One Night At Valenca

The dim glow of candlelight flickered across the white tablecloth at Valenca, a cozy Portuguese restaurant tucked into the heart of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Joe, an 80-year-old Italian American with a face like a well-worn leather chair, leaned back in his seat, his suspenders straining against his round belly. Across from him sat Chris, a debonair Canadian with a jawline so sharp it could cut through a block of Parmigiano-Reggiano. The ladies at the neighboring tables had been stealing glances at Chris all evening, but he was too busy raising a glass of vinho verde to Joe.

"To 80 years of wisdom, Joe," Chris said, his voice smooth as maple syrup. "May your pasta always be al dente and your enemies always step on a Lego."

Joe chuckled, his laugh a raspy wheeze that sounded like an accordion running out of air. "Ah, grazie, Chris. You’re sweeter than a cannoli at a wedding, but don’t go butterin’ me up like I’m a slice of polenta. At my age, I’m like a broken clock—right twice a day, but mostly just takin’ up space."

Chris smirked. "Nonsense, Joe. You’re sharper than a stiletto in a shoemaker’s shop."

Joe waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, stilettos, shoemakers—you’re mixin’ metaphors like my nonna used to mix gravy. But I’ll tell ya somethin’, kid. Life’s like a pot of minestrone. You never know what you’re gonna get, but it’s always better with a little extra garlic."

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of their meals: a steaming plate of bacalhau à brás for Joe and a perfectly grilled octopus for Chris. As Joe dug in, he paused, his fork hovering mid-air. "You know, Chris, this fish reminds me of that time in ‘63 when I caught a sardine bigger than my cousin Vinny’s ego. But that’s a story for another day."

Before Chris could reply, the restaurant door swung open with a dramatic flourish. In walked Matt, a wiry man with an unkempt beard and a smirk that could curdle milk. He made a beeline for their table, his eyes glinting like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream.

"Well, well, well," Matt sneered. "If it isn’t Joe ‘The Joker’ Marino and his pretty boy sidekick. Celebrating the big 8-0, are we? Let’s hope you make it to 81."

Joe squinted at him, unimpressed. "Matt, you’re about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit. What do you want?"

Matt leaned in, his voice a low hiss. "I want what’s mine, Joe. That little treasure you’ve been hiding. You think I don’t know about the Sardine Stiletto?"

Chris raised an eyebrow. "The Sardine Stiletto? Sounds like a bad seafood dish."

Joe sighed, shaking his head. "It’s a long story, kid. Let’s just say Matt here’s been chasin’ his tail like a dog in a pepper factory. Ain’t no stiletto, Matt. Just a figment of your imagination."

Matt’s smirk widened. "We’ll see about that." With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the restaurant, leaving a trail of unease in his wake.

Chris leaned closer to Joe. "What’s he talking about, Joe? What’s this Sardine Stiletto?"

Joe wiped his mouth with a napkin, his expression suddenly serious. "It’s an old family legend, Chris. A dagger supposedly hidden by my great-grandfather during the war. But it’s just a story, like Bigfoot or a honest politician."

The evening took a darker turn when, hours later, Joe and Chris returned to Joe’s house to find the place ransacked. Drawers were pulled out, cushions slashed, and a single sardine lay ominously on the kitchen counter.

Chris frowned. "Looks like Matt’s not giving up."

Joe grunted, picking up the sardine. "That guy’s crazier than a soup sandwich. But if he wants a fight, he’s messin’ with the wrong old goat."

The next morning, they were visited by Inspector Justin, a bumbling police officer with a habit of tripping over his own feet. He adjusted his ill-fitting hat and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I hear you’ve had a bit of a break-in. Any idea who’s responsible?"

Joe crossed his arms. "Yeah, Inspector. His name’s Matt, and he’s about as subtle as a fart in a library."

Justin scribbled in his notebook, then looked up. "Matt, you say? Last name?"

Joe shrugged. "Dunno. But he’s got a beard that looks like it was scribbled on with a crayon."

Chris interjected. "Inspector, this man is dangerous. He’s obsessed with some mythical dagger called the Sardine Stiletto."

Justin’s eyes widened. "The Sardine Stiletto? I’ve heard of that! Legend says it’s worth a fortune."

Joe groaned. "Not you too, Justin. It’s a fairy tale, like the Loch Ness Monster or a balanced budget."

As the days passed, the mystery deepened. Matt’s threats grew bolder, and Joe’s house was vandalized again. Chris, ever the gentleman, insisted Joe stay at his place for safety. But Joe, stubborn as a mule, refused. "I ain’t runnin’ from no two-bit hoodlum," he declared. "Besides, my nonna always said, ‘When the wolf’s at the door, you don’t hand him the keys.’"

The climax came one stormy night when Matt broke into Joe’s house, brandishing a knife. Joe, armed with nothing but a rolling pin, stood his ground. "You want the Sardine Stiletto, Matt? You’ll have to go through me first."

Chris arrived just in time to tackle Matt, disarming him with a well-placed karate chop (he’d taken a class once, purely for the social aspect). Inspector Justin, arriving late as usual, cuffed Matt and read him his rights.

As Matt was led away, he spat, "This isn’t over, Joe!"

Joe chuckled, leaning on his rolling pin like a cane. "Eh, he’s all talk, like a broken record at a polka party."

Chris clapped Joe on the back. "You’re something else, Joe. Most 80-year-olds would’ve been scared out of their wits."

Joe grinned. "Kid, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn that life’s like a pot of pasta. Sometimes it’s al dente, sometimes it’s mush. But either way, you gotta keep stirrin’."

And with that, the two friends walked off into the night, ready for whatever life—or Matt—threw at them next.

***

[Written by DeepSeek based on the prompt: "Write a short story in the style of a Raymond Chandler murder mystery that features: Joe an 80 year old Italian American, Chris a debonair Canadian, Matt the villain and Justin a bungling police inspector. As the story begins Chris is treating Joe to dinner at a Portuguese restaurant called Valenca to celebrate Joe's 80th birthday."]

Note: all characters are fictional and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is unfortunate.