left a half-empty bottle of tequila. She’d left a lot of other things too, but right now Marshall figured the Patrón would serve him better than mismatched dishes, odd socks, and the wedding ring lying in the ceramic dish at the edge of the kitchen sink. Marshall avoided looking at it as he pulled down a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a shot. He waved the tequila under his nose and grimaced. Tequila wasn’t his drink; it was Violet’s. He turned to the refrigerator and began rummaging in it for a slice of lime or lemon. There was nothing in there but a moldy orange and a net bag with a few withered grapes in it. He left the rotten fruit lying on the refrigerator shelf, scooped up the Patrón, and bravely downed it in a gulp. He poured himself another.
He left the shot glass in the kitchen and took the bottle into the nest he’d built himself in the living room over the last three weeks. The answering machine blinked next to a pile of unopened mail in the foyer. Around him, the house was in shambles—drawers emptied, windows bereft of curtains, all the homey touches packed up and taken away. She’d left behind the things she didn’t want, or in Violet-speak, “couldn’t bear to take.” She’d left those sentimental reminders there for Marshall to deal with, which he did by remaining in a six-by-six-foot area of the living room that included the television, coffee table, and sofa and none of the memorabilia of their short marriage. He stared at the television, seeing nothing, and drank.
When the bottle was empty, Marshall knew what had to be done. Yesterday, he’d found the note shoved into the back of a drawer in the desk, a date and time, Pavlos’s name etched in Violet’s curlicue handwriting that Marshall’d always thought of as cute. It was stuffed under a photo of her that she’d given him just before she’d moved in. Part of him had wanted to tear it in half, ruin the visage of her dark, smoldering eyes, that half smile that had first attracted him to her, the long, black hair. He used to keep that picture on his nightstand. How long had it been here, in the desk?
Marshall had shoved the photograph back in the drawer, then smoothed the note out on top of the desk. Just looking at the son of a bitch’s name made him mad. How long had she been seeing him? And why, after all the things she’d told Marshall about the guy? Pavlos had had his chance with her and blew it. And now, she’d left Marshall for the son of a bitch? It was the only explanation.
Marshall leapt from the sofa, his head reeling, nearly pitching himself onto the floor. He grabbed at the coffee table, upsetting some empty beer cans and an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. He made his way unsteadily to the desk and pulled out the phone book, opening it to the restaurant section. There it was. He jabbed his finger angrily on the page. The Greek’s place, Plati Pavlos. Marshall pulled his car keys out of his pants pocket. The fucking guy was going to be sorry.
It was the kind of night Costa Pavlos’s mamma used to call a nychta tou diavolou—a devil’s night. For that matter, things had been off all day. The meat order from Detroit hadn’t arrived and he’d had to send Angelina down to the market in town and pay nearly double just to keep them flush for the weekend. Two of the waitresses had gotten into a fight in the ladies room and had to be sent home, and the Hobart had broken down again. He was going to have to spend Sunday afternoon taking the monster mixer apart, and if he couldn’t fix it this time, he was going to have to put out a bundle for a new one.
It was a night for dropped glasses, restless patrons, and emotional kitchen staff. So, Costa wasn’t surprised when the drunken guy came in around ten and started making a commotion. Marney, the hostess, was doing her best to handle the situation, but the guy towered over her. He was yick-yacking about his wife and waving his keys around. Then, Costa heard the guy start hollering about Costa fooling around with his wife. “What the hell?” the Greek muttered under his breath as he came from behind the bar, hurriedly glancing around the restaurant. That’s all Angelina had to hear—he’d be sleeping on the couch for eternity. Thankfully, most of the patrons had already headed out for the night.
“Where’s Pavlos!” Marshall was saying. He leaned over the hostess station and knocked the reservation book to the floor. Costa came up behind Marney and put a hand on her shoulder. “Take over the bar, sweetheart.” Costa stepped up to Marshall, who was weaving unsteadily on his feet. Up close he reeked of tequila. “What can I do for you, friend?” he asked quietly.
“You Pavlos?”
“Who wants to know?”
Marshall took a lurching step forward. “Violet’s husband, that’s who!” he hollered, taking a sloppy swing at the older man. Costa caught Marshall’s wrist in his meaty hand and jerked him closer. “Sure you want to do that, pal?” Costa said. He chuckled a little, taking in the guy’s preppy jacket and loafers. He was tall, all right, but not much heft to him. It was obvious he’d been drinking and that it didn’t agree with him. There was a sheen of sweat on the guy’s face, which was a bit pale and green.
“You bet!” Marshall said, spraying spittle on Costa’s face. Costa twisted Marshall’s wrist behind his back, spinning him around. “How ’bout we just sit down and talk about this like gentlemen, huh?” Marshall jerked out of Costa’s grip. He swung around fast, waving his long arms to keep his balance, and backed away. Costa shook his head. He walked toward Marshall with his palms out. “Look,” he said, “Fella—”
Marshall made a horrible crying sound and rushed forward, head down. He caught Costa in the belly. Costa skidded backward, air coming out of him in an OOF, his body shattering the side window. The last table of patrons nervously threw some money down on the bar and scurried toward the door. Marney flattened herself against the liquor rack, and the new dishwasher kid came out of the kitchen, his hands red and wet. “Need help, boss?” he hollered across the room.
Costa pulled himself up and eyed Marshall. Now this skinny guy was pissing him off. He looked at Marshall breathing hard, his excellently cut hair falling in his face. He was holding on to the hostess station to keep his balance. “Nope,” Costa said. “I got this.” He crooked a finger at Marshall. “That’s the way you want it?” he said. “Let’s go, sonny boy.”
Marshall watched Costa stir tomatoes and onions into the scrambled eggs. The Greek looked up, his face shiny with sweat. “You want some feta, sonny boy?” he said. Marshall nodded. He watched the big man pull a plastic bin of the salty cheese in brine out of the cooler and wondered what Violet had ever seen in this fat fuck.
“Don’t call me sonny boy.” Marshall took a long swig of his coffee.
“I make you eggs, you godda be an asshole?” The big man slid a spatula under the scrambled eggs and plated them. He topped them off with a fistful of crumbled feta and slid the plate across the counter to Marshall. “Here. Eat. You look like shit.” He chuckled. “Sonny boy.”
“Fuck you.”
Costa put his hands over his heart dramatically. “You’re killin’ me.”
“Really. Whatever, man.” Marshall scooped a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
Costa pulled the frying pan from the stove and took it to the big stainless steel sink and ran hot water in it. “How’s your head?”
“Not worth a shit.” The eggs were good though. Violet used to make him eggs like this. Thinking about it, part of Marshall wanted to puke, knowing the Greek made them for her first. Probably taught her how, right here in this kitchen. He wondered if she’d thought of Pavlos when she made
