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“I haven’t had my dinner,” Olivia said.
“Then it’s settled,” Stan Colt said. He punched Matt affectionately on the shoulder. “I really appreciate this, Matt.”
FOURTEEN
It was either a light rain or a heavy drizzle, and Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, holding an umbrella over his head with his right hand, stood at the gas charcoal grill in the backyard of 8231 Jeanes Street in Northwest Philadelphia wondering if he could trust the brand-new, state-of-the-art $129.95 electronic thermometer stuck in one of the two rolled-and-tied tenderloins of beef on the grill.
It indicated that the interior temperature of the meat was 145 degrees Fahrenheit, which in turn meant, according to the instruction manual, that when permitted to rest for five minutes, the meat should be just a little more done than rare.
Denny Coughlin didn’t think so. It didn’t look nearly that done to him.
“To hell with it,” Coughlin muttered, and reached for the very long-handled, stainless-steel knife, part of a $79.95 Master Griller’s Kit-knife, fork, and grill-scraper-that had been another gift from Coughlin to Chief Inspector (Retired) August and Mrs. Olga Wohl, at whose grill he was standing.
When he tried to cut the loin that was not electronically connected to the Interior Temperature Gauge, the perfectly tied-and-rolled meat rolled across the grill but remained uncut.
“Shit,” Chief Inspector Coughlin muttered, laid the umbrella upside down on the grass, picked up the extra-long-handled fork from the Master Griller’s Kit, impaled the tenderloin with the sensor in it, sliced it halfway through, and examined it carefully.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
The thermometer was telling the truth.
He looked up in annoyance at the sky. It had suddenly begun to rain harder. Much harder.
He looked back at the tenderloins. The flexible metal cord connecting the sensor impaled precisely in the center of one of them would have to be removed before he could move the meat to the platter.
He touched it gingerly, and it didn’t seem to be that hot. He got a decent grip on it and gave it a tug. It remained impaled. He picked up the fork again, and using the fork to hold the meat in place, tugged harder. The sensor came free, suddenly, which caused Coughlin, in the moment in which he realized the goddamn thing was burning his fingers and let go of it, to throw both the sensor, the metal cord, and the Stainless Steel Easy-To-Read, Dishwasher-Safe Interior Temperature Indicating Device into the grass of Chief Wohl’s backyard.
There were cheers, whistles, and applause from Chief Wohl’s back porch, where Chief Wohl, Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, Inspector Peter Wohl, Captain Frank Hollaran, and Mr. Michael J. O’Hara were standing- out of the rain-watching the Master Chef at work.
After glancing momentarily at the porch, Commissioner Coughlin impaled the tenderloins, one after the other, and placed them on the platter-a stainless-steel plate with blood grooves resting in a depression in a wooden plate with handles; yet another culinary gift to the Wohls. Then he balanced the platter on his right hand, like a waiter, and sort of squatted to pick up the umbrella.
Then he marched toward the porch under the umbrella and somewhat unsteadily climbed the stairs, to further whistles, cheers, and applause from the men standing on it.
“You can all kiss my royal Irish ass,” Commissioner Coughlin announced.
Five minutes later, Commissioner Coughlin, fresh from drying his face and hair, sat down to table with everybody, which now included Mrs. Olga Wohl, Mrs. Sarah Lowenstein, and Mrs. Barbara Hollaran, at a table heavily laden with what else they were going to eat.
“I’ve got to get one of those little digital cameras and carry it with me,” Chief Lowenstein said. “I’d love to have pictures of the Master Chef at work.”
“I already told you what you can do,” Coughlin said. “And, yes, Augie, thank you for asking, I will have a glass of that wine.”
"I’ve got mine,” Mickey O’Hara said, holding up his camera. “But I’ve seen that Angry Irishman look in his eyes before and didn’t think I’d better.”
Twenty minutes after that, as Sarah Lowenstein poured coffee and appropriate comments of approval were being offered vis-a-vis the chocolate cake Barbara Hollaran had prepared for the nearly ritual once-every-other-week supper at the Wohls’, Commissioner Coughlin’s cellular phone buzzed.
He took it from his shirt pocket, said, “Hold one” before his caller had a chance to say anything, and handed the cellular to Hollaran, who quickly went into the kitchen.
Hollaran returned almost immediately.
“Commissioner, it’s Captain Quaire,” he said, formally.
Coughlin nodded, and reached for the phone.
“What’s up?” he asked, listened, and said, “I’ll get right back to you. Don’t do anything until I do.”
He pushed the End button and, holding the cellular in his palm, looked thoughtfully at it a moment.
“Mickey, this is out of school, okay?”
