#11b
In front of Good Hope Hospital, Thursday at dusk
Hitchgins grumbled and re tightened his coat. Rain had ceased while he was in the hospital, but a cold wind from the North was strengthening. It was quickly drying the wet town but was absolutely chilling. The sergeant decided not to follow the river to get back home and turned his steps toward Deep Italy. The narrow streets would hopefully offer protection against those cold gusts.
He had put a feet on the opposite side walk when a dirty boy wearing a worn baseball cap grabbed his sleeve.
“Hey, mister, would you buy me a paper?”
Hitchgins raised an eyebrow.
“Depends. Which one d'ya sell kid?”
“The Daily Tribune sir.”
“Sorry, but I've already me amount of garbage. Thanx very much.”
He was departing, but the boy firmly grabbed his sleeve again.
“Sir, I think you do want it actually!”
Hitchgins looked at the boy again. He held the newspaper between his arm and ribcage, but the first page was now partly visible. There were microscopic handwritten words intertwined in the title. No one else than Hitchgins would have noticed them. Well, almost no one.
“Okay, okay...”
He searched his pocket, found old croutons, tobacco, torn papers, a bullet collected on a crime scene months ago, a masticated licorice butt and finally stumbled upon a few coins.
“Here, take'at kid.”
“Thanks, Sir, here's your newspaper.”
The boy went, trying to intercept a hurried man who kept a hand on his hat to prevent it from flying away. Hitchgins casually resumed his walk. He waited to be in an alley to examine his new acquisition. The words were neat and perfectly regular, just as he had expected: “Luigi and Mario's tagliatelle”. Hitchgins knew this restaurant although he had never eaten there. Since it was just a bloc away, the Sergeant supposed that he was already expected.
The streets were relatively quiet, which means they were only crowded thanks to the people usually overcrowding the place who were now sheltering from cold in their homes. Hitchgins had no difficulty finding the little restaurant. It was badly lit, poorly warmed and rather ratty, just as the boisterous blinking red sign suggested. The restaurateur had a lot in common with Hitchgins, although he bore more fat, a darker moustache, less hair and more grease on the head. He was sweating with the only heat source sitting behind him in the form of a furnace made of brown bricks. The Sergeant saluted:
“Buona sera.”
The restaurateur widely smiled:
“Italiano?”
“No, ma mi districo.”
The other one looked disappointed. Hitchgins pursued in English:
“W'd ya serve me a big plate o'pappardelle ?”
“Certainly, sir. Sit anywhere you want, you're the first customer tonight.”
“Are ya sure o'that ? I'd have said sumone was already there actually.”
The fat man hesitated, staring at the Sergeant.
“You mean...”
“That I've a rendezvous in yar establishment. Da kind where I wanna be timely, see?”
“Oh, yes, I see... Please go to the table in the back room, there. I'll bring your dinner in a minute. Do you want a bottle of wine with that?”
“No, I n'ver drink 'co'ol : bad for proper thinkin' if ya'sk me. Thanx. Water'll fit very well.”
Hitchgins hesitated to hop by the restrooms in order to drink a gulp from his precious little flask. This would hide any hint of his current state of withdrawal. But did he really hope to fool the Judge? No, actually. Better save up his shrinking stock. The sergeant pushed a worn red curtain aside and stepped in the small back room lit up by a bare light bulb. The judge was sitting on an unsteady wooden chair in front of a rare steak without garnish and a glass of deep red wine. Hitchgins nodded:
“Good evening Mister Peter.”
“Good evening Oliver. Pray, sit down.”
In front of Good Hope Hospital, Thursday at dusk
Hitchgins grumbled and re tightened his coat. Rain had ceased while he was in the hospital, but a cold wind from the North was strengthening. It was quickly drying the wet town but was absolutely chilling. The sergeant decided not to follow the river to get back home and turned his steps toward Deep Italy. The narrow streets would hopefully offer protection against those cold gusts.
He had put a feet on the opposite side walk when a dirty boy wearing a worn baseball cap grabbed his sleeve.
“Hey, mister, would you buy me a paper?”
Hitchgins raised an eyebrow.
“Depends. Which one d'ya sell kid?”
“The Daily Tribune sir.”
“Sorry, but I've already me amount of garbage. Thanx very much.”
He was departing, but the boy firmly grabbed his sleeve again.
“Sir, I think you do want it actually!”
Hitchgins looked at the boy again. He held the newspaper between his arm and ribcage, but the first page was now partly visible. There were microscopic handwritten words intertwined in the title. No one else than Hitchgins would have noticed them. Well, almost no one.
“Okay, okay...”
He searched his pocket, found old croutons, tobacco, torn papers, a bullet collected on a crime scene months ago, a masticated licorice butt and finally stumbled upon a few coins.
“Here, take'at kid.”
“Thanks, Sir, here's your newspaper.”
The boy went, trying to intercept a hurried man who kept a hand on his hat to prevent it from flying away. Hitchgins casually resumed his walk. He waited to be in an alley to examine his new acquisition. The words were neat and perfectly regular, just as he had expected: “Luigi and Mario's tagliatelle”. Hitchgins knew this restaurant although he had never eaten there. Since it was just a bloc away, the Sergeant supposed that he was already expected.
The streets were relatively quiet, which means they were only crowded thanks to the people usually overcrowding the place who were now sheltering from cold in their homes. Hitchgins had no difficulty finding the little restaurant. It was badly lit, poorly warmed and rather ratty, just as the boisterous blinking red sign suggested. The restaurateur had a lot in common with Hitchgins, although he bore more fat, a darker moustache, less hair and more grease on the head. He was sweating with the only heat source sitting behind him in the form of a furnace made of brown bricks. The Sergeant saluted:
“Buona sera.”
The restaurateur widely smiled:
“Italiano?”
“No, ma mi districo.”
The other one looked disappointed. Hitchgins pursued in English:
“W'd ya serve me a big plate o'pappardelle ?”
“Certainly, sir. Sit anywhere you want, you're the first customer tonight.”
“Are ya sure o'that ? I'd have said sumone was already there actually.”
The fat man hesitated, staring at the Sergeant.
“You mean...”
“That I've a rendezvous in yar establishment. Da kind where I wanna be timely, see?”
“Oh, yes, I see... Please go to the table in the back room, there. I'll bring your dinner in a minute. Do you want a bottle of wine with that?”
“No, I n'ver drink 'co'ol : bad for proper thinkin' if ya'sk me. Thanx. Water'll fit very well.”
Hitchgins hesitated to hop by the restrooms in order to drink a gulp from his precious little flask. This would hide any hint of his current state of withdrawal. But did he really hope to fool the Judge? No, actually. Better save up his shrinking stock. The sergeant pushed a worn red curtain aside and stepped in the small back room lit up by a bare light bulb. The judge was sitting on an unsteady wooden chair in front of a rare steak without garnish and a glass of deep red wine. Hitchgins nodded:
“Good evening Mister Peter.”
“Good evening Oliver. Pray, sit down.”
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