Page 117 of Oddly Fine

“Sure—but that cost a grand total of $1.50,” he said, picking up the small piece of delicate bread topped with fresh cream, pickled dill tangerines, and caviar, only to sneer at it. He was nicely dressed in a crisp, white dress shirt, left open at the collar, and a navy blue and white plaid blazer with navy blue slacks, which Matthew had forced him to wear. Of course, he’d resisted initially, but Matthew had countered with the fact that no fine-dining establishment would let him in the door in bullet-hole-riddled jeans, and a scuffed-up suede bomber jacket that had last been fashionable in the 1960’s. Beckett defended his favorite outfit, claiming that those same jeans and jacket were readily accepted at the golden arches and all-night diner at home. He still got outvoted.

It had taken a bigger effort on Hayes’ part to get Beckett not to stab Matthew for insulting his precious jacket than it had taken to get him properly attired. Despite Beckett’s polished looks in designer clothing, Hayes felt a pang of longing for the original version. The bedhead, five o’clock shadow, is-that-oil, -soot, -or-dried-blood-on-your-shirt? version that he knew so well.

“I’ll explain if you promise not to laugh,” Hayes said while keeping a watchful eye on John. The man was oblivious to their presence, since his seat was angled and mostly facing the windows that covered the entire front the restaurant, offering an unobstructed view of the street.

“Alright,” Beckett conceded, still holding the canapé like it was dangerous.

“The goal of a canapé is to harmonize with the caviar. When eating it, you should be able to taste the buttery flavour of the brine, the fishiness should balance with the citrus, and the texture should pop—like good quality champagne,” Hayes said. “Don’t just bite down, chew, and swallow. Pop the caviar with your tongue. Let it mix with the cream and the orange.”

Beckett regarded him with one eyebrow raised suspiciously, but didn’t respond with his usual sarcasm. Instead, he did as instructed. He put it up to his mouth, took a small bite, and savored it slowly. Meanwhile, he kept his eyes focused on Hayes, as though wanting to share the experience with him. After a second, he smiled. Not a grin, or anything mischievous. A pleased, soft smile unlike those Hayes had grown accustomed to seeing.

“Not bad,” he admitted, and Hayes took that as a win. “I’d still rather have a hotdog,” he pointed out, but lifted the remainder to his mouth and finished it.

Hayes sat back in his seat and took a long sip from his flute of champagne.

“Enjoyable?” he asked, fishing for more of Beckett’s opinion of the canapé.

Beckett seemed to ponder that for a moment, before he reached for his champagne.

“You know—” he said, and there was a pink tint to his cheeks that would have sent Hayes spiralling if he didn’t love this man so much already. “I’ll admit—I’m rather fond of certain fancy things,” he said, and God, that sexy smirk should have been illegal. “I even love one or two,” he said, and there was no mistaking what he meant by that.

And God—how—why?— had Hayes been blessed by such a love as this? One that was so complete and professed so artfully.

“Gentlemen,” their waiter interrupted, smoothly inserting himself into the moment. He reached for their empty plates and topped off their champagne without asking. Hayes hiked an eyebrow in surprise.

“Mr. Rosario wishes for you to enjoy the most decadent of evenings,” he informed them with an attractive, polished smile.

“Well, if the boss is paying,” Beckett said, then gulped down his entire glass of champagne in one go, and smiled up at their waiter in a silent request for a refill. Their waiter was very professional and showed no reaction to Beckett’s poor manners as he refilled the glass.

As the waiter glided off to visit another table, Hayes rolled his eyes, providing his partner with the very reaction he’d been striving for.

“I’m in his office,” Matthew said over the comms.

“About damned time, I almost fell asleep,” Adeline complained.

“It’s the Alfredo,” Beckett said, touching his ear to include himself in the conversation. Adeline had required a glass of red wine and a bowl of fettuccine Alfredo before getting down to business. Kyle, Matthew’s chef, had prepared a giant plate just for her and she’d inhaled it.

“Nah—that’s the wine. The gaz is the Alfredo,” she laughed, sounding nearly insane. Had Hayes not been so desensitized by Beckett, he might have found the old lady repulsive. Her sense of humor was on par with that of a 15-year-old jock. Crude and unbecoming at her age—but somehow Hayes found it endearing.

“If you hotbox yourself, we’re too far away for a quick rescue,” Beckett said, snickering with delight.

Hayes could picture the sneer on Matthew’s face as he was forced to listen to this ludicrous, asinine conversation.

“The device is in,” Matthew informed them, ignoring the childish exchange.

“Alright boys—here we go,” Adeline replied.

Hayes listened to the tapping of laptop keys for a few moments, then turned off his comms unit.

“Ever wonder how Gill always finds us?” Beckett asked.

And yes, Hayes had wondered about it before. A few times in fact. Especially since he’d been a virtual ghost after working for the CIA and getting out of the Navy. He’d decided long ago, however, that perhaps he didn’t want to know. Not if he planned to sleep soundly at night for the foreseeable future.

“The loony bin probably has an ‘exclusion’ pile he pays for,” Hayes said, with a shrug, and Beckett was pleased enough with that answer.

The plan was going off without a hitch. That should have been his first clue that something was about to go wrong. They’d made it through the second and third courses while conversing companionably, even bantering with their waiter, who patiently explained the increasingly expensive ingredients and complex preparation of each dish. Beckett was halfway through his meal of grilled branzino on a bed of roasted garden vegetables and blah blah blah when Hayes’ eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Talk to me, Nancy,” Beckett directed, a bite halfway to his mouth.