Queens Noir

by Robert Knightly

  I personally knew of other strange regulars who kept to themselves. But to spotlight them was like shining an unflattering light on myself.

  Was Mike the victim of some psycho agitated by soaring temperatures and the blackout? No, I didn't think so. The problem with that as the scenario was that while Astoria-the entire city of New York, for that matter-hadn't always been safe, now it was a nice place to raise a family, the Manhattan skyline near enough to appreciate across the East River, but far enough away to escape the problems of too many people crammed into small spaces.

  Yet the real reason I rejected all the theories was because I was pretty sure I knew what had gone down that night in the Acropolis Diner.

  I grabbed my notepad, purposely leaving my pen behind, and decided it was time for dinner.

  Mayor Bloomberg and I didn't agree on much, but our take on Greek diners was in sync. He'd said in a recent interview in the Times that if he had to eat at only one New York restaurant for the rest of his life, it would be a Greek diner, because the variety of food was impressive and the ingredients fresh.

  I concurred. And it wasn't just because I was Greek. Having been single for the better part of my life, I'd come to appreciate the range my compatriots offered up. While tonight I'd ordered only yemista-rice-stuffed tomatoes-that could rival my own mother's, since I ate at diners every day I often mixed it up with meatloaf and fried chicken. While none of the meals would win any awards, they were pretty close to what Mom would make, if, indeed, Mom made these dishes.

  My mother had been living with my younger brother Pericles and his wife Thalia ever since the old man had cashed in his lottery ticket for a big exclusive condo in the sky. She still cooked, but rare were the times when I got to enjoy it. Call me a coward, but I didn't like the way she looked at me across the table even as she told me about some distant cousin or other from the Old Country who she could fix me up with.

  Of course, my life probably would have been a whole hell of a lot simpler had I just taken her advice from the beginning. Instead, I'd married two American women who had thought me exciting and exotic in the beginning, plodding and boring at the end.

  The topic of marriage brought my brother Pericles's oldest daughter, Sofie, to mind. She'd just announced her engagement to a good Greek boy, much to the family's delight. She'd done some odd jobs for me on and off over the years whenever she got fed up with working in my brother's restaurant or her maternal grandfather's cafe, both on Broadway. I remember thinking she would make a good P.I. That is, if wedding cakes, color swatches, booking good bouzouki bands, and trying to be a good Greek girl weren't what currently populated her list of priorities.

  Personally, I thought she could do better.

  I finished my food and pushed my plate away, craving a post-meal cigarette. But I just sat back and waited for the waitress to take my plate and offer me coffee.

  When she popped up like clockwork, I motioned toward the empty seat across from me. "Sit with me a minute, please, Petra."

  Her movements slowed and her expression was pinched. She glanced around as if seeking an excuse to refuse my request. But I'd purposely come into the diner just before closing, so there were no other customers to be waited on, aside from an old man at the far end of the counter who was reading a newspaper and nursing the same cup of coffee he had been for the past hour.

  Petra reluctantly sat down.

  "You know that Mrs. Abramopoulos hired me, don't you?"

  She looked down at where she had her hands tightly clasped on the table in front of her, then nodded.

  I took out my wirebound pad and pretended to consult notes that didn't exist even as I looked in my pockets for a pen that wasn't there.

  Petra removed a pen from her apron pocket and held it out to me with her right hand. Her wrist was not only minus the Greek evil-eye charm that had been covered with blood in the crime scene photo, but the bracelet that had held it too.

  "Did you lose your bracelet?" I asked, taking the pen.

  Her face burned bright red. She nodded again.

  I took a sip of black coffee. "There were times when you and Mike didn't get a long all that well, weren't there?"

  Big green eyes looked up into mine.

  "Yeah, I saw it. The old man making passes. The swats on the ass." I shrugged. "Kind of hard to miss."

  "Mr. Abramopoulos was a nice man," she said quickly.

  Of course she would say that. Since I hadn't been able to dig up much on her, I'd guess that Petra Ahmeti was illegal. Chased from a struggling homeland like the Greeks had been a generation earlier. Mike had paid her in cash, and since she was good worker, she took home good tips. Better than the other two waitresses who would just as soon dump your plate into your lap as serve you.

  Maybe the night Mike was killed he had pushed things beyond an ass-swat with pretty Petra. And paid for it in spades.

  A price exacted not by Petra, I was sure.

  "When did you lose your bracelet, Petra?"

  She began rubbing one of her thumbs hard against the other. "I didn't. Lose it, I mean. I . . ." She appeared to be searching for the right words, as any non-native speaker might. But I guessed her hesitation grew more out of her not wanting to tell me what she had to say than her limited English.

  I heard the sound of a tub of dishes being put down heavily on the table behind me.

  "She gave it to me," the busboy said. "So just leave her alone."

  Bingo.

  You see, Petra had never been on my radar as a suspect. She was just too gentle. Someone had killed on her behalf. And it was a sure bet that the guy was Greek. Because while it wouldn't be unusual for an Albanian girl to be wearing a Greek evil-eye charm on her bracelet, I'd gotten the impression from the way I'd seen her play with it that it had been a gift. From a Greek guy. And since Mike hadn't been the giftgiving kind, that left one other Greek guy in the diner.

  Stamatis came to stand next to my booth, his hands fisted at his sides. "What do you want with Petra? Why are you asking her these questions?"

  I kept my gaze on Petra's pretty face. "Sweetheart, why don't you go in the back and see if you can scare up a piece of fresh baklava for me. Not the pieces that have been in the display all day."

  She briefly met my gaze and then scooted from the booth, disappearing into the back of the diner.

  "How long you been working here, Stamatis?" I asked the kid as I peeled off a twenty from my clip.

  The question was rhetorical. I already knew how long he'd been working there. Exactly eight months. Hired on the day after Petra, after the previous busboy had met with a hooded mugger in a dark alley.

  Now, you might say that was just a coincidence. Then I would have to remind you of Rule #2 in the P.I. handbook: There are no coincidences. My inquiries had revealed that Petra worked at another restaurant in Jackson Heights prior to coming to the Acropolis. And so had Stamatis. And through NYCIS, that the young man also had two priors, violencerelated. A name-check by my buddy McCurdy had produced that tidbit. Of course, being illegal, Stamatis had no Social Security number.

  Enter Mike Abramopoulos, restaurant owner, husband, father of three, and pretty much harmless, if a bit lecherous. Being of the male persuasion myself, I knew that many of us appreciated the value of a pretty girl. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that a man's primal desire to spread his seed is, well, it is what it is.

  As for the steak knife, it was an even bet that the forensics lab might discover that it had been used for its normal intended purpose-even though the photos of the entire diner post-murder had shown the tables and counter cleared of all plates, glasses, and utensils. Stamatis may have cleared the tables for some reason after using the steak knife to stab Abramopoulos.

  A crime of passion, and a mundane weapon ready to hand.

  Then he may have emptied the cash register to make it look like a robbery gone bad.

  I noticed that Stamatis hadn't answered my question, and his fists were still clamped ti
ght at his sides.

  I pushed from the seat, tucking a copy of the Queens Tribune under my left arm. Stamatis had to either back off or make good on his unspoken threat. I wasn't sure how he'd play it. But he blinked.

  I eyed the kid. A shame, really. He was all of nineteen and had his whole life ahead of him.

  A life that would now include a sojourn at Rikers before a long stretch upstate.

  "Tell Petra I changed my mind about the baklava," I said, putting the twenty on the table and heading for the door.

  A little while later, I watched from the opposite corner as Sergeant Tom McCurdy and his partner pulled up in front of the diner and went in to arrest Stamatis. While no confessions had yet been extracted, nor solid evidence produced, I'd suggested to Tom on the phone that a little pressure applied just so would get him both.

  The homicide detectives led the kid out in handcuffs and nodded in my direction. I nodded back and then took a long pull off the cigarette I'd just lit. I coughed, stared at the burning end, let it fall from my fingers to the pavement, and ground it out under the heel of my shoe. As I turned to head to my car, the N train squealed to a halt on the elevated tracks a half a block up on 31st. I didn't have to hear to know that inside the train the announcement was: Last Stop, Ditmars.

  And for Mihalis Abramopoulos, Ditmars had been his last stop.

  I looked at the sea of people coming down the platform stairs on their way home, and others out on the warm night with families and friends, gathering in cafes and restaurants and Astoria Park. For other immigrants and locals alike, Ditmars represented a beginning ...

  PART III

  FOREIGN SHORES

  AVOID AGONY

  BY SHAILLY AGNIHOTRI

  Jackson Heights

  AVOID AGONY Let me investigate the morals of your child's intended before the sacred blessings of Marriage are arranged in America. Make sure your future son- and daughter-in-law are of pure values. Based in New York. $US 200 per report.

  he week after he placed the advertisement in the India Today matrimonial pages, he received fifty-six requests. Not all, of course, had paid the $200 he charged through PayPal. But twenty-one had. He did a criminal background check of the ten men and eleven women. He ran their credit histories and sent the reports:

  Dear Sir:

  It gives me great pleasure to report that the match for your daughter/son should proceed as planned. My investigation has revealed no character flaws in the intended.

  If you need further assistance, please advise. I should note that I also offer astrology guidance in selecting the date/ place for marriages, children, and the like.

  Jai Hind,

  Raj Kumar

  With the astrology business and now the Matrimony Investigating Agency up and running, things were looking good. Raj treated himself to a masala dosa at India Grill. "Add more mirshe," he always reminded them, or else the dosa lacked the requisite zing. He relished the spiced potatoes and the sweet masala tea. All around, families, business people, and ladies sat and gossiped, some in English, some in Punjabi, and some in Gujarati. Almost everyone was Indian. Why, he sometimes thought, Queens is more Indian than India. He took out some quarters, left two as a tip, and went to the register to pay.

  It was a Saturday; he would sit and wait for any walk-in business. He headed into the Sari Palace, past the mannequins in langas and saris, nodded his greeting to the ladies setting up the register, and up the stairs to his office. It was best not to speak to them, he had realized, or else they'd draw him into their gossip. Then he'd have to listen to the not-so-subtle suggestions about some cousin or niece who was ready to marry, who cooked so well and sang beautifully. Would you like to see her photo? Best to avoid the tedious talk.

  The walls of his second-floor office were bare but for three posters of the most beautiful woman who had ever lived, the 1950s Indian film star, Meena Kumari. When he procured the lease to the office, he had allowed himself the extravagance of taking some publicity photos he'd had since his teens to the copy center and enlarging them. Her gaze never escaped his.

  He flicked on the neon Open sign in his window, under a hand-lettered one that read, Vedic Astrology, and checked his e-mail.

  He scanned the few requests for matrimonial character checks. One e-mail caught his eye:

  Dear Sir,

  I am in urgent need of your investigative skills. Tell me, are you based in New York? I need a full report on a person living there who has entangled my son. I must get a full dossier on the woman in question to save my son from this match. Please advise as to your services and fees.

  M. S.

  Raj read the e-mail over several times and mulled the "full dossier" request. What should be the quote for such a report? $400? This one doesn't want a report that reassures him that his child will be fine coming to America and marrying his intended. He wants dirt. The salacious detail of depravity. That she drinks, smokes, and dances.

  He responded:

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you kindly for your request. The services you require can be had for a fee of $340. Please supply details, names, date of birth, and the like for the girl in question. Please use PayPal to arrange these transactions.

  Within ten minutes, he received confirmation of a payment and a name: Ritu Rani. Ritu Rani? He smiled and dug through the stack of Little India magazines on his desk, finding the one from four months ago. There she was on the cover: Miss Little India, Queens 2006-Ritu Rani. He remembered every curve of her delicate body. She was back in his life again.

  He waited two days before responding:

  Dear Sir,

  I am saddened to inform you that Ritu Rani is of question able moral character. She has been known to smoke, and further, participate in beauty contests. She was awarded the title of Miss Little India after performing a dance on the stage. Her sign is one of a woman with much ambition and greed. I would advise avoiding further alliance between your son and her.

  Within minutes of sending his report, he received a most pleasant offer.

  I am disappointed to hear of the adventures of the lady in question. However, these facts of smoking, beauty pageants, and dancing in public will not dissuade my son, as he has come under her spell. Please consider an extensive investigation with more meaty facts. MONEY IS NO OBJECT.

  This time it was signed with the full name: Manny Sharma.

  "Lakshmi, praise be to you," Raj said out loud. Manny Sharma. The Manny Sharma needs his services. How fortunate is his cusp. He must do his horoscope to see what other good karma is coming his way. Manny Sharma needs him. A wayward only-son entangled with a woman. Well, one man's bad luck is another's good fortune.

  Dear Mr. Sharma,

  Thank you very much for your kind e-mail regarding the plight of your son. Of course, as a man who values the auspiciousness of marriage, I can understand your deep concern. This is an unfortunate set of circumstances. God willing, I will be of assistance to you. Kindly send me your son's vitals, date of birth, time of birth, and of course his current address. I will never let him suspect that I am in any way involved with his affairs. I will simply ascertain, based upon my understanding of human nature, what set of facts will dissuade him from pursuing this unholy alliance.

  My hourly rate for this in-depth work will be $95 US. Please advise how much time you wish for me to devote to this investigation.

  Raj read his work over with care and wondered whether the $95 was high enough to show his worthiness but not too high to make him seem greedy. He changed it to $85 before sending the e-mail.

  Raj was so pleased with himself that he left right away for some paan. It was important to sweeten one's mouth at good news so that it would linger longer. He walked to the corner of 74th Street and Roosevelt Avenue. Vinod had set up a paan stand inside the sweet store. Raj came here a few times a week, as nothing was as satisfying as the taste of a freshly made paan. As Vinod wrapped the betel leaf and added areca nut and mineral lime, then sprinkled some spices, s
weet mixture, and whatnot, they chatted. But Vinod was always looking for some free advice. What's an auspicious date for buying stock? Good dates for traveling? Today Vinod wanted to know about his sister's marriage. What good dates are coming? Nothing annoyed Raj more. Astrology was an ancient and sacred art. It required precise calculations. It was not gossip material. But he loved paan, and Vinod was the only game in town, so he held his tongue and gave general information. "Well, till the eclipse on the thirteenth, not good to set the date." He finally got the paan, plopped it in his mouth, and chewed.

  As he walked back to his office, he stopped at the DVD store at the corner of 37th Road to see what latest Hindi movies they had. All the usual trash. He rented two and headed to his office, feeling satisfied that now his moment had come and Manny Sharma himself would be the vessel.

  Manny was around fifty, ten years older than Raj. Manny had made a fortune in the Indian steel business. When Raj had taken his correspondence course in astrology a few years before, Manny's horoscope had been his final project. Raj remembered that even with all of Manny's money, the chart showed difficulty in the fifth house-some fracture with a child. And since Manny had but one son ... Well, well, well, Manny and Raj's fortunes intertwined.

  Now Raj did a more extensive moon chart of Manny, which showed him to be a ruthless man who destroyed his competition and cared little for others. So it is only fair, Raj reasoned, that though he have a fortune (he was, after all, born in the Shukra ascension), his lack of humility must bring him pain in some other area of his life. And nothing would concern the great Manny Sharma more than the thought of his prince marrying a loose woman.

  Neal Sharma was an MBA student at the Stern School at NYU. Raj had no trouble locating him the next day. Raj presented himself in the lounge of the Stern building and waited. Soon classes were over and he spotted Manny's son with a group of other young men. Neal was handsome, slim, and decidedly casual for being the son of one of the wealthiest families in India. Raj watched and studied him. Was he a good kid? He seemed to be enjoying the company of his friends. No pretentiousness. Not the strongest personality in the group. Not the most handsome. But a good enough fellow.