by Ben Sanders
He took his drink over to the bench at the coffee station and stood looking out the window. The exterior of the Minimart was covered with magazine and concert advertisements, but between the scenes of Photoshopped glamor were slices of real life: the street, and the businesses on the other side of it. The bagel shop on the corner, the florist’s adjacent. In front of the florist’s was a van with FRANK’S FLOWERS printed on the side below a daffodil logo. The van’s rear door was open and a couple of young guys were unloading boxes and carrying them inside. The bagel shop had a CLOSED sign up and metal blinds covering the windows, but he could see shadows moving around in there.
The Minimart’s front door opened with a ding, and the homeless guy he’d passed a few blocks back stepped inside. He looked around the small space with its color-onslaught of packaged goods, and then he came over to Marshall at the coffee bench and stood looking at him.
Marshall said, ‘How you doing?’
‘Doing OK, thanks. Sorry to bother you. The coffee’s two bucks, I’m at a buck eighty …’
He held out his palm: coins arrayed there, evidently insufficient. Marshall dug in a pocket for his cash and peeled off a two-dollar bill. He squared up the remaining money and confirmed correct sequence – lowest denomination at the outside of the transverse fold – and handed over the two bucks.
The guy pinched it by a corner, hesitant. ‘You got anything smaller?’
‘No, you’re good.’
The guy said, ‘Two-dollar bill’s rare. I don’t want to steal your good luck.’
Marshall looked at him. ‘How rare?’
The guy shrugged. ‘Pretty rare. They must be. I hardly ever get them. And people if they give me anything, they want to give me something small, you know?’
Marshall thought about that as he looked at the bagel shop. He saw a guy appear behind the glass front door and stand there for a moment like a silhouette in a shooting gallery, and then move away. He said, ‘Maybe people are conscious of the rarity, and so they factor that into their donations.’
‘You mean like less inclined to give out two-dollar bills? Because they’re rarer?’
‘Yeah. So you in turn would get a disproportionate impression of their rarity.’
The guy nodded slowly with narrowed eyes as if banking the theory for future rumination. Then he went to the cashier window and handed over the venerated bill and came back and poured himself a coffee. A phone on the wall behind the cashier rang, but went unanswered.
‘You ever known a florist to be open at night?’
Marshall said, ‘No.’
The guy shook his head. ‘Me either. That one is, though: look at it.’
They stood there at the bench drinking coffee, looking at it.
The guy said, ‘My experience of life is principally nocturnal. Sleep during the day when it’s warmer, go out at night for food. I would say the idea of a twenty-four-hour florist is pretty novel.’
‘I think you might be right.’
The phone behind the cashier’s desk rang again. The cashier made a noise, unintelligible but vehement, reached behind him without looking and took the cordless phone handset off the wall and listened. Then he rose wearily and came out through a door in his Perspex booth and said, ‘Which of you is Marshall?’
Marshall said, ‘I’m Marshall.’
The homeless guy looked on with an expression of naked awe as the phone was handed over, as if maybe it was God himself on the other end of the line.
Marshall put the phone to his ear, saw now that there was a figure in the door to the bagel shop, doing likewise.
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t you come over, instead of just standing there, looking? You can bring your coffee.’
There was no traffic on Coney Island Avenue. Marshall walked across four empty lanes under a full line-up of green lights and went into the bagel shop: a raucous entry with the ding of the mechanical bell and the door crashing shut behind him on an overzealous pneumatic arm.
He saw a counter over to his right, glass-topped and showing rows of empty stainless trays, clean and bright as morgue dishes. Tables in front of it and booths along the left wall, facing Neptune Ave.
The guys he’d seen unloading the flower van were behind the counter, leaning on it with their arms up on the curved glass, looking at Marshall as if they’d never laid eyes on someone less impressive. They appeared to have spent a lot of time at the gym, but only doing bicep curls. Good for carrying flowers, no doubt. There were two other guys seated in a booth, and Marshall recognized one of them: the mob man, Frank Cifaretti. He was fortyish now, paunchy and stubbled, wearing white Nike trainers and a rumpled tracksuit made to seem space-age. Some kind of shiny finish to it. He looked like an athlete who’d dozed off on the couch for six months and then woken up out of condition. The guy with him was going for a more classic look. Long hair in a ponytail, eyes half-hooded as he looked at Marshall across his shoulder, like he was too cool to stay awake.
Frank said, ‘We like to keep an eye on the Minimart. Wouldn’t believe how many cops just happen to stop in for coffee. And then they’ll stand there two, three hours sometimes. Must be fucken lovely in there.’
Marshall said, ‘Coffee’s not bad for two dollars.’
Frank Cifaretti said, ‘Yeah, I’m sure. Benny, get the door would you? Don’t want to be robbed. Be a real shame.’
One of the flower guys came around the counter to the door and clicked the lock, and Frank said, ‘I see you show up just now, I thought: surely, surely it isn’t.’ He spread his hands. ‘Yet, here the man is.’ Then gesturing to him, beckoning. ‘Sit down.’ Looking him in the eye now, voice a little lower: ‘Sit yourself down right here.’
The ponytail guy got out of the booth, and Marshall took his seat. There was a cell phone and a couple of shot glasses and a deck of cards spread out on the table.
The flower man called Benny said, ‘Frank, I get you something? We still got some avocado.’
Frank gathered the cards, tamped them square. ‘No, just give me a …’ He seemed to give this some thought. ‘Give me a salmon on cream cheese.’
‘You got it.’
Frank said, ‘We wouldn’t normally do you this kind of courtesy, invite you in after hours. But you did us a real favor.’ Lifting his chin, grinning. ‘When you were undercover. We heard all about that.’
‘Oh, you did?’
Smiling back a little, like letting the guy inflate his ego. Ponytail and the other flower man were at a table beside them, flower man sort draped in position, going for maybe a wilted daffodil look. The guy with the ponytail was up on the table with his feet on a chair, leaning forward elbows-to-knees as he studied Marshall in profile.
Frank said, ‘They had you with the Asaro crew, right? And now they’re basically taken care of.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Makes things …’ He stirred a hand, looking for the word. ‘Makes things a little easier, commerce-wise. Not having the competition. It frees up resources. Around here, Brighton Beach, this used to be Russian territory, and now we’re moving back in, as you can see.’ He pointed at him, clicked his fingers. ‘Hey, you still got any of the money left?’
‘What do you mean?’
Frank came forward a little, conspiratorial. His hair and beard were of uniform length, like his head had been carefully glue-painted and then dipped in grayish bristles. He said, ‘I heard you took some cash out of Tony Asaro’s safe when you called it quits. Two, three hundred grand, something like that?’
Marshall said, ‘Nice that my reputation got here first.’
‘Yeah. It got here about ten years ago, and I’m tired of it.’ He licked his lips as if tasting the phrase, sat back and shook his head. ‘I hate the thought of a guy going around with a story he thinks gives him some cachet. When really he’s not worth anything.’
Marshall smiled, happy to let the guy feel like he was stacking points. There was a door behind the counter leading to a backroo
m, and presumably the flower shop next door. He watched Benny come around the glass counter carrying a plate and then set it down on the table in front of Frank.
‘Boom. There you go.’
A halved bagel, a thick load of cream cheese and salmon on each slice.
Frank said, ‘You got any capers?’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. I’ll bring them over.’
He went out through the door behind the counter, and the four of them sat there for a moment in the quiet.
Frank spread his hands. ‘So.’ He scrolled his bottom lip out, dropped his voice a little: flat, bored, low: ‘What do you want? Take it you’re the man’s been calling us, huh?’
Marshall said, ‘You sit here all night, playing cards?’
Frank didn’t answer. A car went past, its motion described by yellow light in the metal blinds.
Marshall said, ‘Ray Vialoux’s dead.’
Frank smiled. ‘Old Vialoux, huh? Well, that’s good.’ Trying to get a reaction. ‘He’s the sort of guy, he’s a real spot-on definition of human trash, isn’t he? Or he was.’
Marshall sat there. In his periphery, he saw the ponytail guy had a gun in his hand, hanging between his knees: a SIG P226.
Marshall said, ‘Surprised you didn’t hear about it. Thought if you’re in here eating salmon bagels you must be the big dog. But I guess not.’
Frank ran a hand around his jaw, a slow tour as if sculpting a reply, but then he just sat there quietly, watched Benny as he came back with his jar of capers.
‘Sprinkle them on there from a height. I like them to fall kinda random.’
They all watched as Benny tipped out a few from about eighteen inches.
Frank said, ‘Yeah, look at that. Beautiful.’
He picked up a half-bagel and bit into it, eyes on Marshall.
Marshall said, ‘Are you going to help me, or are you going to pretend you don’t know what the deal is?’
Frank chewed, looked at his bagel. ‘Dish ish goob.’ He swallowed, shrugged. ‘There’s no pretending.’ He smiled. ‘This is all coming to me a hundred percent authentic.’
Marshall said, ‘Vialoux got shot through a window while I was sitting talking to him.’
‘Front-row seat, huh? Nice.’
Marshall said, ‘He told me a guy called D’Anton Lewis got him into a game you’re running. And apparently he ended up with a debt.’
Frank shrugged.
Marshall said, ‘I know you have a patience problem. I’m worried you got tired of waiting, and had him whacked. That how it went?’
Frank didn’t answer. Benny was at the table with the other two now, leaning way back in his seat, matching the vibe of the other flower man.
Marshall said, ‘I found this place because I hit redial on his home phone.’
Frank smiled. ‘Shit. Yeah, they always said you were smart.’
‘So was he just calling up for recipes or something?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Use your cranium, pal. I’m not stupid enough to hit a guy who owes me money. He was paying it down, and now I’m seventy-k in the hole. Do some fucking math, Jesus Christ.’
He took another bite. Benny’s phone rang. He answered, and listened, and then said, ‘Yeah, well, I told her to cut them about an inch up from the base. Problem is, they seal over, don’t take in any water. If she’s gonna ignore pro advice, that’s what happens.’
Marshall said, ‘Who’s the shooter?’
Frank chewed.
Benny said, ‘All right, she knows best,’ and hung up.
Marshall said, ‘Witnesses saw a little guy who smiles a lot. You know anyone that friendly?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Vialoux was police. I don’t give a shit about that guy. And, you know. Tell me a story surprises me. He got into something hot and got burned. What’d he think was gonna happen?’
Grinning at him as he chewed wetly, mouth full of fish and cream cheese, the smell of it coming across the table.
Marshall said, ‘You seem to have all the details about how I shut down the Asaros. Why do you think I won’t have the same luck in here? This is a bagel shop and a florist.’
Frank slid his plate away. ‘We got a camera put up, sole job’s to watch the Minimart over there, see who’s coming to check us out. You know how fucking tired I am of police? You think I look at pictures of these guys, going in for coffee every other day, you think I have any time for them? And Vialoux, shit. He used to have a badge, but that was the only thing made him police.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means take your story somewhere else.’ He shrugged, mouth downturned, blameless. ‘I don’t care he’s dead, I don’t care who did it, I don’t care if his wife or his mother or his aunt been shedding tears. I don’t give a fuck. Don’t show up here, think your CV’s got the kind of weight’s going to make people worry. I’m not worried about you, pal. I don’t want to hear about Ray Vialoux, unless you got a funny story about what his face looked like with a bullet going through it.’
That got a few sniggers going around. Marshall sat there quietly, watched Frank shuffle his cards briefly and then set them down. In all likelihood, that was a unique deck. Never in history had such an ordering of cards been achieved, because the chance of any given composition was one-in-fifty-two, times one-in-fifty-one, times one-in-fifty, and so on, all the way down to one. One-in-fifty-two factorial was the technical expression, and fifty-two factorial was something like eight times ten to the power of sixty-seven. A massive number. You could shuffle cards all day for the rest of your life and never replicate something composed by pure fluke in an idle moment.
He waited for quiet and said, ‘All right, I apologize. I thought you were high enough up the chain, you’d know what’s going on. Or are you just too scared to say?’
Frank seemed to find that pretty entertaining. He laughed again, turned a little in his seat so he could prop his elbow on the back of his chair. He said, ‘We’re not really a collaborative set-up. Surprised you didn’t grasp that, all your undercover work.’
Marshall said, ‘So what’s it going to take?’
‘Huh?’
Marshall said, ‘What’s it going to take? To get someone down here who knows the story.’
Frank wriggled in his seat, crossed his legs knee-on-knee under the table. He reached for the second half of bagel and took a chomp. The salmon topping leaned steeply and then settled as he pulled away.
Marshall said, ‘You obviously got the picture. I can be kind of a handful to people in your industry.’
‘Mmm, well. Our industry can be kind of a handful to your kind of people.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes guys get shot. You know. Sometimes they’re just sitting there, someone clips them through a window.’
‘What’s it going to take.’
Frank shook his head, brow lightly furrowed. ‘Huh?’
Marshall said, ‘Let’s not go through this again. What do I have to do to get someone down here who has a clue? You going to make a call, or do I need to come back tomorrow? Keep coming back until I see someone who looks like a boss walk in the door. Otherwise you can just tell me now what happened, and I can leave.’
Frank took another bite of bagel, a playful light in his eye, something coming together in his mind.
He said, ‘I never seen someone shot that close. I mean, you know: I never seen someone shot in the head from across a table. What is this, five feet? And at least … well. At least a guy like you, upstanding and whatever, always operating on the right side of the line, there must be some part of you thinking at least the guy deserved it. Hopefully the family sees it that way too?’ He laughed, mouth full of white and orange. ‘Or are they a bit surprised by it all?’
Marshall said, ‘Coffee over there’s only two dollars. I can keep coming back. I can be a real pain in the ass.’
Frank shook his head. ‘We been around forever. We weathered bigger storms than you bring in the door.’
Marshall spread his hands. ‘Ye
t I’m still here. I guess you could shoot me.’
Frank didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Cops might not buy it, given I’m just sitting here in a booth.’
Frank shrugged. ‘We got throwdowns. Don’t give me ideas.’
‘Maybe I should. You don’t seem to know how to get rid of me.’
Frank Cifaretti seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he leaned the other way in his seat, reached behind him and brought out a revolver – a little Colt Cobra .38, snub-nose. He thumbed back the hammer and said, ‘It’s not a mystery to me, pal, I promise. I squeeze, you go goodnight.’
‘And then you go to prison. Or do you trust everyone to keep to the approved story? Trust they won’t get into trouble somewhere up the road and trade out of it by saying what really happened. I guess … yeah. Come to think of it, I never heard of a Mafia rat. No one ever turns, do they?’
Frank didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Tell me who the shooter is, I’ll get out of here, make this someone else’s problem. Otherwise, I’m quite comfortable, thanks.’
Frank didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘He owed you money, fine. I can accept maybe you wanted him alive. But I don’t accept you know nothing about what’s happened. You little scamps love talking.’
‘Yeah, keep going. See what happens.’
Marshall said, ‘You just told me all about how the law loves checking up on you, so let’s not pretend you’re going to murder me right here.’
Easy enough to say, but his subconscious didn’t see it as a guarantee. The fear glands were working: blood pounding, a prickle on his scalp in two places, one for each pistol. Frank was looking at him along the barrel of the Colt, some wry plan seeming to form in the narrowed eyes. He opened the cylinder and held the gun upright, one tube covered with a finger. The five unsupported shells dropped out and rolled in ponderous separate arcs with a sound like marbles. He aimed the Colt at Marshall again, the cylinder still hanging out to one side. Five tubes with fresh air and one with a bullet.