like, four to pull the two apart. So now the sous chef is stuck in the country, charged with assaulting an officer and cruelty to poultry, which in Bresse is a huge deal.”
“What does all this have to do with my daughter?”
“After the executive chef had a meltdown, he revised half the brigade’s duties. The saucier was promoted to sous chef, and Joy is now the restaurant’s new saucier, at least until the sous chef gets out of jail for assaulting the policemen—and the farmer.”
“And the chickens.”
“Especially the chickens. Joy’s thrilled, of course; it’s a promotion, even if it is temporary. She’s getting a bonus, too, but she has to start work much earlier in the day.”
“Will you tell her to call her mother as soon as she’s able?”
“Oh, sure, Ms. Cosi, no problem.”
I was about to sign off, when I remembered the little talk I’d had on Hudson Street with Sergeant Franco. Since I couldn’t be sure Joy would be forthcoming about her love life (and I didn’t have the bank account to hire a private eye), I took a chance . . .
“Yvette,” I said, “before I let you go, would you help me solve a little mystery? I understand things didn’t go so well on Manny Franco’s last visit. Do you have any idea what went wrong?”
Dead silence.
“Yvette? Are you there?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but . . .
um
, why do you care?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, why do you—”
“I heard what you said. I just can’t believe you asked a question like that. I
care
because Joy is my daughter. And I
like
Franco.”
“Ooooh, that’s right.
You’re
dating a cop—so you would.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“No offense. It’s okay for you. I mean, you’re divorced, you know? And of a certain age . . .”
Oh, for the love of—
“. . . but Joy’s got her whole life ahead of her. She doesn’t want to make a mistake, you know?”
“No. I don’t know. Why is Franco a ‘mistake’?”
“Oh, come on. You have to admit the guy’s salary is a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yes, and if Joy walked down the aisle with a man like Franco, the punch line would be a lifetime of sweating in kitchens like the ones she’s in now. There’s no way a young couple can make it in New York on a cop’s wages.”
“Your definition of ‘making it’ and mine are apparently different.”
“Apparently.”
“And my daughter has ambition. She has dreams. She
wants
to be in that kitchen because she wants to own and run her own restaurant one day.”
“Exactly! A boyfriend with
real
resources
could help her do that a lot faster. Franco’s sweet, I’ll give him that. He makes Joy laugh and he’s got great abs, but he’s not going anywhere. Like I said, she can do better.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“If you say so.”
“Please tell my daughter to call me as soon as she’s able.”
“I will, Ms. C.
Au revoir!
”
I flipped my cell closed, but it failed to satisfy.
Oh, for the days when I could slam down a receiver!
Instead, I kicked the table leg. (Bad idea in fabric slippers.) Big toe throbbing, I frowned in fury at the tabletop, until a deep voice interrupted my mental tantrum—
“So? What’s
the joke
?”
Quinn was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. I had to admit, the sight of him standing there bare-chested, wearing nothing but a curious, slightly bemused expression and low-slung pair of panda bear pajama bottoms (a gift from his kids) did wonders for soothing some of my ire, but far from all of it.
“You heard the call?” I presumed.
“Only your end, something about a joke?”
“Franco’s salary . . .
apparently
.”
“Joy said Franco’s salary is a joke?”
“No. Her roommate did.”
Yawning, Mike rubbed his newly stubbled jaw. “And this is something that couldn’t wait till morning?”
“I had a bad dream. I wanted to make sure Joy was okay.”
“Is she?”
“Yvette says she’s fine.”
“So what did
“What does all this have to do with my daughter?”
“After the executive chef had a meltdown, he revised half the brigade’s duties. The saucier was promoted to sous chef, and Joy is now the restaurant’s new saucier, at least until the sous chef gets out of jail for assaulting the policemen—and the farmer.”
“And the chickens.”
“Especially the chickens. Joy’s thrilled, of course; it’s a promotion, even if it is temporary. She’s getting a bonus, too, but she has to start work much earlier in the day.”
“Will you tell her to call her mother as soon as she’s able?”
“Oh, sure, Ms. Cosi, no problem.”
I was about to sign off, when I remembered the little talk I’d had on Hudson Street with Sergeant Franco. Since I couldn’t be sure Joy would be forthcoming about her love life (and I didn’t have the bank account to hire a private eye), I took a chance . . .
“Yvette,” I said, “before I let you go, would you help me solve a little mystery? I understand things didn’t go so well on Manny Franco’s last visit. Do you have any idea what went wrong?”
Dead silence.
“Yvette? Are you there?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but . . .
um
, why do you care?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, why do you—”
“I heard what you said. I just can’t believe you asked a question like that. I
care
because Joy is my daughter. And I
like
Franco.”
“Ooooh, that’s right.
You’re
dating a cop—so you would.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“No offense. It’s okay for you. I mean, you’re divorced, you know? And of a certain age . . .”
Oh, for the love of—
“. . . but Joy’s got her whole life ahead of her. She doesn’t want to make a mistake, you know?”
“No. I don’t know. Why is Franco a ‘mistake’?”
“Oh, come on. You have to admit the guy’s salary is a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yes, and if Joy walked down the aisle with a man like Franco, the punch line would be a lifetime of sweating in kitchens like the ones she’s in now. There’s no way a young couple can make it in New York on a cop’s wages.”
“Your definition of ‘making it’ and mine are apparently different.”
“Apparently.”
“And my daughter has ambition. She has dreams. She
wants
to be in that kitchen because she wants to own and run her own restaurant one day.”
“Exactly! A boyfriend with
real
resources
could help her do that a lot faster. Franco’s sweet, I’ll give him that. He makes Joy laugh and he’s got great abs, but he’s not going anywhere. Like I said, she can do better.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“If you say so.”
“Please tell my daughter to call me as soon as she’s able.”
“I will, Ms. C.
Au revoir!
”
I flipped my cell closed, but it failed to satisfy.
Oh, for the days when I could slam down a receiver!
Instead, I kicked the table leg. (Bad idea in fabric slippers.) Big toe throbbing, I frowned in fury at the tabletop, until a deep voice interrupted my mental tantrum—
“So? What’s
the joke
?”
Quinn was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. I had to admit, the sight of him standing there bare-chested, wearing nothing but a curious, slightly bemused expression and low-slung pair of panda bear pajama bottoms (a gift from his kids) did wonders for soothing some of my ire, but far from all of it.
“You heard the call?” I presumed.
“Only your end, something about a joke?”
“Franco’s salary . . .
apparently
.”
“Joy said Franco’s salary is a joke?”
“No. Her roommate did.”
Yawning, Mike rubbed his newly stubbled jaw. “And this is something that couldn’t wait till morning?”
“I had a bad dream. I wanted to make sure Joy was okay.”
“Is she?”
“Yvette says she’s fine.”
“So what did
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