New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  She worked real hard to make me smile again.

  Making the cannoli was an all-day affair. The recipe had been given to her by her mother-in-law, along with the responsibility to pass it on to the women in the family. When Ignacio died of a heart attack on his job as an electrician for the city, Frankie had been inconsolable for months. She read an article in the New York Times about a group of widows who met every month for dinner and companionship. Those were the things she missed most, and so for the past seven years she and her friends had been meeting monthly in each other's homes to eat together and put some sweetness in their lives.

  Frankie, Olympia, Celia, Theresa, and Angelina were well into their sixties, and all but Angelina were either widowed or divorced. At first the women eyed me a little suspiciously. It was rare to see a black woman in this part of Staten Island—especially in this famously clannish Italian stretch of Hickory Boulevard—although I had recently learned that in the seventeenth century early settlers on the island had been French Huguenots and freed slaves. I didn't say much at that first meeting, and after brief introductions the conversations started in as if I weren't even there.

  * * *

  Today the women arrived at the front door of Frankie's home within minutes of each other. Celia was the first. Frankie had invited her after months of listening to her complaints about being a jailhouse widow. Although Celia's husband wasn't dead, she was hoping he'd die in prison where he had been for the past three years serving time for bigamy. His wife in Ireland showed up on their doorstep one day demanding back–child support for a teenager he claimed to know nothing about.

  "Excuse my French, ladies, but that Irish fucker ruined my retirement. I'm supposed to be lounging on a beach in the Bahamas with a cold cocktail in my hand."

  Angelina, still as thin and girlish as she was in high school, had a bum for a husband. Tito had terrorized her from the moment she met him in high school, bullying her into marriage at sixteen and getting her pregnant every ten months for the next six years. She finally had her tubes tied after saying a few dozen Hail Marys. She wasn't a widow, but she dreamed about it. She was an honorary member of the club and a portion of every meeting was dedicated to exploring ways to kill Tito. They had poisoned him, hired someone else to kill him, put a spell on him, and each month looked forward to concocting the most creative murder so that Angelina would be eligible for his pension. Tito had left the family years ago, so in a way Angelina was living like a widow, but without the pension. She earned income as a wedding seamstress and had a team of well-behaved children who helped make her home business a success.

  Olympia, loudmouthed and vain, divorced her husband thirteen years ago, but she still cooked him dinner every night and delivered it to him in the basement of his Kensington Street home, where he'd lived since the young secretary he left her for left him when he ran out of money. His business failed and his hair fell out. Still, he was the father of her two daughters and she was grateful for that, but was hoping he'd die soon and put everyone out of their misery.

  That day she wore a bejeweled patch over her left eye because her recent self-improvement had been laser surgery so she wouldn't have to wear trifocals. She had a tall weave of teased hair that fluffed around her face like blond cotton candy; Frankie said she looked like a disco pirate and I had to agree. The only thing missing was a parrot on her shoulder and a cutlass in her hand.

  After Theresa's first husband died in a mysterious fire, she got involved with a married man who strung her along for ten years before marrying her. She was still mourning her dead husband while trying to keep the new one interested.

  "Come on, Frankie, give me the recipe. Bennie would buy me a fur coat if I made cannoli like this," Theresa said.

  Requests for Frankie's secret cannoli recipe were always appreciated, but she declined with her usual answer: "If I told you the recipe I'd have to kill you. This one goes with me to my grave, ladies, since it looks like neither one of my sons want to make me a grandmother."

  "What's the matter with your Gianni? He's a handsome guy, got a good job in the city," said Angelina, already a little tipsy from her second glass of chianti.

  "Too damn picky, my Gianni. He's thirty-five years old and still no wife." Frankie dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin.

  "You should've left him in Sicily with your brothers for a few years."

  "My brothers would've killed him. He likes to read books. They're fishermen, they gut fish for fun. Gianni hates fish. He barely lasted a week every other summer. One good thing came out of it, though. He speaks perfect Italian."

  "Theresa, you got anybody for Gianni? Is your youngest married yet?"

  Theresa was well respected as a matchmaker since she had miraculously married off her homely thirty-year-old niece to a retired boat captain in Sardinia and successfully introduced a young cousin with a limp to a cab driver who lived in Sunnyside.

  "My Sheila's married three times already. The oldest is married to her job. Works for a lawyer in Bay Ridge but she spends most of her time in the city. She seems to have a taste for married men," Theresa complained.

  "Just like her mother." Olympia poured more chianti into my glass.

  "What do you mean, Olympia? Ben was almost divorced when I met him. We got married right after his divorce was final."

  "Ten years later, wasn't it?" Olympia smiled at me and winked.

  "Olympia, I swear I'll put your other eye out and it won't be temporary."

  "Frankie, your son Charlie, he's connected, isn't he?" Olympia changed the subject.

  Frankie's look could have sliced through the Italian marble fireplace. Her voice was cold and dropped to a whisper: "My son Cicero is in construction like his father. He's a legitimate businessman."

  "I didn't mean anything . . ."

  "Cicero's a good boy. He brings me a box of assorted from Alfonso's Bakery every Sunday, and my Gianni, he works with me in my garden. He bought me a Madonna to put in the backyard. He'll help me install it before the ground freezes. Gianni, he's a good boy. A little queer with the books and all, but I couldn't be more proud of him. He teaches English at a private school on the Upper East Side."

  "My Nardo saw him coming out of a double feature at the mall last week," Celia offered.

  "Was he with somebody?" Angelina asked.

  "All alone. So sad. He's so good-looking." Celia picked up the framed photo of Frankie's youngest son from the buffet.

  "Movie-star handsome," Olympia said, passing his photograph around the dining room table.

  "I know I can find somebody for him," Theresa insisted.

  "Staten Island is like a village. Everybody knows your freaking business and thinks they can improve it." Olympia adjusted her eye patch.

  "So, girls, how we gonna kill Angelina's husband this week?" Frankie asked, passing the dish of cannoli around a second time.

  "What about poisoning his favorite dessert?" I suggested.

  The women all laughed. "We tried that years ago. Don't you watch CSI: NY? It's got to look like an accident."

  "Tito didn't come for dinner. The kids called him a dozen times, but he won't answer. It's not like him."

  "Do you think he's gambling again?" Olympia asked.

  "Maybe. Some fat guy driving a Mercedes came by the house looking for him. He reeked. Who wears Old Spice anymore?"

  I glanced over at Frankie.

  "Debt collectors," Frankie said, smiling.

  * * *

  A week before Christmas, Frankie invited me to stay the week at her house after I confessed that all I did was listen to the blues and cry into several glasses of red wine every night. Neither of us felt like traveling during the holidays and we didn't want to be alone. Her sons worked on the holidays and at most dropped by for a glass of wine and a quick meal. My husband and I were both orphans and never had children. I felt so alone in the world without him. We made a few friends over the years among our colleagues, but they were all couples.

  Frank
ie was surprised when her son Gianni called to say he wanted her to meet his girlfriend. She invited them over for cannoli and coffee the day I arrived.

  When Gianni told his mother his girlfriend's name, Luzette, she thought the girl was French. He didn't tell her she was black.

  "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dacosta, Mrs. Greene," the petite caramel-colored girl whispered.

  "Mrs. Dacosta was my mother-in-law. Francesca was my mother's little girl. Call me Frankie and speak up."

  "Ma! A pleasure, Mrs. Greene," Gianni said, shaking my hand and grinning like he'd won the lottery as he looked back and forth between me and his mother. The ladies were right, he was movie-star handsome and the young lady he brought home looked like a model. I felt sorry for that pretty little whispery girl, not because Frankie was mean but because it couldn't have been easy meeting the mother of a man who was so clearly a mama's boy. Gianni hung their coats and scarves on a hook by the front door.

  Frankie led us into the dining room we had spent all day decorating with garlands of fake holly and bowls of silver balls. She picked up the platter and offered Luzette a cannoli. The girl took a small bite.

  "The cannoli . . . It's . . ."

  "I know. Pretty good, huh?" Gianni mumbled through a mouthful.

  "I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good. How do you make them?"

  "I'd have to—"

  "Ma, let's install the Madonna," Gianni cut in before his mother could threaten the life of his beloved.

  "Tonight? It'll be dark soon."

  "I know, but let's do it now. You know I don't have much time during the week, and weekends . . ."

  "Yeah, I can see you've been busy." Frankie eyed the girl up and down.

  "Ma, do you mind if I check the scores?"

  "No, the remote is on the shelf behind the TV."

  "Why do you put it there?"

  "I get exercise when I change the channels."

  Gianni turned on the TV, then flipped through the channels. He didn't seem to find what he was looking for.

  "I'm getting you a satellite dish for Christmas," he said.

  "Get yourself a—" Frankie's mouth opened, eyes wide. She stared at the TV as if the Holy Mother herself had appeared on the screen.

  "The body of a man missing since late fall was found at the Staten Island dump this morning. He allegedly fell asleep in a dumpster and was crushed nearly beyond recognition by the industrial compactor at the Fresh Kills Landfill. The body has been identified as Tito . . ."

  "Angelina's Christmas present!" Frankie exclaimed, then powered off the TV.

  At that moment the kitchen phone rang. Gianni practically ran to answer it. A few minutes later he came back into the dining room buttoning up his coat.

  "Ma, we gotta go. Cicero's truck broke down on the Verrazano Bridge. We'll be back in a flash. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Greene." He grabbed their coats and Luzette's hand and they disappeared into the night laughing like young people should when they're in love.

  There was an awkward silence after they left.

  "He never brought a girl home before. I thought he was gay."

  "So, what did you think?"

  "Can I be honest here? I always thought black was beautiful, before it was a popular opinion. Beautiful, yes, but not one of us. She must be pretty special for him to bring her home."

  "I must be pretty special too."

  "You're black?" Frankie laughed, and so did I. "Do you know how they met? Gianni said she was an angel of mercy. She took care of him after the ferry crashed back in October. I thought she was a nurse."

  "A French nurse." I smiled.

  "We should call Angelina, congratulate her." Frankie started putting away the cannoli.

  "I knew it wasn't really a dog in the trunk of that car."

  "Oh yes he was," Frankie said, biting into another cannoli.

  * * *

  We put on our coats, heavy gloves, and snow boots, and trudged out into the backyard. The ground was frozen, but there we were at dusk with a shovel and a pick ax in thirty-degree weather digging a hole for the white marble Madonna statue her son had given her. Unstoppable, Frankie went into the garage and came back with a lit propane torch. She handled it like a professional and passed it over a large square of earth. Tossing me a shovel, she took up a pick ax and we went to work.

  "You know what brought me to New York? A man who lied to me, cheated on me, then dumped me. Before I met my husband I didn't think I would ever be able to trust anybody again. His friends didn't approve of us because I wasn't Jewish. Raymond saved my life." A flood of tears cooled my cheeks.

  "My cannoli never had this effect on anyone before."

  "Frankie, you don't have to love that girl, but she loves him and he loves you."

  "It's okay by me if Gianni and that young lady want to have some café con leche babies so I won't have to take the cannoli recipe with me to my grave. I'll show her how to make gravy."

  "What kind of gravy? The kind you put on biscuits?"

  "Madonna! Have you got a lot to learn, Cookie." She wiped the tears from my eyes.

  "I never had a nickname before."

  "Well, Cookie, it suits you."

  We had been digging for about twenty minutes when I heard Frankie let out a low moan.

  "Madonna!"

  I looked down into the hole and saw the skull. There was a dirty Dodger's baseball cap on the ground beside her feet.

  "You bastard!" Frankie spat the words.

  "Is that your husband?" I whispered in the dark.

  "Are you nuts? That's Jackie Domino. He lived next door."

  "How do you know it's him?"

  "He wore that Dodgers cap like a flag."

  "What's he doing in your backyard?"

  "How the hell should I know? That dirty pile of bones kissed me at his sister's wedding, then bragged about it to some of his friends. I told my husband what really happened. A few days later Jackie told everyone he was taking a vacation in Florida. I never saw him again. His daughter sold the house not long after that and moved to the city."

  "Frankie, we have to call the police."

  "Not gonna happen, Marie."

  "Did you give him your cannoli recipe?"

  "Wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking. Jackie Domino was not a nice man. No class. Could've been anybody. His ex-wife, she was paying him alimony for the pleasure of not being married to him. He was a big gambler, liked to play the ponies, it could've been his bookie. He was a bully. His kids hated him too."

  "What about your husband?"

  "Ignacio? He was no saint, but I don't think he'd have killed Jackie over a kiss. Rough him up a little, no doubt, but he wouldn't have risked making me a jailhouse widow over this worthless pile of bones."

  She picked up the Dodgers hat and turned it over like she was searching for clues, then kept her head down and wept. I put my arms around her and hummed that blues song I held onto in my cloudiest hours.

  Dark was the night, cold was the ground . . .

  Without speaking another word we worked for the next several hours in the growing darkness, mixing concrete, covering up old secrets, installing the Madonna, and whispering prayers of forgiveness.

  "There are friends and there are friends who'll help you get rid of a body. Cookie, you're all right," Frankie said, biting into her third cannoli.

  She reached over and held the hand that only a few hours before had touched the bones of Jackie Domino.

  PART II

  FIGHT OR FLIGHT

  MISTAKES

  BY MICHAEL PENNCAVAGE

  The Ferry

  In life sometimes the tiniest mistakes have the greatest consequences. That's the problem with mistakes. You can't control them. You can't prevent them.

  They just happen.

  Like this one.

  You're at a bar over in SoHo. It's one of the nice ones. You know the type. Smoking isn't allowed but it's got a huge outdoor terrace. Palm trees and tropical plants sway in the warm ni
ght breeze. Inside, scented oxygenated air runs through the ventilation system to make you feel invigorated and get you in a drinking mood. The employees have wide smiles and can-do attitudes. This isn't one of those joints with the dollar drink specials. And you would never ever think of venturing inside. Well, maybe in the past. When you were younger and looking to see just what this town had to offer. Maybe even prove yourself a little.

  But not anymore.

  Tonight is Ben's bachelor party. He's the first of you to get hitched. Maybe someday when more of you are married, bachelor parties will be occasions of dullness and drudgery. But not now. Not this one. The way everyone is acting, it's like you are all getting married in three Sundays.

  There's eight of you celebrating. It's a small group but large enough to be noticed. Everyone is dressed to impress. Everyone is dressed to kill. You've hired a stretch limousine and it makes everyone feel like a celebrity. You tipped the driver generously earlier in the night and he's now at your beck and call.

  This is the fourth bar you're hitting tonight. Or maybe it's the fifth. They're beginning to blend together. But the sun hasn't risen yet so it can't be that late.

  There's a boxing match on the television above the bar. A title belt is being decided. A small crowd is watching it intently. You catch the bartender slip a Benjamin into a money pouch and you realize he's taking side bets. You watch the fight until the round ends. Harold, one of the guys in the bachelor party, glances over at you. "What do you think?"

  You shrug your shoulders. "Not bad."

  "I bet you could whip either of their asses." He takes a swig of beer and staggers back one step.

  "You're drunk."

  "You want to place a bet?"

  "No."

  "Fine. I will then. Who's your money on?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Don't bullshit me. You know who's going to win."

  "Is that right?" You fold your arms. With each bar Harold has become more irritating. He can't hold his alcohol worth a damn.