Laura made a great chili. She used lean meat, dark kidney beans, carrots cut small, a bottle or so of dark beer, and freshly sliced hot peppers. She would let the chili cook for a while, then add red wine, lemon juice and a pinch of fresh dill, and, finally, measure out and add her chili powders. On more than one occasion Shadow had tried to get her to show him how she made it: he would watch everything she did, from slicing the onions and dropping them into the olive oil at the bottom of the pot. He had even written down the recipe, ingredient by ingredient, and he had once made Laura’s chili for himself on a weekend when she had been out of town. It had tasted okay—it was certainly edible, but it had not been Laura’s chili.
The news item on page seven was the first account of his wife’s death that Shadow had read. Laura Moon, whose age was given in the article as twenty-seven, and Robbie Burton, thirty-nine, were in Robbie’s car on the interstate when they swerved into the path of a thirty-two-wheeler. The truck brushed Robbie’s car and sent it spinning off the side of the road.
Rescue crews pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.
Shadow folded the newspaper up once more and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.
“Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.
Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura’s face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie—shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over . . .
. . . the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.
“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his steak, devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.
“You’re right,” said Shadow. “I don’t have a job.”
Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand, giving it a wobble as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand.
“Call,” he said.
“Why?” asked Wednesday.
“I don’t want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. Call.”
“Heads,” said Mr. Wednesday.
“Sorry,” said Shadow, without even bothering to glance at the quarter. “It was tails. I rigged the toss.”
“Rigged games are the easiest ones to beat,” said Wednesday, wagging a square finger at Shadow. “Take another look at it.”
Shadow glanced down at it. The head was faceup.
“I must have fumbled the toss,” he said, puzzled.
“You do yourself a disservice,” said Wednesday, and he grinned. “I’m just a lucky, lucky guy.” Then he looked up. “Well I never. Mad Sweeney. Will you have a drink with us?”
“Southern Comfort and Coke, straight up,” said a voice from behind Shadow.
“I’ll go and talk to the barman,” said Wednesday. He stood up, and began to make his way toward the bar.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m drinking?” called Shadow.
“I already know what you’re drinking,” said Wednesday, and then he was standing by the bar. Patsy Cline started to sing “Walking After Midnight” on the jukebox again.
The Southern Comfort and Coke sat down beside Shadow. He had a short ginger beard. He wore a denim jacket covered with bright sew-on patches, and under the jacket a stained white T-shirt. On the T-shirt was printed:
IF YOU CAN’T EAT IT, DRINK IT, SMOKE IT, OR SNORT IT . . . THEN F*CK IT!
He wore a baseball cap, on which was printed:
THE ONLY WOMAN I HAVE EVER LOVED WAS ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE . . . MY MOTHER!
He opened a soft pack of Lucky Strikes with a dirty thumbnail, took a cigarette, offered one to Shadow. Shadow was about to take one, automatically—he did not smoke, but a cigarette makes good barter material—when he realized that he was no longer inside. He shook his head.
“You working for our man then?” asked the bearded man. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk.
“It looks that way,” said Shadow. “What do you do?”