The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Twenty
Mashed Potatoes, Anyone?
“Lunch!”
Raoul Duke shouted. “Damn it all to hell, Sam! Where the f--k
is
lunch? Can’t get a decent day’s work out of that
boy!” The
gonzo journalist lit another cigarette, despite that his last one
still smoldered in the ashtray.
Brasco reached over and took
Duke’s old one, putting it to his mustached lips and sucking
hard.
“What the hell? When you’d get back?”
Duke shot the
question at the New York detective.
Brasco shrugged, “Don’t know.
Don’t remember much of anything really, except they killed
old
Sonny.”
“Oh s--t, sorry to hear that,” Duke consoled
his friend, taking off his hat in respect, revealing a shiny, bald
head. “So sorry. Wait…who the hell was
Sonny?”
Brasco
sighed. “The guy that got me into The Family. But when the
mob
found out I was an undercover cop, they put a hit on him. He
wasn’t
that bad a guy, ya know? A sad little man, but good just the
same.”
“A drink then, to your dead friend.” Duke raised a
glass.
The men gathered at the table raised their glasses in a final salute
to Sonny.
Just then the kitchen door flew open and Sam rolled
out on the lunch cart.
“Ah, lunch! Finally got your s--t
together boy, I see,” Duke yelled. “Let’s
see what you rustled
up today.”
Sam bowed, flipping his hat down to his hand,
then rolled it back up his arm to his head.
With flourish he
removed the lid to the large metal container…to
reveal…
“Potatoes?” came voices in unison.
“Yes” Sam
answered. “Mashed potatoes, anyone?” He twirled
around in a
circle, holding the server spoon in one hand, an empty bowl in the
other.
“But please note, “ he continued as he dipped into
one of the two rather large mounds of spuds, “that these are
not
just any mashed potatoes. No! These are a special recipe by none
other than Elaina. Please, won’t you all try at least a
taste? She
calls them The Two Towers of Spuds.” Sam plopped a helping
into a
bowl and held it out for anyone to take.
“Ah, what the
hell?” Duke said taking the bowl. “I’m
hungry enough to eat my
own leg right now.” He shoveled a forkful into his mouth.
“Hey,
these aren’t half bad. Compliments to the chef! Hey,
everyone, give
Sam’s f--king potatoes a try!” Duke yelled to the
Room as he made
his way back to his table.
“No, no, not my potatoes,” Sam
tried to politely correct the journalist. But he was already out of
hearing range. Sam looked sadly down at the cart.
“They’re not my
potatoes, they’re Elaina’s” But his
attention to details was
side-tracked as others lined up to get their share of the spuds and
soon his cart was empty.