“What is this place?” I asked, curiously.
“The best kept secret in all of the five boroughs,” Maggie replied. “A business run purely on word of mouth and referrals.”
“And that’s the way we like it.”
Maggie and I turned toward the gravelly voice coming from the back of the room to see an ancient woman walk out from between a dark, red, silk curtain. Hunched over with age, the old woman still gave off a lively air, though I couldn’t have counted the wrinkles on her face even if she’d let me. I guessed she was of Jewish origin, somewhere in Eastern Europe. I’d spotted a mezuzah on the doorpost as we entered.
“It’s been a long time, young lady,” the old woman said as she slowly made her way out from behind the counter to come around and kiss Maggie on the cheeks. Maggie leaned into her, returning the affection. “And who is this handsome young man you’re toting around?”
“Mrs. Goldschmidt, this is Jon Fixx. Jon, Mrs. Goldschmidt.”
“Well met, young man,” Mrs. Goldschmidt said, as she shook my hand.
“To you as well, ma’am.”
Maggie added, “My father got my mother’s ring here from Mrs. Goldschmidt.”
I smiled, convinced Maggie had brought me to the right place.
“And now you two have come to continue the tradition?” Mrs. Goldschmidt asked.
Maggie and I both shook our heads at the same time, stumbling over each other to correct Mrs. Goldschmidt. Before either of us could say anything intelligible, she reached out and grabbed Maggie’s left hand, visibly upset by the engagement ring she saw there. Maggie’s cheeks flushed red.
“Where did this come from?” Mrs. Goldschmidt reprimanded her.
Maggie answered quietly, “My fiancé didn’t ask me first.”
Mrs. Goldschmidt looked at me. “You’re not her fiancé.”
She wasn’t asking but I shook my head anyway.
“Who then?”
“Marco Balducci.”
“And your father is okay with this?”
“Times change, Mrs. Goldschmidt. What could my father say?”
“Did this boy not ask for your father’s permission first?”
Maggie shook her head.
A string of Yiddish epithets erupted from Mrs. Goldschmidt’s mouth, but her look of displeasure quickly transformed to one of resignation and sadness.
“You young men, all boys. You grow up, but you have forgotten what makes a man a man. Your generation forgets where they’ve come from. No respect for tradition, for the past, for what has come before. To honor your future, you must honor your past.”
I couldn’t respond, tongue-tied as well as fascinated by this strange old woman who owned this expensive jewelry store in a Manhattan side street. Maggie clearly regarded her in high esteem.
Maggie spoke before I could think of anything to say. “Mrs. Goldschmidt, I agree with everything you’ve said, and that’s why I’m here. I can’t change what my fiancé did, but Jon wants to buy a ring for his girlfriend. She’s back in Los Angeles.”
Mrs. Goldschmidt turned her hawk eyes on me again, studying me so thoroughly that I began to squirm. Unable to hold her gaze, I looked away. Finally, without a word, Mrs. Goldschmidt turned around, slowly walking back behind the counter. We stepped up to the large glass container.
“My family has been selling jewelry for over three hundred years,” she said. “You learn a few things when you’ve been doing something that long. Knowledge gets passed down through the generations, along with the business.” Mrs. Goldschmidt paused a moment for emphasis. “You can be with someone all your life and never know them. And you can meet someone for a day, and you’ve known them all your life.”
Maggie and I stared at Mrs. Goldschmidt’s wrinkled face, turning to each other as if we were acknowledging as one what she had said.
“It’s important for people who are getting married to understand that.”
Then, Mrs. Goldschmidt shifted gears. Over the next several minutes, she showed me several different kinds of diamond rings and gave me the price of each, describing their special features in turn. Then, she stopped and looked at me. “Your girlfriend does not know you’re coming back with a ring? Have you asked her father for permission?”
“Her father died when she was a teenager. Her mom died four years ago,” I answered.
Mrs. Goldschmidt took that all in, then stopped showing us the rings she had in her hand. Quickly shoving them back in the case, she stood up from her stool and walked behind the counter to the opposite side of the shop. Before either Maggie or I could see what she was doing, she had pulled a diamond ring out of the case and held it up before us. I didn’t know much about rings, or jewelry in general, but I knew this ring was special.
“Oh, my God, this is stunning,” Maggie whispered.
I was sure I couldn’t afford the ring.
Mrs. Goldschmidt looked at the ring and then at Maggie. “I was keeping this for you, Maggie, but you don’t need it any longer.”
Maggie’s face registered surprise, then a mixture of sadness and regret.
Mrs. Goldschmidt turned my way. “Jon, this ring is for you now.”
I coughed, trying to cover my dismay. “Thank you, but no. I couldn’t do that.” I wasn’t about to buy a ring Mrs. Goldschmidt had intended for Maggie.
Maggie protested. “Oh, Jon, this ring is unbelievably beautiful. You have to buy it for Sara. She’ll be so happy.”
“That’s her name, Sara?” Mrs. Goldschmidt asked.
I nodded to Mrs. Goldschmidt. Staring at the ring, I was sure Sara would think it was gorgeous. There was no way she could say no if I had this ring, but I knew it was more than a little out of my price range. I said, “I appreciate your choice, Mrs. Goldschmidt. It’s amazing, but I think this is more than I can afford.”
She asked me how much I was planning on spending. I told her. “Then that’s the price.”
I stared dumbly at her. Even Maggie seemed surprised at the low number. Mrs. Goldschmidt waited for my answer, but then she grew impatient.
“Jon,” she said in an authoritative voice, “an opportunity is called an opportunity because it has an element of time attached to it, and when that time has expired, the opportunity has passed.” She glanced behind her at the clock on the wall, the minute hand about to hit 6 p.m. “Closing time is in thirty seconds.”
“I’ll take it.”
As we concluded the final details of the purchase, Maggie and I didn’t talk much. I paid the amount Mrs. Goldschmidt had asked, and she enclosed the ring in a special case. Maggie said her goodbyes, hugging the old lady before we exited. Just as we were about to leave the shop, Mrs. Goldschmidt called out to me, “I’m glad we met, Jon Fixx.”
“Me too, Mrs. Goldschmidt,” I called back to her.
A moment later we were back on the street, Maggie and I exchanging a look.
“Thank you,” I said to Maggie.
“I’m glad I could help,” she answered, giving me a big smile.
“That was a unique experience.”
“I agree.”
“Shall we walk back?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, we shall,” I said.
In lockstep, we found our way back the way we came. The remainder of the night was uneventful. Most of the family was out, so I found myself packing alone. Maggie had plans with Marco, so I said my goodbyes during the evening. In the morning, I got up extra early, not wanting to bother anyone. A car from the airport was waiting for me. I got to the airport and onto the plane without a hitch. The ring was stuffed in my inside jacket pocket close to my chest. Just before shutting my PDA down for the flight, I noticed a new message in my email with the heading “Priority.” I opened it up, not recognizing the address.
It read:
“Jon, Don’t contact me again. I’ll
contact you. Following a hunch. Be careful. You’re exposed. JM”
Jim Mosconi.
What the hell was he talking about, “You’re exposed”? I wrote him back, ignoring his instructions. The email was immediately kicked back to me, indicating the email address didn’t exist. As the plane took off, I fell into a fitful sleep, images of Marco and Sara and Nick Nickels Sr. and Maggie dancing like aboriginal shadows around a large bonfire with an extra-large version of the engagement ring I’d just bought hanging down. When I landed in Los Angeles six hours later, I felt anything but rested. The next day, Sara ruined my life. At least for a while.
9 Early November – Los Angeles
“The Coffee Shop Lovers,” the story for my Chicago couple, was taking shape. Several days had passed since my visit to Luci’s house, and I was feeling better than I had at any time since the breakup. I’d been writing day and night. In fact, for the first time in months, my writing was back on track. I was able to put Sara and Michel and Ted Williams on the emotional back burner while I worked. Serious about delivering a finished product on time, I locked myself in my apartment, knocking out a first full draft for “The Coffee Shop Lovers” in two days, a new record for me. I turned my cell phone off. I even put the Vespucci clan on hold for a few days so I could finish my commitment to clients who had come along earlier. But thoughts of Maggie and Marco and Mosconi entered my mind far more often than I liked. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I hadn’t found the key to Maggie and Marco’s relationship, if there was one. If I couldn’t find the key—the connection that made their relationship special—it usually meant the difference between a generic love story without a backbone versus a unique love story that lived and breathed its main characters. In addition, as I was finally letting go of Sara, I found my feelings for Maggie becoming like those of an irrational schoolboy—all fantasy with no basis in reality. From a professional standpoint, I was afraid these irrational feelings would interfere with my objectivity, making it impossible to write a story in which Marco didn’t appear to be a jerk. I already disliked Marco, and knew how he felt about me. My irrational feelings for Maggie were not helping. This was new territory for me, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. I figured the best way to manage my feelings was to disqualify them, understand that my feelings for Maggie were not organic but rather a result of my breakup with Sara.
I didn’t leave my apartment for several days while I worked on the project. I’d bought meat and peanut butter and jelly for sandwiches to tide me over while I worked. Luci checked in every day, showing me his progress on the visual side of the book, looking for my input—and approbation. During one visit, I asked him to read the first draft of “The Coffee Shop Lovers” because he always gave me constructive criticism that improved my final draft. I had become dependent on his feedback. That particular day, I turned on my phone for the first time in days to check messages. Nothing from Sara. Nothing from New York. I had only one message. A male voice I didn’t recognize came through the speaker without a hello or introduction of any kind. “You think because I haven’t called that maybe I’ve forgotten what you’ve done. That’s too bad, because I haven’t. You’re going to pay. One day. By the way, you’re an asshole.” Click.
It was Nick Nickels Jr., the creepiest one of the Nickels clan. When I interviewed him, I had gotten weird vibes. The way he and his sister interacted reminded me of a book I had read in junior high school called Flowers in the Attic that a girlfriend made me read as a way to prove I liked her. The story was about a brother and sister locked in an attic for a long period of time. They fall in love, commit incest, have a baby, and do a bunch of other terrible, taboo things. Nick Jr. seemed more like a jealous ex-lover than a brother. This message renewed my concern about the Nickels clan. Of the family members, Nick Jr. seemed to derive the most pleasure from leaving me harassing messages.
Luci didn’t like any of it, advising me to call the police, something I wasn’t willing to do. With Nickels as the attorney general for the state of California, I didn’t think I’d get very far calling the authorities. Second, they hadn’t actually done anything to me, and I knew the law did nothing to a stalker until they actually tried to harm you. I had done my research and the laws were very specific. I didn’t tell Luci about the newest threat either, because I saw no reason to worry him. I figured I’d just have to keep my eyes and ears open. Plus, if I didn’t leave my apartment, there wasn’t much anyone could do to me.
After a few more days of straight rewriting and taking Luci’s notes into account, I sat back from my computer screen. The creation of the romantic relationship between Scott Michaels and Anna Jensen had taken final shape. I was close to putting the finishing touches on the story and feeling good about what I had. I did my best writing in long jags, so when I got on a roll I didn’t like to break the flow. I would write until I felt it coming to an end, which sometimes lasted for a week or longer. But this last writing session felt extra satisfying because it had been many months since I’d been able to do it. Patting myself on the back, I got up to stretch, realizing my stomach was grumbling. I looked at the clock. It was past 9 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten anything since early morning. I wandered over to the fridge, finding it almost empty. The craving for a hot slice of good pizza hit me hard and fast. I grabbed my jacket and keys and was out the door. As I exited the building, the sky was dark, the street lamps on. The pizza place I’d been ordering from since I moved into my tiny apartment was only a couple of blocks away. I walked down Woodman toward Ventura Boulevard, the streets busy with cars. The pulse of life reverberated all around me. For the first time in a while, I felt alive, my body waking up, as if from a long, unsatisfying slumber. I had hit bottom during my tenure in the Cave, but I was finally on my way back up.
I spotted Vitello’s Exchange across Ventura, a sign with a huge slice of pizza standing high above the one-story dwelling. My pace quickened as I thought about salty cheese melting in my mouth. I reached the intersection, the traffic lights in my favor, the walk sign beckoning me to cross. Moments later, I reached for the door handle about to step inside the pizza joint, when unexpectedly, I heard my internal Voice.
By the way, just a friendly reminder: Be careful.
I cringed, afraid my Voice was going to spin me into another episode like what happened at the rest stop off the I-10 freeway, something I could no longer stomach or desired. But the warning came as a surprise.
Careful about what?
But there was no response. Silence. I took note of the warning, passing through the doorway to fulfill my craving. The redheaded, pimple-faced teenager behind the counter took my order without a word. He turned around and threw two slices into the oven. I took a seat at one of the booths lining either side of the center aisle. Aside from the youngster at the front, two older guys hustled around farther back in the kitchen making pizzas. A fourth guy came in from the back door with a light jacket on. He checked a stack of pizza boxes waiting near the rear entranceway, exchanged a few words with one of the pizza makers, then grabbed the stack and disappeared through the rear exit. I recognized his old, weathered face because he had delivered quite a few of those pizza boxes to my apartment over the last several weeks. The other guys were new to me. After a few minutes, the redhead pulled my slices out of the oven, dropped them onto a paper plate, and set them on the front register counter. He caught my eye. I grabbed my food, returned to my seat, and chowed down. I was hungry. Long writing jags did that to me. I savored every bite, my taste buds craving grease and fat.
The pizza was gone in less than ten minutes, so I finished the last bit of Coke in my cup, and got up to take an easy walk back to my apartment with the intention of putting the finishing touches on the Chicago couple’s love story. The process of writing their story had helped pull me out of the terrible coma I’d been in since breaking up with Sara. I’d begun to worry that my Love Story writing career might be coming to an end. But now, I wa
s back.
I was about a block and a half away from my apartment, my full stomach making me unobservant and careless. The tackle came from behind. In a split second, I was on my back in the shadows of an alley running through the center of the block off Woodman. I could make out two bodies standing over me. I quickly scrambled to regain my footing. My thoughts were in free-form as I tried to gain a defensive stance. Why would Williams bring a colleague to beat me up in the alley? Did the FBI beat people up in public areas? What did I do this time? I was on both knees, then had one foot planted, when a shock paralyzed me, coursing through my body and dropping me back to the ground. I saw one of the shadows step back, his right hand holding a Taser. A solid kick took me in the midsection, a sharp pain racing to the circuits in my brain telling me I probably just broke a rib.
The shadow who kicked me stepped in close, leaning near my face. I was rolled up in the fetal position, protecting myself as best I could. I heard a voice in my ear, “This is just the start, Jonny Fixx-it. You piece of shit! Any time. Any place. You turn around and I might be there.”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I tried to make out the face before me, but I realized both antagonists were wearing ski masks. They wouldn’t get far in southern California without drawing attention to themselves. I ruled out Williams. Not his M.O. This guy wanted to hurt me but stay anonymous. Williams had no need to be anonymous. That shortened the list of possibilities by one. Someone connected to my Italian contingent? But why? That didn’t make sense. My life had become one long string of surreal moments. This was my third beating in a week. First Williams, then the funeral, and now this—whatever this was. And it didn’t seem to be over yet. I needed to hire a bodyguard. Maybe I would tap into my emergency retirement fund. The absurdity of it all made me smile.
“Why are you smiling? I wouldn’t be smiling if I was you.”
Another kick in the ribs wiped the smile off my face. I gasped, desperately gulping for air.
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