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Traffic noise from the Interstate down the hill rumbled beneath the more distinct sounds of cars arriving home, a bus on Tejon Street stopping and then pulling away, squirrels chattering at a dog. That the old dog was on a leash and oblivious to them went unnoticed, as they did their squirrelly duty. Dean identified with the dog. I would not say that Dean relaxed in this setting, as he had been on the edge of trouble most of the time during his previous visit to Denver, but everything seemed to be in its place. Through an open door, a radio carried news about the final preparations underway for the Summit Conference. The only piece of the picture that did not fit was a red Geo misaligned against the curb, its windows rolled down. The right front wheel had scraped against the old pink sandstone curb. The sound of a guest arriving had not brought out either of the proprietresses. Dean pushed the gate open and stepped into the yard. No response to the clink of the gate. Garden tools. Unlike a mechanism there was a slight delay and I could see someone silhouetted against a hot oven’s frame hurriedly preparing a meal. I tried to meet the eye of the cook through the tiny portal but he deliberately avoided mine, and he seemed to be a big fellow too! There was a pleasant ding and my assistant’s meal arrived through a dark shutter on a spring, this time it was some kind of chicken, also on the decorative rice paper with utensils and spices. I looked to my assistant who clearly looked as hungry as I was. I shrugged and set into my lobster. I found rather quickly it was quite spicy and I was coughing. I felt a thump on my shoulder and found that my host had apparently taken it upon himself to pat me comfortingly on my back to help me with the burning in my throat. * * * I coughed a little more, ‘I’m fine.’ I said. ‘It’s really spicy, Gretchen is it? Sir.’ ‘How about some foi gras to help the palate?’ he offered and didn’t bother correcting me that Gretchen was obviously.
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