Bad Glass

A burst of steam hit me in the face as soon as I opened the kitchen door, greeting me with the spicy scent of pepper and simmering tomato sauce. It was a good-size kitchen, but it was mostly deserted. The central work space was lit up bright with gas lanterns, but the periphery of the room remained dark and empty. A breeze flowed in through open windows along the back wall, cutting through the steam and spice with a damp, earthy chill.

There were bins of fresh vegetables stacked three deep in front of an unplugged industrial-size refrigerator, and a coffin-size footlocker blocked the rear entrance. The locker stood open, and I could see snow and ice packed around containers of store-bought meat. Mixed in with the ground beef and cuts of chicken and steak, I could see at least a dozen prepackaged Hormel hams. Hand-smoked, my ass, I thought. There were three people working back here: the burly waiter, assembling sandwiches at a side table; a heavily tattooed girl, stirring pasta sauce on a camp stove; and a rail-thin old man, sweating over a generator-powered griddle.

Mama Cass—Sharon, I corrected myself, remembering her real name—flashed me a bright smile and ushered me into her office. In stark contrast to her employees, she looked clean and sophisticated. The consummate professional, I thought. A perfectly composed, unflappable businesswoman, ready to step from the pits of hell straight into the nearest Fortune 500 boardroom.

Her office was a small room branching off the kitchen. I imagined it had once been a pantry before she’d taken over, now stripped of shelving and filled with office furniture.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she said, gesturing toward a chair. She sat on the edge of her desk, a couple of feet away. “It’s Dean, right? Sabine’s friend, the photographer? I was wondering if I’d see you again.”

“Yeah, well, things happen, I guess,” I said lamely. “I was hoping I could get your help with something. I’ve got money. I can pay you.” I reached for my backpack to show her the color of my money, but she dismissed the gesture with a flip of her hand.

“Don’t worry about that now, Dean. Just tell me what you need. We can work out payment later. Okay?” She smiled. It was a warm smile, and if it was part of a mask—a calculated gesture meant to instill confidence and trust—it was a good mask, one she wore well.

“I need some drugs,” I said. “I’ve got an infected wound, and I need something to keep my arm from falling off.”

“Show me,” she said, pushing herself up off her desk. She made a lifting gesture with her finger, like she was flipping over a rock to study the ground underneath.

I nodded and pulled up my sleeve, revealing the swollen red flesh.

Sharon bent down over my hand and gently turned it toward the light. After a couple of seconds, she produced a pair of reading glasses from her blouse pocket and bent even closer, staring deeply into my palm. Her face crinkled up in concentration. She looked like a fortune-teller trying to make a difficult read.

“How long would it take you to find me some antibiotics?” I asked.

She dropped my hand and leaned back on her heel. There was a slightly amused look on her face. “Are you kidding me? This whole place is just one big rusty nail, crawling with disease. I’ve got a room full of the stuff over there.” She pointed out the door, toward the other side of the kitchen.

I let out a loud sigh, and my stomach suddenly unclenched. Hearing those words … it was a huge relief. One less thing to worry about.

“It’s a really nasty wound,” she said, nodding toward my hand. She kept her eyes on my face even as her head bobbed up and down. “How did it happen?” There was something odd about her voice—too much curiosity, maybe, or just a bit too quiet, too careful. It made it seem like she was trying to pull a fast one on me, trying to trick me into revealing sensitive information.

“I stepped on a rusty nail,” I said.

She chuckled and shook her head. Then her hand darted up to my forehead. She moved fast, and I didn’t have time to pull away. “You’ve got a nasty fever, too,” she said, resting the back of her hand against my flesh. “If you’d waited any longer, I’d be calling in a chopper. Or digging you a hole.”

She stood up and left the room. I could hear her exchanging pleasantries with the kitchen staff as she crossed to the other side of the restaurant.

When she came back, she was holding a canvas bag full of medical supplies. “Amoxicillin,” she said, pulling out a pill bottle. “Twice a day for ten days. And if it doesn’t start getting better in the next twenty-four hours, come back and I can give you a shot. I’d be surprised, though. The pills should do the trick. I’ve seen them work on worse.”

I nodded and accepted the pill bottle.