—It’s terrific, I admitted. But I can’t help thinking how much better it would look on you, given the color of your hair.
—If I may be so bold, Miss Kontent, the color of my hair is available to you on the second floor.
Two hours later, with the red hair of the Irish, I took a taxi to the West Village to La Belle Époque.
With the job complete, we passed into the kitchen, where the air smelled of slow-roasting potatoes. After checking the oven, Wallace wrapped an apron around his waist and seared the lamb chops that I had carefully selected the day before. Then he removed the chops and deglazed the pan with mint jelly and cognac.
—Wallace, I asked as he handed me my plate, if I declared war on America, would you stay and fight with me?
—You’re way off the page on this one, Detective.
—Maybe. But a girl can get in over her head. I understand that. All she wants is to make a living. Like any of is. It’s not how she thought she was going to end up. But then who ends up like they thought they would? They call em dreams for a reason, right?
She took a sip of her coffee and scowled at the cup.
—What do you say we liven these up?
—Suit yourself. But I’ve got work in thirty minutes.
She found a fifth of whiskey in a cabinet and Irished her cup. When she sat back down, she tried to change the subject.
the Books that Bind 