Gun Machine

Talia stepped over, put one palm on Tallow’s back, and began to propel him through the apartment. “I want you to sit at my table, John, and teach me of this magic, because I may be able to use it to make my wife pick up after herself and—who knows?—maybe even wash things. Although that might be testing even your wizardly abilities. And then after that, perhaps you might explain to me a little bit about this case that is causing me to feed you as well as put up with losing my wife for the night.”

There was a howl from the kitchen. “Oh, Tallie. What did you do?”

“Whaddaya mean, what did I do?”

“Tallie, we can’t afford this. What did I tell you?”

As Talia strode forth, Tallow stepped to the side and got an angled view into the kitchen, where, standing in unwrapped butcher’s paper, was a stack of well-marbled sirloin steaks.

“What you told me,” said Talia, “was that the only things you’d ever seen John eat were burgers and steak, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot to go on when it came to feeding him.”

“Tallie, we have so many things to pay for—”

Talia reached her and put her hands on Scarly’s shoulders, making her appear even smaller than she was. “Yes, we do. But the butcher owed me a favor, and I went out to the stores at the end of the day. These cost pretty much nothing, and so did the ciabatta. It would have cost me more to make a pot of ramen. You need to not worry so much, Scarly. It’ll put you in an early grave, and I’m not done with you yet.”

Scarly gave in with a small laugh, and Talia kissed her forehead, slowly. “And I’ll tell you another thing.” Talia smiled. “No hipster runoff in some hole-in-the-wall tourist food shed in Lower Manhattan is gonna make better steak sandwiches than me. I just won’t have it. John, are you a drinking man?”

“I’m a driving man,” he said.

“I get that. But one beer won’t kill you. I have some imported stuff you might want to try.”

“Maybe I could split one with you.”

“Deal. Sit, sit. Oh: How do you like your steaks cooked?”

Tallow sat at the oval kitchen table. It was old and well used, probably picked up at a sale or conceivably out of a dumpster. Someone had sanded down the various cuts and gouges, but just to the point where the edges were no longer sharp and raw. It had the feeling of having been smoothed by weather.

“Medium, I guess?”

“Medium? God, how boring. Middle of the road. Medium’s for people who can’t make choices. Rare or well done?”

“Uh…well done, then.”

“Well done. You mean ruined. These are good steaks. I won’t have it. You’ll get it rare and like it.”

“She only knows how to cook steaks rare,” said Scarly.

“Shut up, woman,” said Talia. “Since we have a guest, I’ll make a special effort to do medium rare.”

The sweet smell was onions caramelizing in a pan. A tray of chopped bacon and mushrooms was under the unlit broiler, and warmed, split ciabatta rolls were cooling on the oven rack below. Talia opened an oddly shaped green beer bottle with an orange label reading ST. PETER’S SUMMER ALE and poured half the contents into a long glass for him. She toasted him with the bottle, a somehow ironic kink in her eyebrow, and swigged from it as she turned to the stove, poked at the onions with a pointed spoon, and poured some powerfully fruited olive oil into a broad, heavy frying pan.

Tallow sipped at his beer without tasting it, avoiding everyone’s eyes for the moment. He watched the oil in the pan. It was slow to heat, because of the heavy bottom, but it heated very evenly. It raised little rolling patterns, like sand after the tide’s gone out. He watched it grow a shimmer, and then glitter, with little scintillant wave crests of foam. The oil rippled and shone like the reflection of a harvest moon in a green pond. Talia took two of the thin steaks and laid them expertly in the pan. There was a great crackling rush as they seared. She pushed each of them lightly with the tips of steel tongs, to ensure they weren’t sticking, and then studied them as they cooked. Tallow would have guessed it was precisely one minute before she flipped them. The marbled fat had rendered beautifully, but he did wonder how long Talia had been serving Scarly medium steaks and telling her they were rare.

Talia stepped to the oven, took two of the rolls and plated them, tugged the top tray out with the tongs and laid some of the bacon and mushroom on the cut side of the top half of each roll, and then picked up the spoon and pushed caramelized onion over the cut side of the each bottom half. The second minute must have been up then: Talia plucked the steaks out, draped one on the bottom half of each roll, and pressed the sandwiches together before putting them down in front of Bat and Scarly.

“Ours next,” Talia said to Tallow.

“Sure,” said Tallow, who for no good reason found himself wanting to curl up in a dark corner and cry his eyes out.