofa, staring down at his Boss, worry apparent on his face.
Sam sighed and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes, wearied by the simple act of putting on his shirt. "You can sit down, Chris."
"I don't—I don't know that I can, Boss," Chris said quietly, glancing over his shoulder toward the nearby hallway.
"What?" Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Chris with puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
Chris took a step closer to the sofa, leaning down to whisper, "It's the Guv's house."
Ah. I get it now. Sam couldn't help but smile. He almost couldn't help but laugh, but he kept that urge in check. "It is the Guv's house," he confirmed quietly, amused at Chris's reverence. "But I don't think he would mind if you sat in one of his chairs, seeing as that's what chairs are for."
"Really? D'ya think so?" Chris asked, eyebrows raising.
"Yeah. Sit down." Sam motioned to the nearest chair.
Chris smiled brightly. "Alright, Boss. Don't mind if I do." He started to sit down—but not in the chair Sam had motioned to; instead, he headed for Gene's easy chair.
"Chris-" Sam started, holding up a warning hand.
"Christopher!" Gene boomed, looming out of the hallway. "What're yeh doin' in me chair?"
"Oh! Sorry, Guv!" Chris jerked up out of the chair with a look of chagrin.
Sam covered his face with his hand. Now Chris will be traumatized for life...
Gene waved a hand at the DC and turned to Sam. "So, Tyler, think you can manage to stay alive without me and the missus here to feed and water you?"
Sam crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow at the Guv. "I'm not a houseplant, Guv. Nor am I a small dog. I'll survive."
"Good." Gene cleared his throat and looked away from Sam, seeming suddenly uncomfortable.
Sam realized with a start how worried his DCI was about him. Something about that realization touched him deep inside. It was a nice thing to know, that someone was worried about him... He shook himself mentally. "So... Excited about your date?" He grinned crookedly as he took in Gene's immaculate suit and shiny white shoes.
"Excited?" Gene scoffed. "Hmph. Have to go to some poncy restaurant where they serve the sort of food nancy boys like you enjoy—snails and fish eggs and the like. And I'm not goin' to enjoy meself, Tyler. I'm on a mission, which unfortunately means I may have to eat asparago and caveat."
"Escargot and caviar," Sam corrected, lips twitching.
"Trust you to know about food for poofs," Gene muttered.
"Yes, you are on a mission, which means you're not allowed to drink copious amounts of alcohol on this date, Mr. Hunt."
Gene spun around with a frown for his wife, who was striding out of the hallway, but his face froze when he saw her.
Sam grinned at the look on Gene's face. The man looked shocked, stricken, by the sight of his wife dressed up for their date. It must have been a really long time since their last date...
Alice wore a knee-length dress of deep blue, with gold accents around the scoop-necked collar and elbow-length sleeves. Her hair was arranged in a messy bun, brown ringlets curling around her smooth cheeks. She wore more makeup than usual, too, Sam noticed.
"Mrs. Hunt," Chris greeted her, eyes wide.
"Hello, Chris." Alice nodded to the young policeman, then turned to her husband, hands on her hips. "Well, Gene?"
"Woman, what have yeh done with me wife?" Gene burst out, seeming to regain his composure.
Alice finally smiled, and Sam reflected that this was the first full-fledged smile he had seen from her. "I'm right here, Gene."
Gene cleared his throat. "Let's go, woman." The Hunts walked together across the living room and toward their front door. Gene turned to glance back at Sam and Chris, and a brief hint of worry glinted in his eyes. "Chris, you keep 'im safe. Call Ray for back up if you need it."
"Yes, Guv," Chris answered. He was still standing a considerable distance from any of the chairs, Sam noticed.
As the door slammed behind the Hunts, Sam found himself missing the pair. As much as Gene irritated him sometimes and as much as Alice's mothering could be bothersome... Sam had gotten used to them being there. He dreaded going back to his apartment and living there alone again. A lump rose in his throat, and he fiercely swallowed it down. Well what you should dread more is being convicted of murder.
Gene felt instantly uncomfortable when he and his wife stepped through the front doors of The Gilded Button. Once inside, he understood why the place had a ridiculous name—it was decorated in a ridiculous theme. The walls—painted a fancy deep red—were covered in artwork, and all the artwork had to do with buttons, mostly gold and silver buttons. Thick, gold-colored drapes—velvet, he thought—hung by the long windows, and each table was decorated with a centerpiece created entirely out of buttons.
"This place is bonkers," Gene whispered to Alice as they stepped up to the desk where a red and gold bedecked maitre d' waited.
"Shh!" Alice cautioned, then turned to the man—clearly a poofter—with a bright smile. "A table for two, please."
The tall, skinny fellow beamed at Alice. "Certainly, madame."
Ugh, French! Gene barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He held his breath as the sissy man waved down a plump young hostess, only daring to breathe when he and Alice followed the cheerful waitress away from the front desk.
"Will this be alright?" asked the clearly English young woman, motioning to a table by one of the heavily decorated windows.
Gene looked at the table and mentally compared it to the rest of the restaurant. Sitting at this particular table, he should be able to see most of the other patrons. "Sure. It's fine."
"Right. A waiter will be with you shortly." The hostess gave a little curtsy, then walked away.
"Can you see everyone from here, Gene?" Alice asked quietly, taking her seat.
"Yeah. This is fine." Gene sat across from her and scowled at the decorations on the table. The napkin rings were made entirely of fancy buttons, and similar fancy buttons formed a sculpture of a flower in the center of the table. "Some loony bastard is awfully fond of buttons..." He reached to poke at the sculpture.
"Gene!" Alice hissed.
Gene sighed and turned his attention to the rest of the poofy place. Fancy-dressed individuals engaged in conversation and consumption, laughing and whispering and sipping wine from sparkling goblets.
It was going to be a long night...
It was going to be a long night.
There was nothing on television, and Sam didn't really feel like getting up and searching the Hunts' house for further forms of entertainment. For one thing, he was still bloody sore. For another thing, he didn't want to be caught snooping by Gene. Then he would end up even more sore.
The bored DI turned his attention to Chris who was turning a slow circle in the center of the living room, gazing in wonder at everything in the house. "You feeling hungry, Chris?" Sam asked. "The Guv said we could fix ourselves something to eat."
Chris shook himself and turned to face Sam. "I am feelin' sorta hungry, Boss."
"Then let's go make some supper." Sam pushed himself up off the couch, clenching his teeth to keep from whimpering at the sharp pain in his ribs.
"You feelin' up to it, Boss?" Chris asked uncertainly.
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine." Sam waved a dismissing hand. "Come on." Slowly, he made his way into the kitchen, followed closely by Chris who was watching him with worry. Unfortunately, that worry was born out when Sam had to stop and catch his breath only a few feet inside the kitchen. Panting, he leaned against one of the cream-colored counters. "Go ahead and look inside the fridge," he told Chris, pressing a hand against his aching side. "See what you can find."
"Okay, Boss." Chris opened the small refrigerator and looked inside. "There's a pot of pasta of some sort. Leftovers from Sunday dinner, I guess."
"That'll do just fine. Set it on the stove." Sam motioned impatiently for Chris to hurry. He was feeling ravenously hungry for some reason.
Chris set the large pot of pasta on the stove and turned to Sam with a questioning look. "Now what, Boss?"
Sam stared at the DC for a moment, wondering at Chris's lack of basic knowledge. "Well... Now we warm it up."
"Warm it up?" Chris looked down at the knobs on the stove, frowning.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Turn the knob for that eye. Turn it to about seven or eight."
"Knob. Eye. Seven or eight," Chris repeated quietly, rubbing his chin.
Sam sighed. "Let me show you." He gathered up his strength and moved to the stove. "Look at the little drawing here. See how this eye is circled? That means that this knob goes with this eye."
Chris smiled suddenly. "Oh! I get it now!"
"Yeah. Good." Sam found himself smiling as well. He liked Chris, despite the young copper's naivety. He had never had a younger brother, but he thought that if he had, he would have felt the same way toward him that he did toward Chris. He liked feeling that he was teaching Chris, helping him along. "So we turn it up to eight..." He turned the knob.
"And now what?" Chris asked.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "You really haven't done any cooking, have you?"
Chris smiled a bit sheepishly. "Me mum always does the cooking at our house."
"Ah. Well." Sam turned back to the stove. "Now we wait until it heats up. It's probably a good idea to stir it every once in awhile, to make sure it doesn't stick."
"Stick?"
"Stick to the bottom of the pot," Sam explained, doing his best to be patient. He pointed to a vase containing various cooking implements. "Hand me that wooden spoon."
"This one, Boss?"
"Yes, that one. Thanks." Sam started to stir the pasta, but the stirring motion caused an upsurge of aches in his bruised muscles. "Here. You do it." He handed off the spoon to Chris and leaned back against the counter. He closed his eyes briefly and wondered if maybe he should lie down again, take a nap... No. Can't do that. Chris might burn down the house. Then Gene would really be mad...
A pleasant, savory smell filled the kitchen, and Sam breathed deeply of it.
"Gene's missus must be a good cook," Chris said. "This smells delicious."
Sam opened his eyes and smiled at the other officer. "I'll bet Gene would rather be here eating this than at that restaurant eating their food."
"I'd rather be at home eating your cookin' than here eating this rubbish," Gene muttered to Alice as he squinted down at the menu in his hands. Of course, it closed with a gold button. Utter nonsense.
"You haven't tried it yet," Alice told him with an air of patience.
"Well I don't want none of their green stuff." Gene made a face. "And almost all of it looks like green stuff. And fish eggs. And snail guts."
"And squid," Alice finished brightly.
"Yech." Gene shuddered.
"Just order a steak," his wife suggested. "You'll like that."
"I suppose." Gene wasn't prepared to like anything about this place. Probably half the people who ate here were murderers and perverts. At least, he hoped one of them was. It was strange to hope that someone close by was a murderer. But if that someone was, then Gene could catch them, and Sam could be cleared.
The DCI sighed. So far, no sign of a red and tan checked suit. A few fedoras, but no checked suit.
The waiter, a fresh-faced young fellow with a surprisingly deep voice, returned to the table to take their order. Gene took Alice's suggestion and ordered a steak—well-done-and Alice ordered lamb. Then the waiting game started over again.
Waiting. Again.
Sam sat at the kitchen table, leaning heavily on his elbows and wishing the savory-smelling pasta would cool faster.
"Sorry I let it get too hot, Boss," Chris apologized for what had to be the seventeenth time.
"It's fine, Chris," Sam sighed. "Stop apologizing."
"Yes, Boss. Sorry, Boss."
Sam had to laugh a bit at that, but laughing hurt his battered ribs, so he cut that short.
"You alright?" Chris asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Sam nodded shortly. He bit his lip and waited for the pain to pass.
Chris scooped up a big forkful of pasta and blew on it, then took a tentative bite. From the smile on his face, Sam discerned that the food was finally cool enough to eat.
"Is it good?" he asked.
Chris gave him a thumbs up.
Sam started scooping up a forkful, when suddenly, a familiar tone rang through the house. The DI felt his body tense, and he quickly dropped his fork back into his bowl.
"That the doorbell?" Chris asked around his mouthful of food.
"Yeah." Sam swallowed, trying to remain calm. "No one's expected, are they, Chris?"
Chris shook his head. "No, Boss."
Sam swore. "Alright. Let's be prepared for anything."