Martin’s face grows a few shades redder, but in the next moment, he’s got Wilks in a bear hug that’s sure to ruin the latter’s nice, clean shirt.
When Martin finally drops the new executive, he turns to me, exclaiming, “This one’s got the eggs! Ha! Reminds me of when you first started coming in here.”
Now, let me make something clear: we are not the only people in the fish market, not by a long shot. Martin’s been in business this long by being the best, and every chef who even thinks of working with seafood in this town knows it.
Wilks is going to be fine, although he’s again becoming aware of just how many people have been watching the scene. I can’t be sure, but I could swear I saw some money change hands between customers when Martin picked the poor bastard off his feet.
Martin gives a decent starting price, and like a trooper, Wilks starts talking him down.
My attention is elsewhere, though.
I could swear that I just saw something on the far corner of the market. It was a flash of red hair ducking behind a display.
When nobody comes out, I tell myself I must be imagining things. Why would Wrigley follow me to a fish market?
“Does that sound about right, Paulson?” Wilks asks, apparently not for the first time.
Pulled back from my ginger hallucination, I turn to look at my new boss.
“It’s your deal,” I tell him. “Does it sound about right to you?”
He turns back to Martin and extends his hand. It’s a rookie mistake.
We leave Martin’s shop and I could swear I see that red hair again before we come to our next stop.
It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to discover that Wrigley’s stalking me. What I don’t understand, though, is why she’d choose to do it here. Why now?
It occurs to me that I’m trying to assign rationality to someone who may or may not be stalking me, and I give up the futile chore.
“How’d you do?” I ask.
“Were you not paying attention?” Wilks beams. “I talked him down a full 20 percent from his original asking price.”
“Well done,” I tell him, and cautiously pat him on the back.
“So, any other lessons before our next stop?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Lesson number five: whatever you do, do not get on the bad side of a fishmonger.”
His confidence is sufficiently elevated to the point where he’s finally willing to ask the question: “Are all your lessons haikus?”
“I knew I liked you, Wilks,” I tell him, and we finish off the rest of our daily buys with relative ease.
After everything’s taken care of, I walk the new exec back to his building, giving him further lessons and miscellaneous advice on the way.
“Are you on tonight?” he asks as we approach his building.
“I’m on the schedule,” I tell him, “but look, something’s kind of going on and I might need to have someone cover me. Is that all right?”
“Paulson, after everything you’ve done for me, I think you’ve earned another night.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, and shake the hand Martin hadn’t touched. “Oh, by the way, Wilks…”
“Yeah?”
“Lesson ten: never give your sous chef a night off when he asks. He can't be trusted.”
He has no idea how to react, but seems to take the lesson in good humor. Of course, when he tries to weasel out of giving me the night off, I gently remind him that not only did he already authorize it, he shook my hand.