Steve’s shorts: Holiday Dinner at the Castilblancos…
Holiday Dinner at the Castilblancos
Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore
I looked at the guest list for our holiday dinner one more time. Some habitual guests, other new ones. Dao-Ming, her husband Eric, and their little one would be present—two chairs at the main table plus Pedrito’s old high chair brought up from our basement storage. Larry McAdams and his wife, both Muslims, would drive up from New Brunswick and be there. Two additional chairs. Larry and I had become close on a case. Ernst Silverstone and his wife, both Jews, would leave their neighborhood deli long enough to join us. They had a little boy, Joachim, who was Pedrito’s age—those two were close friends, and my wife Pam and I like the couple. Two chairs at the main table, another one for the kiddie table. Full house, counting my wife and our two kids, Ceci and Pedrito.
We’d put the three bigger kids at a card table. Chen’s kid would be in the high chair or snoozing in his car seat. That meant eight around the dining table. It also meant no ham because of the Jews and Muslims. No problema. I can have ham any time during the year. (My Buddhist guru says I should become a vegetarian. No chance.)
Larry and Ernst, who were both excellent cooks, would take over preparation of the side dishes, mostly organizing them because people were contributing, while Pam and Chen would be watching the bird. Had just had turkey at Thanksgiving a month ago, but that had been with Teresa and her family and others from the Castilblanco clan—Pam’s turkey was always a bit different with her secret butter and spices rub.
I regretted not having Ashley Scott on the guest list; she was in Chicago. I’d intended to pair her up with my Buddhist guru from Brooklyn, but he was somewhere upstate meditating. Thought of a lotus position on a cold stone floor and shivered.
My job was to keep the law enforcement types from discussing cases and Pam from talking about TV news and its increasingly acerbic battle with certain politicos who wanted to curtail freedom of speech and freedom of the press, although all who would be present, even Chen, supported those two freedoms. Didn’t want to get into the increase in hate crimes or the legalization of marijuana either. Maybe city politics represented a safer topic—fixing the subways and getting those new rail tunnels finished under the Hudson, for example. And how to raise kids in the Big Apple.
Was sitting at the counter that divided our living room from our galley kitchen. Kids were running and jumping around like wild gazelles on uppers. Was tempted to spike my morning coffee to calm my frazzled nerves.
I was in my PJs. Pam was in the shower. She’d already put the bird in the oven. Could hear her singing the “Habanera” from Carmen. Maybe happy to have a bit of she-time away from the kids?
In spite of the din, heard the knock on the door. Went to it but didn’t look through the peephole. Ever since the case of the woman murdered by a shot through the peephole was in the news, I had everyone in the family be careful with that. Came natural for me when I was undercover, of course.
“Who is it?” Put my ear against the door.
“Delivery. I need a signature.”
“Yeah, right. Step back against the corridor wall and show me the package.”
Heard his shuffle. Now I looked through the peephole. Plain brown package. Scruffy delivery man needing a shave and uniform.
“It’s for Detective Rolando Castilblanco.”
“Pass what you need signed under the door.”
You’re thinking I’m paranoid. Three reasons for it: The so-called delivery man had called me Detective; he had also used my full name, Rolando, reading it off the label—not even my relatives used that; both set off alarms. And it was seven a.m. on the day before Christmas eve—who makes deliveries at that hour? Why does anyone even know we’re home?
Looked at the shipping label. Yep. Detective Rolando Castilblanco. Signed and shoved it back under. “Leave the package in front of the door and go.”
Put my ear against the door again. Heard his steps on the staircase. Opened the door and retrieved the package. Something loose inside. Maybe sound of metal on glass?
Ran to the window, flung it open, and tossed the package onto the sidewalk. It broke open and revealed the broken bottle that had been inside and a chrome jigger. Amber liquid started puddling.
My smart phone buzzed just then. Text message from the ex-National Security czar who’d been my captain when I was in the Navy: Happy holidays! For the many times on the carrier when we commiserated. And since.
I’d sent an invitation to him. He couldn’t make it. Guess he’d sent me whiskey instead as an apology. Probably expensive whiskey! Well aged and expensive Irish whiskey.
Pam came out of the bathroom, toweling her shampooed tresses. “Any reason why the window’s open?”
“Just thought it was getting a little hot in here. From the turkey, you know.”
“You’d better close it, or the turkey will be the only one not getting pneumonia.”
Looked out the window before I closed it. A street mongrel was lapping up the whiskey. Maybe he had some Irish terrier in him. Sighed.
***
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Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
