Chopper’s wheelchair was parked behind a small table in the center of the restaurant by the time I arrived, and a pretty waitress dressed in black was fussing over him. It wasn’t the let-me-help-you-because-you’re-handicapped sort of fussing, either. It was the kind that accompanied the question “Your legs don’t work, but what about the rest of you?”
I paused inside the front door to give him time to make his play. Even from his wheelchair, which Chopper operated with the fearlessness of a dirt-track biker, thus the nickname, he managed to have more fun—and pick up more girls—than anyone else I knew. I had known him since I found him lying in a parking lot in St. Paul with two slugs in his spine—this was back when I was a cop and he was a robber. He had insisted that I saved his life and therefore was responsible for it, although it seems like he has always done more for me than I ever have for him. Over the years he slowly but surely gave up the business of thievery for the far more lucrative and entirely legal occupation of ticket scalper. That’s what he insisted on calling it, “scalping,” although by act of the state legislature he was now a taxpaying “ticket broker.” What other enterprises he continued to involve himself in were kept secret—“the less you know, the more you’ll like me,” he once said.
After a few moments, an attractive hostess carrying menus as if they were stone tablets asked if I wanted a table.
I pointed at Chopper. “I’m with him,” I said.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Coleman’s guest,” she said. “Please come this way.”
Mr. Coleman? my inner voice asked.
By the time we reached Chopper’s table, he had transcribed the waitress’s name and phone number into his iPhone and had even taken her photo. The waitress became flustered when the hostess approached, and I wondered if the restaurant had a nonfraternization policy.
“I’ll return with your bread in a moment, Mr. Coleman,” she said before hurrying away.
Mr. Coleman? my inner voice asked again.
The hostess seated me and wished us both bon appétit. When she departed, I asked, “Mr. Coleman?”
“’At’s my name, don’ wear it out,” Chopper said.
“When I invited you to an early dinner an hour ago, you said you never heard of this place, and now it’s Mr. Coleman?”
“I told ’em to call me Thaddeus, but they said oh, no, they couldn’t, although…” He gazed at the waitress and raised and lowered his eyebrows Groucho Marx–style a couple of times.
“How do you do it?” I asked. “I’ve been in this restaurant a dozen times and they never called me Mr. McKenzie. They don’t even know my name.”
“When you friendly t’ everybody, everybody be friendly t’ you. You such a morose fellow, McKenzie. Gots t’ lighten up.”
The waitress returned with a basket of garlic bread and a small plate that she filled with extra-virgin olive oil and pepper for dipping. She asked for drink preferences, and I ordered a winter ale brewed in Duluth. Chopper said he was in the mood for a well-rounded red wine, supple and spicy, yet not too intense, and asked the waitress to select it for him. She chose a zinfandel, and after he sampled it, Chopper announced that the waitress was not only beautiful, she had exquisite taste. All in all, I thought she took the compliment very well. After she left with our orders, Chopper leaned across the table.
“She has a roommate,” he said.
“Lucky you.”
“Naw, man. Lucky you. Whaddaya say? T’morrow night. We meet ahh, ahh…” Chopper waved his hand in small circles as if he were trying to hurry someone up. “I forgit ’er name.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“I gots it written down.” Chopper fumbled with his cell phone. “Emma. Em-ma. Roommate is named Ali. Whaddaya say?”
“I’m already spoken for.”
“Still seein’ the honey what owns the jazz joint, ain’tcha?”
“I am.”
“Been a while now.”
“It has.”
Chopper sighed deeply. “I gots t’ do that,” he said. “Find a good-lookin’ woman can support me in my old age.”
“It’s what I recommend.”
The waitress soon returned with our lunch orders. After much flirting, Chopper labeled his pappardelle with duck ragu, red peppers, and tomato the best he ever tasted. Emma was thrilled to hear it. On the other hand, she couldn’t have cared less what I thought of my Dijon pork tenderloin.
We talked about this, that, and the other thing until the meal was nearly finished, at which point Chopper said, “I suppose we ought t’ git down to biz-ness.”
“Business?”
“You buyin’ for a reason, ain’tcha?”
“As a matter of fact…”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was wondering if you heard anything about a crew taking down the City of Lakes Art Museum the other night.”
“Someone hit City of Lakes? No shit? Whadda they git?”
“A chunk of jade worth three-point-eight million.”
“Nice.”
“I’m guessing you know nothing about it.”
“Nah, man, but why would I? That kind of heist is a little outta my zone, man. You wanna know who’s smuggling cigarettes, who’s boosting cars, HDTVs, computers, yeah, I can git the four-one-one on that. But art theft? Uh-uh.”
“Who would know?”
“In the Cities? Wow. That’s a tough question.”
