Knight had parked the bike on the street, and was walking in carrying a paper bag. “I wanted t’ catch ya b’fore y’r lunch crowd.”
“Ya got me,” he said. “Whatcha got?”
“The only thing I c’d think of,” Knight said, and pulled out a couple of plastic ware containers wrapped in foil.
Paulie finished taking down one chair and came over to the bar, as Knight set up the containers. He unwrapped one, and removed the lid. The smell of warm corned beef with spices wafted up, and Paulie sniffed the air. “Ahhhh, nicely done, laddie.”
Knight brought out a fork and a knife and passed it over to him. Paulie cut a piece and said, “If ye put down th’ chairs there, I’d appreciate it.”
Knight nodded and went to bring down the rest of the chairs. He finished going around the room, noticing that Paulie had opened up the other two containers and was eating out of them. He came back, and Paulie passed the corned beef to Knight. “Join me, laddie?”
“So whaddaya think?”
“I think yer hired.”
Knight smiled. “When c’n I start?”
“Well, first I gotta break it to the old cook.”
“When’s he in?”
“Oh, when he gets his arse out of the cloud of marijuana he’s in. He’s my nephew.”
“I can start right now.”
Paulie pointed with his knife to the corned beef. “You make enough of this for dinner, and I’ll let ye make sandwiches of it for the special o’ the day.”
“Gonna take me a few hours.”
“You’ll be cooking stuff in the meantime.” Paulie escorted Knight to the back room. Knight paled. The condition of the kitchen was horrendous. Nothing looked like it had been cleaned in weeks, if not months. The only thing relatively clean was the grill, and even that didn’t look safe. Knives were haphazardly thrown every which way – a small preparatory island was covered with pots and pans – clean, but not put away or stacked neatly. The sink needed washing out, and there were a couple of pans still in it the night before.
Paulie even had a disgusted look. “I try not t’ come in here,” he said.
“I c’n see why,” Knight said, picking his way around. A paring knife was on the floor. THE FLOOR! He picked it up and put it on the edge of the sink.
“There’s the pantry, and that door’s the freezer.”
“Dare I?”
“I keep the freezer clean, an’ the fridge. I believe that a cook’s kitchen’s his own place, and I don’t bother how the stuff’s made, just as long as it passes the health inspector.”
“This won’ pass,” Knight said, going to the freezer and peeking in. “Mind if I take inventory?”