Alien Blues by Lynn Hightower Page B

nodded.
    The Elaki seemed pleased. “It is a new item, we trying it out on our lunch crowd. We are very fond of Cajun cooking.”
    â€œOh yeah?” Mel said. “I like Cajun. What is it?”
    â€œMuskrat.”
    â€œYou kidding?”
    â€œIt is not difficult to prepare. Simmer the muskrat in salted water, along with onion, garlic, bouquet garni. The secret is to simmer until the meat is so tender it falls from the bone. For the sauce, you use mustard, pepper, sherry, a little egg yolk—and some of the stock, of course. Perhaps you would care to sample?”
    â€œGod, no,” Mel said. “Muskrat? Only Elaki would eat something like that.”
    The restaurant owner turned his body to Mel. “You think so? Essentially all of our recipes are local. Our people come here to try Earth food. And muskrat, I must tell you, tastes very like cow. Indeed, it is better than rabbit. You eat rabbit, don’t you? Southerners eat rabbit, is my understanding.”
    â€œMy sister offered me one just last night.”
    â€œThere, you see. But your reaction is typical. Few humans will eat here. And yet I see many balding men and I understand the loss of hair is mentally painful. These men would do well to come in and eat stewed cane rat, maybe once a week. I would not mind more human clientele.”
    â€œStewed cane rat grows hair?”
    â€œIt is the rat meat. In fact, we serve a very nice grilled rat bordeaux every other Wednesday.”
    David handed the Elaki a picture of Dyer.
    â€œYou see this man yesterday, last night?”
    The Elaki studied the picture. “I … I do not think so. We do not get many humans—and usually those for the novelty of coming in. But I must admit …”
    â€œWe all look alike,” Mel said. “Yeah, Mr. String here tells me that all the time. I don’t believe I introduced him. Mr. String is aiding in our investigation.”
    â€œUnusual,” the owner said.
    â€œGood for human/Elaki relations,” String explained.
    â€œSure is,” Mel said. “Get to know one another, all that. String’s promised to take us swimming.”
    The Elaki restaurant owner scooted backward. String arched his back.
    â€œThe human is joking you.”
    â€œBy the way,” David said. “You give out those little brushes, you know, for crumbs? Kind of a souvenir for my daughter. She’s very interested in Elaki things. Collects them.”
    The Elaki’s eye prongs swiveled. “You see, Detective, this is a family restaurant. We encourage our clientele to bring their young ones and we try to keep our prices down. We could not afford to hand out such things, and with the young ones it would be like trying to hold water. We do not worry for crumbs.”
    David held up the brush he’d found in Dyer’s car. “You know of anyone who gives these out?”
    The Elaki looked at it. “Surely. The Ambassador, on Short Street. But they are not open this early and … they do not encourage humans. It is unlikely your man was there. But if he was, they will remember him.”
    â€œThanks,” David said.
    Out on the sidewalk, String stopped in front of the car.
    â€œI cannot face to fold myself into the back again. I also must return to my work. Regret that I will be unable to further help. Good of the day.” He glided away down the sidewalk.
    â€œHe seem upset about something?”
    â€œGet in the car, Mel.”
    The double doors leading into the Ambassador had been redone to accommodate Elaki height. They were also locked. Mel beat on the glass. The inside was lit and David could see a man running a vacuum cleaner. An Elaki female came to the door. She wore a short plaid vest—one of the few Elaki David had ever seen wear clothes. Perhaps it was a habit for the rich and trendy.
    â€œWe’re closed,” the female said. Her side pouches were smooth and almost closed. No children,