“Oh, since dinner. Eeek—what time is it? I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Since dinner?
And she was playing Kreisler, just like that?
Shizuka watched Katrina, floating and luminous, overhead. She had been tired and ready for sleep. But as she watched her student now, Shizuka felt as if she were watching the rising sun.
* * *
Markus Tran glared from his Corolla. Some punk was revving his engine. His car was a quasi-streamlined thing with a lot of stickers on it; another primitive shithead who thought going 0 to 0.00000089469 times the speed of light in 6.6 seconds was something to brag about.
Mom would have said just let him go. But that’s what moms always said. And Shirley would have her thoughts, but with all due respect, she was the last person who should make a comment about how to handle life outside the donut shop.
Shithead revved his engine again. Markus looked at the shithead and flipped him off.
“What the fuck, fagg—” was as far as the shithead got.
“Internal combustion. Loser.”
APRIL
15
Once upon a time, in San Gabriel, a man named Vincenzo Caputo opened a pizzeria and called it Caputo’s Pizza.
Vincenzo; his son, Vincenzo Jr.; and his son Vinnie were proud Caputos. They fought Mexican boys who called them “Vinnie the Puto.” They went to high school, took metal shop, and played football somewhere on the offensive line. But most importantly they made Caputo’s Pizza a San Gabriel fixture.
Even after Caputo’s Pizza was finally sold, the Huang family kept the name. And since Mr. Huang, a heavyset Asian man with a perpetual smile, bore a more than passing resemblance to the face on every Caputo’s Pizza box, people started calling him Papa Caputo.
Nevertheless, Caputo’s Pizza began to change. Pasta was still on the menu. But the pasta began to be served with black bean sauce, or with fish eggs and curry. Over time, the pizza oven became a sturdy storage space for bags of rice, cans of oyster sauce, sesame oil, pickled turnip, and red Thai chilis.
And then, Mr. Huang’s wife, Mama Caputo, started serving an old family recipe for Hainan chicken.
And instead of the lively loud aroma of tomatoes, sausage, melting cheese, and the music of Sinatra, these diners were met with the rich, mouthwatering aromas of poached chicken, green onions, fish sauce. And the music of Sinatra.
Shizuka chose this place to meet Tremon Philippe in part because since noodles with Lan, she still had not had her Hainan chicken.
Also, as a bonus, Tremon would be expecting pizza.
Tremon Philippe had been assigned to the world of classical music for over two centuries. Music had always been one of Hell’s most prudent investments, and Tremon took a workmanlike joy in delivering a steady dividend of crushed dreams, bitterness, and, above all, souls.
Which was not to say that the occasional surprise was unwelcome—provided it was beneficial to Hell, of course.
Shizuka Satomi had been such a surprise. Most humans in her position would want to fulfill their contracts quickly, with little regard for quality. There would be stupid souls, shallow souls, tasteless souls that lacked an appreciation of what they were.
In fact, quality control was why Hell only made pacts with humans when necessary. But Shizuka? Her deliveries were always rich with comprehension, realization, such luscious despair.
From the moment she renegotiated her contract, the girl had been an annoying, yet incomparable, summer’s day in his otherwise temperate life.
Still, surprises were one thing, and concerns were another.
After years of enduring Shizuka’s latest indecision, Tremon had finally helped Shizuka Satomi find a perfect candidate—someone in her hometown with talent, desire, and a taste for blood.
But Shizuka rejected her and chose a beginner instead.
This was a concern.
Tremon did not seriously believe Shizuka had gone soft; she was far too ruthless for that. He remembered her expression as the Zheng boy was fed to the flames of Hell. It had been worthy of any demon.
But what was Shizuka Satomi thinking now?
Tremon sat at the table and looked at the menu. He scanned it again, then shifted his glance to the other diners.
“Doesn’t this place still serve pizza?”
“Times have changed.”
Tremon rolled his eyes and put the menu down.
“I wonder what our colleagues in Paris would think if they saw us eating boiled chicken,” Tremon muttered. “Anyway, how is your student progressing?”
“It’s not boiled.”
“What?”
Katrina motioned to the server, who took her order, bowed, and disappeared.