Chapter 7: The Fifth Wife

The bell over the side door rang.

Nobody in the room moved.

Raymond Chen had to duck his head to come through the door.

He didn't bring the driver. He didn't bring a lawyer.

He stood just inside with his hands in his coat pockets.

He looked at nine regulars, two mechanics, a tow-truck driver and a blind little girl.

The deacon put down his fork.

"Afternoon," Raymond said.

Nobody said it back.

"Mr. Chen," I said. "If you're here for Lily, the hearing's Monday."

"I'm not here for Lily."

He looked past me, at the kitchen pass.

"Is there someplace a man can sit down without nine people watching him?"

Rafael stepped off the gate rail and came over, slow.

He didn't say anything. He just stood next to me.

Raymond looked up at him.

Not many people made Raymond Chen look up.

"You're the tow driver."

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Raymond said, which made no sense at all.

I took him back to the kitchen.

I had a pot of greens going on the back burner, my mother's way, sliced linguiça and a splash of vinegar at the end.

He sat down on an upturned milk crate like he'd done it all his life.

He looked at the pot.

"Those hers?"

"Her recipe."

"Can I have some?"

I stared at him.

The man owned three buildings downtown and a vineyard I'd been to twice.

"They're not done."

"I don't care."

I put some in a bowl and handed him a fork.

He ate standing up the second he tasted them, the bowl close to his chin.

He finished the bowl.

He held it out.

I filled it again.

"I grew up a dozen blocks from here," he said, with his mouth full.

"There was a counter on Market Street. A woman fed me on credit for two years."

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