Page 118 of Aftertaste

“Imessed up,” Kostya corrected. “Youdidn’t do anything.”

“That’s… not exactly true. Did my fair share over on this side, too.”

“But you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me! It’s my fault you’re…” Kostya slowed, the word like wet cement. “Dead. You should bealive, Frankie. Fuck. Was it the ghost? That girl at Wolfpup? I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Wait,what? No. That ain’t on you, Bones.”

Frankie waved him forward, barely pausing.

“Of course it’s on me! I brought her back.”

Kostya shimmied between the bricks, the lane narrowing around them, the butter softening, greasing his arms.

“Wasn’t the ghost that killed me”—Frankie shook his head—“it was the hustle.”

“I—what?”

“It’s a fucking stupid story. I’m embarrassed to tell it.”

“Well, swallow your pride. Not knowing is killing me.”

“Just don’t judge, alright?” Frankie sighed, stepping through an archway toward a stand of unusual fruit. “Round that time, I had a hundred balls inthe air, remember? There was Keller calling. Delia all up on me to commit. And Wolfpup. James Beard noms. My mama pushing me to settle down. Student loans. Nights out. You and the Supper Club. I was burning it at every end.”

“That’s just what you do when you’re young and hungry.”

They passed an arrangement of square watermelons, blue raspberries, electric plums.

“Maybe, but none of it felt good enough. Not after I saw what you got up to.”

“Me?”

“You were doing the real thing, man. Food that meant something. Special. Least that’s how it felt at the time. Hindsight’s a bitch.”

Frankie squeezed past a cart of sour grapes, stopping at the entrance to a fish mart.

“Sure is,” Kostya agreed, following. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

“Way I remember it, Bones,Idraggedyou. You were ’bout ready to do the smart thing and give up. But me? I dragged you to Wolfpup to experiment. Dragged you to Saveur for that job. Dragged you—”

“—what?No!Youencouragedme.”

“—out of bed to start Hell’s Kitchen,” Frankie continued. “And it wasn’t just ’cause we were friends. I wanted fame. Glory. So bad I didn’t care if I had to ride your coattails to get it. My priorities were that twisted. Right up till the night I died.”

They passed a table of rainbow trout, their gills fanned in prismatic color. A display of lobsters—red, green, blue. A tray ofuni, their insides like fire.

“What do you mean?”

Frankie exhaled. “I was hustling, trying to get my own spot open. I’d been up so many nights that I lost count. And there I was at Wolfpup, testing menus after hours.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I poured myself a drink to mellow out, and started prep. But thebooze made me woozy, so I took some of Ale’s uppers. Started feeling good then—toogood—so good that when I was done tweaking recipes, thought I’d keep it going. Stay and experiment. I thought”—he looked over at Kostya, an apology on his face—“I ain’t proud of this, Bones, but I thought that what you had going on, with the ghosts? That I could do it, too. Maybe even do it better. Steal some thunder for myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

Frankie wove through an aisle of oysters—shells of every imaginable color and size—and took a hard right turn into another large tent, this one crammed with sacks of rice.

“You’d been complaining how you couldn’t get it right. Couldn’t figure how to bring those spirits back. And I was a cocky motherfucker, so after half a bottle of Barcelo and two more pills, I decided I would bring back your pops. Do what you couldn’t. Liver, I figured—how hard could it be? Well. I put it on the stove, but the uppers and the rum and no sleep were a nasty combo, and I passed out on the line. When I came to, kitchen was full of smoke. And I was so loaded I didn’t know which way was up. Climbed in the walk-in thinking it was a way out. By then, it was so thick in there I couldn’t see straight. Or breathe. So I stayed put, hoping help would come.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Came too late.”

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