| by Lainie Lee |
| by Lainie Lee |
The Little Italian Bistro near Grand and Wooster in Soho served pastry, frittatas and coffees for breakfast; sandwiches, pizza and panini for lunch; chicken, seafood, lasagna and other pasta dishes for dinner; and calzones and more pizza for late night suppers. The chefs came directly from Italy to the kitchen, didn't speak English that well and tended to shout in Italian when unhappy. The original owner's widow, Audrey Feliciano, and sons, Andrew and Felix Jr., ran the place like a fiefdom; they could always find a job for the relative of a cook, waiter or busboy and they sent two happy planeloads of employees and family back to Italy for month long vacations each year. But employees were expected to work hard and show loyalty.
The staff always knew the foibles of the regulars, what they usually ordered, where they wanted to sit, what little extra service would net the biggest tip. Tourists had never really discovered the place; patrons came mostly from the surrounding shops and business with some people walking up from the Civic Center for a Panino Cubano at lunch. Senior, family and student discounts in midweek kept things busy most of the time.
Little Felix worked the morning crowds six days a week, manning the cash register and bossing around the waitresses, three of whom were a daughter and two nieces. Later, Andy and the waiters would take over until Mamma Audrey showed up to run the show into the late evening. Four grandsons were too young for much responsibility and so worked as busboys and kitchen helpers while they learned. Other Feliciano cousins filled in as needed.
Half of the front wall of the restaurant rolled up into the ceiling and small white tables covered with red-checked cloths spilled out under green canvas awnings in good weather. It doesn't get much better, weather-wise, than a sunny morning mid-October in New York City.
On Tuesdays, Davey Towers had one of those gigantic early morning lecture classes everyone hates. In a month of attending classes at the CUNY campus in Tribeca, he'd yet to find a reason to actually be awake for the lectures. Accordingly, he took a bus every Tuesday to the school, dozed through an information dump he didn't need since he'd already read all of the class materials, and at 8:50 a.m. escaped to take the long walk home to the apartment he shared with two wannabe indy musicians in the East Village .
On his first such trip, he'd taken the side streets to avoid heavy traffic and crowds and so had discovered the Little Italian Bistro at possibly its slowest time of the week. Since then, coffee and a "mixed" fritatta with crusty bread had become his Tuesday morning custom.
The "mixed" frittata was an L.I.B. specialty. The menu listed it with quotes and if anyone asked, the waitresses would say it was because the mix was different every time it was made. It usually had spinach and cheese of some kind, with potatoes, onions and little bits of the highly spiced chicken sausage Cugino Alonzo made up once a week. Frittatas came in a three egg (al uomo, manly) and two egg (a la donna, ladies') version. Not knowing any Italian, Davey ordered the smaller ladies' portion since he had already eaten a granola bar and piece of fruit on the early bus ride and it saved him sixty cents.
Davey always carried several books with him, not just his college text books but books on other subjects that had caught his interest plus fiction and the occasional graphic novel. As long as the restaurant wasn't crowded, no one tried to hurry him and the busboys would even refill his cafe americano cup with regular coffee for as long as he wanted to sit and read. He liked to take a small table along the north wall near the big opening and linger for an hour or so, reading quietly. With two musicians for roommates, he enjoyed the relative peace of a restaurant in the mid-morning lull.
Davey would read anything, up to and including romance novels donated by his mother. She prepared a sack of books for him to take back to Manhattan on his weekly visit. His parents had moved to Queens from central Pennsylvania two years before when his father inherited a small printshop. Uncle Brodey had made a good living printing small runs of public domain books for libraries and collectors until he had passed away from a cerebral hemorrhage. Much of the Brodey imprint turned out to be Victorian erotica, a fact that caused Davey's mother some embarrassment. In an effort to insulate her only child away from the family business, she kept him well supplied with other sorts of books.
So it was that Davey sat in his favorite spot, sipping coffee and reading a romance novel on that Tuesday morning. The October weather was still warm enough that he wore shorts, white sneakers without socks and a gray sweat shirt hoodie. His legs looked tanned and smooth and well-formed from walking all over lower Manhattan. Waiting for the early morning bus, he'd kept the hood up but had thrown it back during class showing medium-length hair, nearly to his chin, cut in no particular style.
He didn't notice the three men in business suits at the table directly across the restaurant from him. He pushed his dark blond hair out of his face and kept reading.
Shortly before Davey arrived, the three men had taken a spot close to the door under one of the windows facing downtown. The older man, Frank La Nez, had heavy but well-formed Mediterranean features, a prominent nose and wide-set brown eyes under very thick black lashes. He looked like a businessman who might know someone who could get you Broadway tickets that otherwise weren't available.
Of the younger men, one stood a head taller than either of the others. Ermundo Bellafonte had fought in the Ultimate Wrestling League under the name Elephant Man. Since retiring because of a pinched nerve in his back, he'd lost fifty pounds. His face hung loosely in soft folds, giving him a sad expression like a hound dog. He'd picked up the nickname Packy, short for pachyderm, during his wrestling days.
The third man, Larry Hodge, did not look Italian, though one of his grandmothers had come from Genoa. He had sandy brown hair, blue eyes and the sort of blunt good looks that made people trust and like him. He wore a mustache, a bushy thing that hung over the corners of his mouth and made him appear amusing and amused.
Lots of people called Frank La Nez, Frankie the Nose. He didn't mind. The implication that he had something to do with the mobs in New York City could be useful and in fact, happened to be true. Frank's legitimate business interests included an importing company that specialized in products of the smaller Mediterranean countries. He also owned a furniture factory in New Jersey, a part interest in a cab company in Hartford and apartment buildings all over the tri-state area. He also owned a downtown hotel where he lived in what he called the sub-penthouse, the next to the top floor.
The Hotel Del Amo sat about nine blocks from the Little Italian Bistro, near the lower east corner of Tribeca, an easy walking distance for a man in his early fifties. Three mornings a week, Frankie the Nose had Packy drive him and Larry to the L.I.B., the three of them ate a late breakfast, then Frankie walked home, alone or with Larry, depending on whether he needed to give private instructions to his personal assistant.
Larry kept the details of Mr. La Nez's life from becoming distractions. He paid personal bills, arranged appointments, talked to lawyers and accountants and listened when the older man wanted to complain about something.
Packy drove cars and loomed over people when necessary. He was good at both.
That morning, Frankie had his usual, potato and onion frittata with prosciutto and mozzarella, al uomo, of course. Larry had a spinach frittata with cheeses and Packy had "the works" meaning a four egg mixture with three kinds of meat, plus cheese, potato, onion and peppers. They all had coffee and crusty bread and Packy ordered a fruit cup which he shared.
Frankie had a piece of melon halfway to his mouth when Davey entered the restaurant. He sat there a moment, the cantaloupe dripping an orange stain onto his sleeve.
"Boss?" said Larry.
Without looking at Larry, Frankie dipped the piece of melon in his coffee and popped it into his mouth.
"That's different," said Packy. He tried it. "Hmm, not so good," he decided. "Maybe with honeydew?"
Larry looked where Frankie was looking and frowned.
Frankie reached out and touched a passing busboy. He spoke quickly in Italian, ordering more coffee and cinnamon rolls for everyone. "You guys want cinnamon rolls, don't you? They put almonds in them here."
Packy licked his lips and nodded. He loved cinnamon rolls but would never order them himself.
Larry relaxed his expression into a grin. "Something sweet would be good."
"Certamente, what you said," agreed Frankie, glancing toward Davey again. A small smile seemed to play around his lips and eyes. "How come you can never make money buying into a restaurant like this one?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
Larry surprised him. "Place like this, got to be run by family or it won't work. They looking for investors, that means the heart of the family is no longer in the business," he said.
Frankie nodded, impressed. He smiled, pleased that Larry had picked up some business sense working for him. Frankie's real job for organized crime in New York was finding legitimate investment opportunities. He'd long ago decided that restaurants were only good for money laundering, not profit taking. "You're a smart kid, Larry. I knew I kept you around for some reason."
Larry laughed, enjoying Frankie's teasing him. He had a real fondness for the older man and a personal respect that had nothing to do with his employment.
"I'm not smart and you keep me around," Packy pointed out, wanting to get in on the camaraderie.
"You're my sister's husband's uncle's grandson. Pure nepotism, Ermundo," said Frankie with a straight face.
Packy laughed, pretty sure that nepotism meant family connections. Frankie liked to tease him with big words. From someone else, it would have stung but when Frankie did it, Packy noticed, he could always figure out the word from the way it was used.
A waitress came by with coffee and to confirm their order for rolls. Larry and Packy watched her ass as she walked away. Frankie watched Davey order his breakfast, the way he held his hands, the title of the book he was reading, the way he pushed his chin-length hair out of his face.
The cinnamon rolls came. They did indeed have almonds inside, also raisins, and a sour cream icing. They were six inches across and five inches tall. Frankie laughed to see them, he always forgot how big they made the rolls at L.I.B.
Packy's eyes got big then small as he swore to himself not to eat the whole roll. Unless of course, Frankie and Larry ate all of theirs.
Larry flirted with the waitress, telling her how excellent her rolls were, partly in Italian, managing to imply that he was actually speaking of her thighs.
The waitress giggled and escaped. She'd never been told her legs were heavy in such a sweet way before, she decided.
Frankie frowned. "I meant to ask her if she knew the blonde in the corner over there," he said. He looked at Davey to show who he meant.
Larry looked, too. "Boss, that's a guy."
"No," said Frankie. "I thought that at first, too. But it's a woman. Look at the book she's reading, watch her hands play with her hair. And she ordered a la donna; it's a tall, skinny girl."
"Um," said Larry.
Packy looked over at Davey, too. He said nothing. If the boss thought that was a girl, it was okay with Packy.
Frankie gazed at the object of his infatuation. One of the reasons people called him 'The Nose' was because of his infallible intuition. And his intuition told him that this skinny blonde with the boyish good looks would make him very happy.
"Go over and ask her..." said Frankie. He stopped.
"Ask her what, boss?"
"Ask her if she'd like to come up to my hotel room and read to me," said Frankie. He smiled.
Packy stared at him. He decided that Frankie must be blushing because he could see his nose getting darker, just across the bridge.
Larry looked worried.
Frankie stood. "Have her there by three," he said. "I've got meetings with the hotel staff till then." He glanced across at Davey and headed out of the restaurant, not looking back. Larry would get the check.
Packy and Larry sat quietly for a while. They watched the boss walk toward the corner of Grand and Wooster and start across, heading south, further downtown. Larry sipped his coffee and seemed lost in thought.
Packy puzzled through the byplay, glancing at Davey who chose that moment to cough into his hand and wipe it absently on his short pants. Despite the length of shapely, tanned leg, the gesture didn't look feminine. "That is a guy, isn't it?" Packy said to Larry.
Larry stood. "Boss says the kid is a dame, he's a dame. We'd better go persuade her to get dressed for her date."
| Part 2: Miss Taken by Lainie Lee |
Part 2: Miss Taken
Frank La Nez had a fantasy on the walk back to his hotel. He did all the things New Yorkers did when walking in their city, shaking his fist at motorists, stepping around street people and avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians but his mind traveled somewhere else. He didn't really see most of the city anyway, he'd lived there all his life except for college and the army, and much of it had the invisibility of long familiar surroundings.
Instead, he imagined the girl he'd seen in the Little Italian Bistro. He pictured the soft ash blonde of her hair and wondered about her eye color. Her features had made an intaglio on his mind. She had a strong profile but delicate at the same time. Full lips, long pale lashes that brushed her cheek when she blinked. Little pink ears with no earrings at all. Small elegant hands with no calluses from rough work, whoever she was she hadn't had to wash dishes or scrub floors for a living.
He waited for the light to cross Canal. The exit from the Holland Tunnel merged with the wide street only a few blocks a way and traffic was New York heavy, lots of yellow cabs and service trucks, very few private autos. When the light changed, he crossed. A cabbie trying to beat the light to make a turn honked at him but he didn't even notice.
He imagined the blonde as the pampered only child of indulgent elderly parents. She wouldn't be a native New Yorker from the City but from some rural area upstate, or Pennsylvania or the Midwest. Sickly as a child, her parents had spoiled her and still worried about her living in Manhattan.
He knew she liked to read, he'd seen the book she had in hand all the while she'd been eating breakfast -- a romance novel, The Eagle and the Dove by Jane Feather. He touched the bridge of his nose and smiled, thinking about the soft ash blond of her hair, the color of a dove's feather perhaps.
Across Canal, in Tribeca now, a bum approached him; smiling people sometimes gave a few quarters just to avoid spoiling their moods. Frankie ignored the street person with a steely gaze fixed a foot below the smelly man's face and through his breastbone. A look that hard could see the Battery from the steps of the Guggenheim, drilling through fifty blocks of concrete, brick and rebar. The bum flinched.
Frankie didn't notice that either. He'd turned east on Canal, toward what used to be Little Italy and now had been claimed by an expanding Chinatown. He had to zig and zag a bit to get to his hotel. He'd turn south again before the Thai noodle shops and Korean grocery stores made it obvious that the neighborhood he'd grown up in had disappeared. He did like oriental food, though and didn't avoid the place.
He wondered if his blonde liked Asian cooking. He knew she enjoyed good food but had to watch her pennies. She went to CUNY where she studied some soft subject like History or French Literature of the 18th Century. Or Communications, maybe she wanted to be a reporter or a telejournalist. Sure, a lot of college students subsisted on ramen noodles and hot water but she found time and money to eat a nice frittata. She had class, he liked that.
He strode purposefully along the sidewalk; people naturally got out of the way. He didn't have Packy's height but he wasn't a small man and his shoulders still had muscle from working out in the basement gym of his hotel. He'd played football, offensive guard, in high school and college and his nickname hadn't been The Nose then but 'Church', short for churchkey for the holes he'd opened like a canopener in opposing lines.
A few people still called him Frankie Church or just Church. Some of them did it because they'd known him back then, a few more maybe because they thought it was his real name and some because they felt nervous about calling him Frankie the Nose.
He passed a storefront gym and wondered what the blonde would look like in one of those lycra exercise suits the girls wore now. He pictured her in tight fuchsia spandex, breasts pushing out, small waist. Maybe she didn't have such big breasts; he liked them big but she was young. Not too young, eighteen to twenty, he figured, since she attended CUNY. He knew that from the stickers he'd seen on her books.
He knew too, that she had only a slapdash vanity, wearing no makeup on a Tuesday morning and only a simple gold chain around her neck. Her clothes were neat and clean and not cut to show off any figure, that bulky sweatshirt concealing any swell of breast, however large or small, while the shorts revealed those elegant legs. She could be proud of those legs and perhaps she was. Frankie liked them.
He imagined her in high heels and a short cocktail dress, jewels and evening makeup, a hint of some spicy, floral scent around her as they danced, her blonde head resting on his shoulder. He hoped she wasn't taller than he in heels, he'd seen her standing, walking, briefly. Five-foot-seven or eight, he guessed, which would be all right since he stood a fraction over six foot himself.
She didn't have a boyfriend, he knew it. Amazing, but would any man who called her his own not have been with her, not have made sure she had some piece of jewelry he'd bought her to display, not have been sitting with her in a crowded restaurant to deflect the gaze of men more than twice her age? No, she had no boyfriend, had never had one. More amazing, but he didn't stop to consider how he knew such a thing, he just did.
She hadn't even had a watch, let alone an engagement ring or charm bracelet. He planned a detour from the route back to his hotel; he knew of a small jewelry shop just off Lafayette owned by a Lebanese Jew with an Italian wife. Izaak's would have something nice for the tall blonde. He grimaced, he didn't know what color her eyes were, he hadn't seen. Her eyelashes were soft golden curtains hiding them and she had never looked directly at him.
Diamonds then, diamonds would catch the color of her eyes and shine as only diamonds can, crystal rainbows, drops of the sun. Hazel, her eyes were hazel, warm amber with green and golden flecks in them, he suddenly knew. An emerald with diamonds to catch and feed the glow of love; he would buy her an emerald to wear. Izaak would have just the one, true green, not too large but a pure color -- set in a ring with diamonds around it.
Romance novels fascinated the closet sociologist in Davey. Maybe his mom picked the really good ones to put in his book bag but so far he had enjoyed all but one or two of the genre. The better authors, he suspected, did a ton of research and knew a lot about human nature. He paused for a moment to look again at the cover of the one he was currently reading. Set in Spain and Morrocco in the 1400s, it was about a Muslim knight who fell in love with a half-gypsy vagabond girl.
Complicated with treachery and betrayal, imprisonment and escape, he felt sure that things would eventually turn out okay for the two lovers, The Eagle and The Dove -- even if so far the girl seemed reluctant, sort of a given in any romance novel. He smiled, he'd never read one with a sad ending, perhaps they didn't exist.
Right at the point he'd reached in the story, the Muslim guy had just abducted the girl from a camp of gypsies but out of respect for her, he hadn't had them all killed. Davey took a few moments out of reading to think about that. What would it be like to have someone that ruthless, and powerful, willing to do things just because you asked for them but unwilling to give you up to go free?
It didn't occur to him that he'd identified with the heroine of the story, because of course, romance novels are written for a female audience and the reader is supposed to identify with the heroine. It seemed natural, in the context of reading the book to have a male lover, dangerous, passionate and powerful. He actually shivered a bit, thinking about it. Then he took a sip of coffee and re-opened his book, but someone loomed over him and he looked up.
Packy Bellafonte stood six-foot-ten in his stocking feet, nearer seven feet with his specially built orthopedic shoes. Without those size eighteen brogans, his feet would hurt so bad after half a day that he could hardly walk. He had to have all of his clothes tailored, too, Big and Tall just didn't cut it. He didn't believe that love stories should have unhappy endings either, though he had very little experience with anything in the way of romance.
Davey pushed hair out of his face before realizing the shadow on his book wasn't his own. He looked up, and looked up some more and then a bit more -- and another little bit more. For a moment, he thought he might penguin out of his seat, toppled like a tourist trying to see the spire of the Empire State Building. No one that big had ever stood that close to him. His mouth hung open because his jaw hadn't kept up with his eyebrows.
Packy's deeply wrinkled face creased in a smile. Boy or girl, the kid reading the book had a cute face and such a look of astonishment that Packy felt tempted to say, "Ooga-booga," or something similar. He didn't like scaring people who didn't need scaring but the kid didn't look afraid, just surprised.
Larry on the other hand, knew love and infatuation aren't reasonable or temperate and can end in tragedy and misfortune as easily as not. He didn't want his boss embarrassed or disappointed; he'd do practically anything for the old man who deserved some happiness.
The skinny boy with the delicate face of an angel had attracted Frankie's attention and Larry felt that Frankie wanted to believe in beauty and romance. Ordinarily, when Frankie felt the urge for passion after his wife died, he had Larry hire a call girl for him from one of the better Manhattan agencies or get him tickets to Vegas for someone without a City history.
This time was different. Very different. Larry spoke. "I've paid your check, miss. If you would just come with us, someone wants to meet you."
Davey shifted his gaze to Larry's friendly mustache. He hadn't even noticed the mere six-footer standing there until he spoke. "Miss?" Davey said, his voice squeaking a bit. "I think you're making a mistake." He tried to focus on the situation but the man-mountain and the misidentification had him mentally off balance.
Larry smiled, keeping his voice low and still friendly. "Perhaps. But you don't want to make a mistake, do you? It will be very much worth it for you to meet our boss. Please. Packy, get her book bag."
Davey made a grab for the canvas satchel several seconds too late. The giant had scooped up the bag in a paw bigger than Davey's head while the one with the mustache held out his hand as if to help Davey up. It occured to Davey that the two men were dressed like Wil Smith and Tommy Lee Jones and he didn't believe any of it.
"Please, " Larry said again, using the charm and trust he seemed to naturally generate. "Just come with us. Someone wants to do something nice for you."
"Huh?" said Davey. Why would anyone want to do something nice for him? But he stood, reaching for his book bag, his other hand marking his place in his novel with an index finger bookmark.
Packy's face wrinkled up in what he meant as a reassuring smile but looked a little more carnivorous. Packy couldn't help how he looked and it hurt his feelings a little when Davey snatched his hand back. "I'm not going to keep your stuff, miss," he said. "I'll just carry it for you." He held the bag down and opened. "You can put your book away if you want."
"I'm not a miss," said Davey but Packy just stood there holding the book bag out. Davey glanced at the page number in his novel, memorized it, closed the book and put it into the bag. He really didn't like giving up the bag since he actually carried all his money and identification in one of the inside pockets. His mom teased him about his 'purse' but he had never liked sitting on a wallet and since he had to carry all the books anyway....
"Ready?" asked Larry after Davey had gotten rid of the book.
Davey pushed hair out of his face and glanced around. No one seemed alarmed though a couple of small kids stared at the giant. So Davey just nodded and let himself be led out of the restaurant, following Larry with Packy right behind. It didn't feel like a romantic abduction because there were no horses or ships, no moonlit cliffs, no chill night air to raise the hairs on his neck in dread and he didn't have to beg for anyone's life to be spared.
The staff of the Little Italian Bistro didn't even notice the drama, except that it was hard not to notice someone like Packy. Even more, with the big guy around, who noticed much else?
| Part 2.5: Interlude in Green by Lainie Lee |
Part 2.5: Interlude in Green
Larry led the way most of a block to a small parking garage under an office building. A vintage stretch Cadillac occupied a space marked 'owner' in the garage. The big car had a metallic turquoise paint job, six doors, and the sort of boomerang-shaped antenna that indicated a television inside. It didn't look like a mobster's car, more like that of some lowrider who got wealthy.
It was in fact, the same model Frankie's dad had purchased when Frankie was in high school. Not the same car, but the same model Sedan DeVille stretched into a limo and repainted the identical retro-aqua. Frankie had loved his dad's car and had expected to inherit it when he graduated from college but by that time, his father had traded it in and bought Frankie one of the new smaller Cadillacs which wasn't the same thing at all.
Frankie never told his dad how disappointed he was. The sleek Caddie he'd planned to drive to pick up his best girl got sold to someone who ended up wrapping it around a tree in Montreal, of all places. Frankie had actually tracked the car to a wrecking yard in Quebec but he hadn't had the nerve to visit before the Green Machine got pounded into scrap metal and fluff -- which Frankie found out was what wrecking yards called the upholstery and liners in wrecked cars, after the hammer machines had reduced all the metal to fist-sized pieces.
Later, after Frankie's father died, Frankie had Larry find a 1970 Sedan DeVille and restore it as a six-door limo. One of the benefits of using such an old dinosaur of a car was that Packy had plenty of head and leg room. The big man loved the car perhaps even more than Frankie did and had secretly named it Kate for reasons he never told anyone.
While Larry held one of the rear doors open for Davey, Packy walked around the clone of Frankie's Green Machine, looking for dings or dustspecks. He wet a finger as big as a bratwurst in his mouth and scrubbed at one spot on the roof near the driver's door. He did this everytime he came back to the car after an hour or so; a speculum distortion in the paint made a white spot that appeared and disappeared depending on lighting and angle of view. Packy was generally the only person tall enough to see the illusion and he dutifully rubbed at it nearly every day. When he put his head close to see if he had got it, the non-existent white spot disappeared.
Satisfied, Packy handed the backpack he'd still been carrying to Larry, then opened the wide door and slid across the cordovan leather seat beneath the padded over-sized steering wheel. He checked his face in the mirrored sunvisor to be sure he didn't have any sticky stuff from the cinnamon roll hiding in the wrinkles around his mouth.
Davey balked before getting in the car. "Where are we going?" he asked, holding onto the suicide door with both hands. He looked like a child next to Packy but even Larry made him feel small.
"To a beauty shop, the owner owes the boss a favor," said Larry. He tossed the backpack into the back seat, knowing the kid would have to follow it. Trying to be less threatening, he stood back and smoothed his mustache with a finger tip. He knew he'd got sour cream icing in it, he always did. He smiled, his wife called his facial foliage a cookie duster and it had become a private joke with a meaning they didn't share with anyone else.
Larry's smile might have worked at being reassuring but Davey frowned at him anyway. "A beauty shop? What? I mean, I told you that I'm not a g-girl? Didn't I?"
Larry kept smiling. "You mentioned that, yeah. Just go ahead and get in. You don't have anywhere else you have to be, do you?"
"Uh, n-no," said Davey, automatically telling the truth. After it was out, he realized he should have claimed a doctor's appointment or a meeting with his mom or something. Anything to have an excuse not to get into the car.
Packy spoke. "You want I should come back there and put her in the car?" His city accent made him sound like a thug to Davey, who had no accent at all, as far as he knew.
Alarmed at the idea of the big man stuffing him into the limo, willy nilly, Davey immediately climbed in and slid all the way across the seat and pulled the backpack into his lap. Larry got in behind him. "It's going to be fine," he said, closing the heavy door with a decided and luxurious-sounding thunk.
Davey complained again, "I'm not really a girl. I mean, I'm really not a girl." Having the giant refer to him as 'her' was especially disturbing. If a guy that big got the wrong idea about him, well, Davey didn't want to think about it.
Larry said only, "We're in," apparently talking to Packy who started the engine and locked all the doors electrically. The purr of the six liter, twelve cylinder, German-built engine could barely be heard.
Packy liked that and his wrinkled face rearranged itself in a smile. He knew exactly what to do and he liked that, too. Packy liked things to be certain. He knew he would drive south on Wooster, east on Grand to Broadway and then south. He wouldn't take the right at Leonnard because of the construction and the obscene five-way corner at Varrick, even though that would be shorter. And he wouldn't turn on Worth because traffic went both ways on Worth and it was hell making the left onto West Broadway with a big long car. If several people were trying to turn, it could take a long time, too, maybe cycling through several lights.
No, he'd go all the way down to Thomas, follow it over to Hudson, back up Hudson to Worth, which was called Harlan at that corner for some reason and come back East on Harlan/Worth to make the right-hand turn on West Broadway, which he thought of as just West to avoid confusing it with the other Broadway two blocks east. But that circuit would put him going the right direction, the only direction, on West Broadway, on the right side of the street to go into the parking garage under Hotel Del Amo.
He could, of course, take White from Broradway to West, but that would put him making a left hand turn into the insane confusion as Franklin, Varick, West and Leonard tried to sort themselves out in three consecutive corners in what should be only one block. And there always seemed to be construction going on at one corner or the other. Going his way, there was only one left hand turn, and that from a one-way street to another one-way street; it hardly counted.
Packy backed the car out of the space and turned the wheel sharply to go down the ramp onto Wooster, completely prepared to enjoy the little odyssey he had planned. He took a moment to reflect on something he'd noticed before; north of the Holland Tunnel, West went only north while south of the Holland Tunnel, West went only south. Either way, you couldn't get to the Holland Tunnel driving on West Broadway, you would always be going away.
It was something to remember and Packy always remembered it anytime his driving would take him through the area where it was possible to get confused between Broadway, northbound West Broadway, and southbound West Broadway. Come to think of it, Broadway itself was one way south in the same area, another thing to remember. As always, Packy made a mental note of that, too.
In the passenger compartment behind him, Larry spoke to Davey. "What you said -- does it matter?"
"Huh?" said Davey, distracted. He' d just realized that the cabinet between the jump seats facing the rear bench held not only a widescreen television but also a wet bar, complete with miniature refrigerator and postage stamp sink, and a safe with a big combination lock. Who put a safe inside a limousine? Where did the sink drain? he wondered. He'd forgotten completely what he'd told Larry only a moment before. Feeling insecure, he wrapped his arms around his backpack. "I don't know," he said.
Larry put a hand over Davey's hand. "What you said," he repeated. "I don't think it matters."
* * *
Izaak Cohen looked up when Frank La Nez came into his shop. He'd known Frankie for more than forty years, they'd both been born within a mile of the corner of Lafayette and Canal back in the post-WWII era. About the same time as the Diamond District had completed its move from the Lower West Side near the Bowery thirty blocks up to Midtown. Izaak's grandfather's shop had been a satellite of the great concentration of Jewish, Dutch and English jewelry merchants in Lower Manhattan since the 1920s; Izaak's own Pop-pop had been born in the back of the old jewelry store near the Manhattan end of the Holland Tunnel.
"Frankie," said Izaak. He couldn't keep some of the old grade school antagonism out of his voice. He'd been an undersized, studious Jew growing up in Little Italy in the fifties and Frankie the Beak had been one of his tormentors. But he grinned. They were almost relatives these last thirty-five years. Izaak's wife, Helen, was Frankie's dead wife's cousin, their grandparents from the same village on the rocky coast of Sicily.
Besides, in high school, Frank and Izaak had become friends. Not close friends but they had taken business classes and shop together. And Izaak had finally put on some height and mass, enough to be a darn good running back, following Frankie the guard through the opposing line more times than he could remember.
"Izaak," said Frankie. They shook hands across the glass-topped counter, two guys in their mid-fifties who had a New York history together.
"You know I'm not in the importing business anymore," said Izaak, remembering the last time he'd seen Frankie, nearly ten years before -- before nine-eleven, at any rate, before Pop-pop had started going blind and Izaak had taken over the jewelry business full-time. "Look at what's been going on lately. Those Arabs in Lebanon are crazy and my people aren't much better. Except, most of them got the hell out when they could, so I guess they're smarter." He smiled.
"I know," said Frankie. He'd gotten out of dealing in Lebanese products himself about the same time. "I ain't here for the import business. You've got a green stone, set in a ring with diamonds around it. I need to buy it for a girl I just met."
"A girl at your age, Frankie?" Izaak grinned. Frankie had always had an eye for the ladies and he'd always been able to be kidded about it.
Frankie laughed. "At our age, you mean. How's Helen?"
"She's fine, the kids are fine, the grandkids are fine and Pop-pop is," he waggled his hand, "okay, down in the rest home in Florida. He says he has a new girl, too, so maybe it's okay if you have one, I guess."
They both laughed. They looked enough alike to be cousins themselves. Dark men with symmetrical if heavy features, wide mouths, deep-set brown eyes, large noses. Izaak's thinning hair was covered with a yarmulke while Frankie still had a full head of black curls shot with silver. Neither had stopped growing in high school and Izaak now topped Frankie by maybe half an inch, a leaner man with a hint of middle-aged paunch compared with Frankie's square shoulders and flat stomach.
Izaak didn't ask about Frankie's family. Sylvia La Nez and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Cicely, had been killed by a wrong way driver in Boston fifteen years before while scouting out colleges for the girl. Frankie had never remarried.
Izaak pulled his glasses off his forehead and settled them in front of his eyes. "Where's this ring you're talking about, when did you see it? When the heck did you come in here last?" asked Izaak looking through his cases twinkling with showy merchandise. "Some time when I wasn't here?"
Frankie didn't look. "It's not here, it's in the back."
Izaak's eyes widened. "You don't mean the Donna Cahill piece I just bought at the estate sale, do you?"
Frankie shrugged. "An emerald set in a lady's gold ring with maybe a dozen smaller diamonds around it," he said. "That it?"
"It's not an emerald," said Izaak automatically. "A green beryl but not an emerald, the green is different. But it's a nice stone." Personally, Izaak considered a beryl every bit as good a gemstone as true emerald. He understood the chemical difference, green beryls had iron impurities while emeralds had chromium or vanadium depending on if they came from Africa or South America. Some green beryls had a brownish tint or were so dark as to be almost black, or so light as to look like a peridot. Not this particular green beryl which had a deep clear green with a golden tint. Izaak waggled his hand in a very New York gesture. "Same-same, but not the same," he said.
Disappointment flashed on Frankie's face but he said, "Let me see it. Maybe it's not the one."
"You heard about it?" asked Izaak turning to go in back. "Big Broadway star and all, Miss Cahill had a lot of nice pieces. A ruby pendant as big as your thumb. Diamond choker. Pearls. The ring is nice but it's ...." He didn't finish, looking in back behind the curtain for the case in which he'd put the newly bought jewelry.
Frankie glanced around. If this Cahill piece wasn't the ring, Izaak would have one or know of one like the ring Frankie saw in his mind. He wanted that particular ring for his girl.
"Ah ha!" said Izaak from behind the curtain. "She's a natural blonde, this girl?" he asked before reappearing.
"Yes," said Frankie, smiling. "Yes, she's a tall blonde with hazel green eyes."
Izaak smiled, holding out a small box. "Just like Miss Cahill, this is going to look great on her."
Frankie took the box and opened it to see the very ring he had come to Izaak's to find. "She's beautiful," he said. The diamonds caught fire and made the beryl glow as emeralds seldom do. A finer, purer stone than a true emerald the same size was ever likely to be, Miss Cahill's original jeweler had known just what he was doing when he set the big green beryl in gold surrounded with white fire.
"Beautiful," he repeated. "How much you want for it, you swindler?"
Izaak laughed. "I'll be honest with you, Frankie, I don't even know yet. I bought the whole lot for a package price and I haven't broken it down to set prices for the pieces, yet. You trust me, you wopster?" An old bit of private slang from grade school long ago, Italian gangster, wopster; Izaak had gotten in trouble for his mouth more than once back then.
"I trust you about as far as I could throw the Staten Island Ferry, you Jewish prick," said Frankie. "'Course I trust you. How much you think it's gonna be?"
Izaak made the wobbly hand gesture again. "Low end, fifteen, twenty. High end, a hundred grand." Izzak pushed his glasses up on his forehead again and his deepset eyes twinkled.
Frankie swore without heat in Sicilian. "Testa di minchia, uccione me."
Izaak hadn't grown up in Little Italy wearing earplugs. "Che cozzo, vaffunculo," he replied. He made the gesture, too.
They grinned at each other. Frankie closed the little case on the ring and put it in his pocket. "So bill me, momzer," he said, turning to leave.
"With pleasure, and mazel tov to you, too, meshuggener," said Izaak. His people were Sephardic Jews but living in New York, he'd learned a few Yiddish expressions, too, everybody does. "What's her name?"
Frankie almost paused but pushed his way out the door instead, not wanting to admit that he didn't know her name. Yet.