The Devil's Cook (2 page)

“I consider it most unlikely. Ben, do we have any carrots around the place?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” Ben said. “I bought some yesterday at the market.”

“Well, I'll be!” Farley turned again and got into motion. “I wouldn't be more surprised to find the damn refrigerator stocked with opium.”

They could hear him rattling around in the refrigerator and cursing mildly because he couldn't remember where he had left the beer opener.

“How long have you and Farley known each other?” Terry asked Ben.

“Not long. We met on campus a week or two before we decided to move in here together.”

“I've been wondering about that. Why did you? I mean, decide to move in here together?”

“Because it's better than a single room. Two can pay the rent on an apartment easier than one.”

“I thought maybe it was so Farley could live near Fanny.”

“You thought wrong, honey. It's true that Fanny put us on to the vacancy, but Farley grabbed it because there wasn't anything else available. You didn't take that brotherly indignation seriously, did you? Fanny's a complicated little devil. Declaration of independence, and all that. She knows her way around.”

“Farley's very goodlooking. I wonder why he always deliberately looks as if he bought his clothes at a rummage sale? After all, he's going to be a lawyer in a year or so. Aren't lawyers supposed to wear collars and ties and coats and like that?”

“He practicing to be Clarence Darrow.”

“Really? Who's that?”

“Never mind.”

At that moment Farley returned bearing beer and carrots. He gave both to Terry, who laid the carrots on the sofa beside her and took a drink out of the can. Farley, employing the same technique as before, resumed his seat in the chair.

“As a matter of curiosity,” he said, “would you mind telling me what you're going to do with those carrots?”

“It will be a pleasure,” Terry said. “I'm going to put them in a Student's Ragout.”

“What the hell is a ragout?”

“A ragout,” said Ben, “is a hell of a mess cooked together.”

“Roughly speaking,” Terry said, “that's it.”

“But what, precisely,” Ben said, “is a
Student's
Ragout? As a dyspeptic bachelor, I'm always interested in recipes.”

“Student's Ragout is the Crown Prince of all ragouts.”

“Well, you needn't sound so damn esoteric about it. Is the recipe a jealously guarded secret or something?”

“Not in the least. Would you like me to tell it to you?”

“That's what I was hinting at.”

“It's quite simple. To begin with, you take a heavy pot or a deep skillet. Myself, I use my electric skillet. Then you cut strips of bacon in half and cover the bottom of the skillet with them. Next, you cut a pound or so of lean round steak into strips about one-half inch by an inch and a half. Cover the bacon with these and salt and pepper them. Take the carrots next. Slice them paper-thin and spread the slices over the steak. Then slice three good-sized onions paper-thin and spread them over the carrots. Finally add three or four potatoes, depending on the size, also sliced paper-thin and spread over the onions. Salt and pepper the potatoes and cook covered, over low heat. In my opinion, you should add a generous amount of water to be sure that the ragout stays good and moist. There's lots of liquid in the vegetables, of course, but a little more is necessary, and quite a bit more doesn't hurt.”

Farley and Ben, during this recital, stared at Terry with expressions of astonishment. When she was finished they were silent for a moment, then Farley turned to Ben.

“Did you hear how she rattled that off?” he said.

“By God,” said Ben, “it was absolutely incredible.”

“That's true,” Farley said. “Somehow you don't think of old Terry in the kitchen. You think of her in the bedroom, surrounded by silk sheets and mirrors and oceans of lotions, painting her toe-nails and plucking her brows and doing other things.”

“What do you mean by ‘other things'?” demanded Terry.

“What he had in mind,” Ben said, “was sex. You'll have to admit, in all fairness, Terry, that you're sexy.”

“Well,” said Terry, “what's wrong with sex in the kitchen?”

“Now that you ask,” Ben said, “I can't think of a thing.”

“Returning reluctantly to the ragout,” Farley said, “I must say that I was fetched by the sound of it. Ben, you're a better cook than I am. You'll have to try it when you get back from your weekend.”

“The proportions are just suggested, of course,” Terry said. “You can change them to suit your taste.”

“The principle, I would say,” said Ben, “is the same as that of Huck Finn's garbage cans. The object is to get the flavors swapped around.”

“Besides being delicious,” Terry said, “it has another great advantage. You don't have to stay around and watch it. That's why I decided to fix it for dinner this evening. I have an appointment after a while, and I'll just leave the ragout simmering in the skillet. When Jay gets home, screaming for his dinner, it will be ready to serve.”

“Where are you going?” Ben asked.

“None of your business. If you can be a clam about your affairs, so can I.”

“That's right, Ben,” said Farley. “Fair's fair. If you'll tell us where you're going, Terry will tell where she's going.”

“Never mind,” Ben said.

“Neither will I,” said Terry.

Farley sighed. “Speaking of Jay, Terry, how is he?”

“Who was speaking of him?”

“You were, damn it. You said something about him screaming for his dinner.”

“That was an exaggeration, to be honest. Jay never screams. He never even yells. It wouldn't fit in with being an assistant professor of economics. If you are an assistant professor of economics, you must be dignified and stuffy. And if you are the wife of an assistant professor of economics, you are expected to be dignified and stuffy also.”

“That's not reasonable,” Ben protested. “How can a sexy wife be dignified and stuffy?”

“It's very difficult,” said Terry. “If not impossible.”

“It's worse than that—it isn't even
healthy
. As between dignity and sex, I'll take sex every time.”

“Has a tone of discontent crept into this conversation,” Farley said, “or do I imagine it?”

“It is no secret,” Terry said, “that Jay and I are not on the most amiable of terms. He disapproves of almost everything I do.”

“Is that a fact?” Ben said. “I can't imagine why.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Yes, Ben,” said Farley, “you mustn't be sarcastic. It's hardly appropriate for a fellow who is going on a top-secret weekend. As for me, Terry, I am on your side in the matter. If old Jay walks out on you, I'm prepared to console you.”

“If so,” said Terry, “you will have to wait your turn.”

Ben looked at his wristwatch, drained his can, and managed to stand up.

“I'm beginning to feel like a crowd,” he said. “Fortunately, it's time for me to leave.”

He carried the empty can into the kitchen, came out again, and went into the bedroom. When he reappeared he was wearing a hat and topcoat and carrying a leather bag.

“I'm off!” he said. “See you Sunday evening.”

“I'm convinced that you have no intentions whatever of being good,” said Farley, “so just be careful.”

“Right. Old Ben Green proceeds with caution.”

He went out. Terry shook her beer can, which was empty, and rose after depositing the can on the floor.

“I suppose I should leave, too,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told you I have an appointment. And I have to fix the ragout before I go.”

“You could stay for a little while, couldn't you?”

“It wouldn't look right.”

“Damn the looks. Have another beer.”

“Since you ask me, I will.”

She sat down again while Farley went to the kitchen and returned with two fresh cans. He handed one to Terry and sat down beside her on the sofa.

“‘Shoulder the sky,'” he said, “‘and drink your ale.'”

“Is that original? Didn't someone else say it first?”

“Doesn't someone always?”

“Anyway, it isn't ale we're drinking. It's beer.”

“A mere technicality,” Farley said.

2

Soon after five o'clock Fanny Moran, Farley Moran's little sister upstairs, returned to The Cornish Arms. She did not, however, climb directly to her second-floor apartment. She spoke cheerfully to Orville Reasnor, who was on his hands and knees in the vestibule near the entrance, and paused briefly to check her mailbox, which was empty. While she was thus engaged, Orville exploited the opportunity to survey her with considerable admiration from end to end, and he concluded as usual that she was a neat little package. It was a short excursion, actually, from end to end of Fanny, for she stood only one inch over five feet, although a natural tendency of the observer to linger on the way usually prolonged the trip. Orville, who was a trained observer, took his time going from strawberry blonde hair, cut short and slightly shaggy, to a small pair of nyloned feet raised for added height on high heels.

“You ain't got any mail,” Orville said.

“So I see,” Fanny said. “Thank you for looking for me, Orville.”

“I didn't look. You'll never catch Orville Reasnor prying into tenants' affairs. I was working in the hall when the postman came, that's all, and I saw what boxes he opened. Miles and Bowers is all.”

“Oh?” Fanny turned and looked down at Orville. “What are you doing down there on your hands and knees? Saying your prayers?”

“Not hardly. I been replacing some of this asphalt tile. A couple pieces got kicked up and cracked.”

“Is my brother at home?”

“Not knowing, I couldn't say. He ain't come out this way. 'Course, he might have gone out the back door.”

“Yes, Farley often goes in and out of back doors. It's a kind of instinct with him.”

“You want to see him about something?”

“Not particularly. I wonder if Terry Miles is home. Don't bother to answer, Orville. I'll just go back and knock on her door and find out, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind. Why should I?”

Not knowing, Fanny couldn't say. At any rate, she lingered no longer. Orville Reasnor, still in a prayerful posture above his pot of tile cement, watched her ascend four steps to the lower hall level, and offered thanks for short skirts.

Down the hall a way, Fanny knocked, on Terry's door. There was no answer, and she knocked again. This time there was an immediate response, but it was not the one she was waiting for. The wrong person opened the wrong door. The wrong person was Farley, and the wrong door was his.

“Hello, Fan,” Farley said. “No use banging on Terry's door. She isn't home. She said she was going out somewhere.”

Fanny jumped as if she had been caught with a jimmy in her hands. When her heart had snapped back into place, she turned and glared at her brother, who was, technically, only half a brother. (They had shared a father who had been accommodated in the course of his marital fiascoes by two wives who had succeeded in becoming mothers. The third wife, fortunately, had failed.)

“Damn it, Farley,” Fanny said, “I wish you would quit leaping out of doors at people. It's very disconcerting, to say the least. Went out where?”

“She didn't say. Just out. She said something about having an appointment.”

“Did she say when she'd be back?”

“No, she didn't. I assume, however, that it will be before six. I'm invited at six to share the ragout with her and Jay.”

“What ragout? Please don't be so cryptic about everything!”

“The ragout that Terry left cooking in her skillet. Don't you smell it?”

Fanny sniffed, and did, and it smelled good. She was getting hungry herself. The good smell made her mouth water.

“How do
you
rate an invitation? I should think
I'd
be the one, if anybody. After all, I'm her friend.”

“So you are. She doesn't have too many of them, does she? Friends, I mean.”

“Women don't like her because she's pretty and sexy. With me that's no issue, because I'm pretty and sexy, too.”

“The hell you are. I hadn't noticed.”

“Brothers don't. Not normal ones. Do you think I could be included in the invitation?”

“I doubt it. There probably wouldn't be enough. Besides, I was invited out of compassion. I'm a poor young bachelor with nothing to look forward to but his own cooking or a Greasy Spoon somewhere.”

“Well, you're welcome to your old ragout. I'll make Ben take me over to the Student Union. I'll even pick up the check if necessary.”

“You may find that a little bit difficult, little sister. Ben's gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“How can I be more explicit? Taken off. Deserted his nest.”

“Did he go with
Terry?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. With Jay confined by his duties at the university, why should they go off together? For the accomplishment of certain things, there's no place like home.”

“You have a lecherous mind, Farley Moran. What makes you think I was thinking of such certain things?”

“Weren't you?”

“To be honest, I was. Ben's an enchanting little scoundrel. I may decide to marry him if he ever shows signs of being anything more than a perennial college student. The only thing is, I suspect him of being susceptible to seduction.”

“What makes you suspect that?”

“Never
mind
. Did Ben say where he was going?”

“No. In fact, he was damn secretive about it. He said he'd be back Sunday evening.”