AHMM, October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Edward Kinsella III

  * * * *

  Max's Luncheonette was serving a decent cuppa joe again, if you could stomach the jerk behind the counter pouring it.

  "Gimme a cuppa joe.” Cabby Ellis, lured into Max's Brooklyn Luncheonette by the robust aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, plunked herself down on the chrome stool beside a brand-new G.I. You could always tell—buzz cut, ill-fitting olive drabs, and in the eyes, the heartbreaking look that wavered between excitement and dread. This boy was quietly singing along to the radio: “Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but..."

  Cabby gave him a nod, glanced around, and asked the counterman, “Where's Frankie?"

  The new counterman was young. Freckles dotted the nose that bulged out in a little ball at the tip like Bob Hope's, and a fringe of greasy, carrot-orange hair oozed from under his paper cap. “Frankie's gone.” He slapped a white ceramic cup on a saucer, filled it at the steaming urn, and slid it over to Cabby.

  "Frankie always gives me a mug.” She shot the kid a quick pout but grabbed the cup and slurped noisily. Black, hot, and just what the doctor ordered.

  "Yeah? Well I ain't Frankie. And with the ration on, a cup's all you're getting, girlie.” Red swiped at the counter with a rag that was only slightly cleaner than his stained apron.

  "Hey, am I complaining? This stuff's terrific.” She raised the steaming cup in a mock toast. “Last time I was in, Frankie made the joe with reused grounds. Ugh. He swore it was orders from Max. You know, for the war effort, like FDR says. But, jeez..."

  "Believe me,” Red leaned an elbow on the counter, “they don't drink no secondhand joe at the White House. And just let FDR try to run a hashhouse with nothin’ to drink but swill!"

  The soldier had finished his meal, paid, and departed. As Red took his plate and gave the counter the once-over, Cabby noticed that the counterman was missing the tip of his right index finger ... his trigger finger that would be. Hmm—4-F. Explained why a man of prime draft age wasn't in uniform.

  "Well,” Cabby retorted, “President Roosevelt does have a country to run.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the seltzer taps. “And a war to win,” she finished absently as she raised her hand to smooth down her crisp dark curls.

  Pert, she thought, and frowned at the reflection. Pert had been all right for Hunter College. But now she was a reporter for the Times, and her articles carried the very serious-sounding byline of Catherine Joan Ellis. If only the city editor would give her serious assignments to match. Her latest article had covered Women's Clubs rolling surgical dressings for the boys overseas. Whoop-de-do. Sure, the uptown ladies were doing their dainty best for the war effort, but it didn't exactly make for crack reporting on her part. Cabby sipped her coffee to make the scrumptious brew last. She needed to make those guys at the Times sit up and take notice. How could she come up with a red-hot story they couldn't ignore?

  Red breezed by with a frankfurter slathered with onions and relish, shifting Cabby's attention to the only other customer in the luncheonette, a tall man in a double-breasted blue suit and a gray fedora. Not bad looking, she thought, and nice duds for this part of Brooklyn. She sent him a sympathetic smile as he pried open the frankfurter bun and inspected the lurid-orange tube of meat: who knew what the hell they were grinding up for hot dogs these days? Ignoring her, the guy started in on his meal.

  Cabby didn't appreciate being overlooked by men she'd graced with a smile. Miffed, she turned back to her cup. If only she possessed the elegant beauty of her roommate, Louise Hunter—a shining fall of honey-colored hair that could be swept up into a pompadour, a hint of Southern drawl, a straight nose instead of an upturned snub—then maybe men would look twice. She gave a wry, silent chuckle. Then maybe even the Times would take her seriously.

  One sip left. Cabby savored it. A strong coffee aroma still hung in the air, almost vanquishing the undernotes of stale cigarettes, bacon grease, and cleanser. When the big counterman lumbered back her way, Cabby asked, “So, where'd Frankie go?"

  Red shrugged. “Guess his number came up. Probably headed overseas by now.” He pulled a limp pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket, extracted a fag and tapped it on the counter.

  "Really?” She frowned. “That can't be."

  The counterman's eyes squinted. He set the unlit cigarette down, slapped both hands on the counter, and leaned toward her. “You callin’ me a liar?"

  "No. What's your problem, buddy? It's just that Frankie has three kids. Look, that's them.” She pointed to a pyramid of faded, black-and-white snapshots stuck with yellowing tape to the side of the cash register. A dark-haired girl with tight plaits was riding a tricycle in front of a brick apartment house, a boy smiled wide to display a missing front tooth, and a round-headed infant on a shaggy rug stared at the camera with a startled look. “They don't draft fathers, you know."

  Red turned to verify the photos. When he swiveled back to Cabby, his brown eyes were hooded. “Oh, yeah. Maybe Max said Frankie took off for California. Yeah, that's it. Frankie's going to work in a factory making bombs. Bombs over Tokyo, good old Frankie.” He struck a match against the sole of his shoe, then lit the smoke.

  "Really? Why go to California to do war work? Why doesn't he work right here at the Naval Yards? He told me he gets queasy just crossing the bridge to Manhattan."

  "How would I know, lady? Do I look like Frankie's keeper?” Red blew smoke from his nose and gave Cabby's empty cup a pointed look. “Somethin’ else I can get ya?"

  Cabby sucked in her cheeks and put a nickel on the counter. No tip for this creep. But she'd be sure to tell Louise that Max's Luncheonette on the corner was serving a decent cuppa joe again. If you could stomach the jerk behind the counter pouring it.

  * * * *

  "I knew war would be hell, right from the start, but I never thought it would be so hard on the taste buds.” As Louise Hunter trudged up the jute-covered boarding house stairs to the third-floor room she shared with Cabby, she wiped grease from her lips with a linen handkerchief and scowled at her roommate. “Exactly what was it Helda just served us for dinner?"

  "Who knows? Haunch of camel, maybe.” The back of Cabby's hand served as an impromptu napkin; she didn't go in for the niceties. “But I never expected a desert mammal would be so fatty.” She burped, ostentatiously.

  Louise inserted her key, turned the knob, and opened the door to their room. “Poor Helda, she does the best she can. How would you like to feed fourteen women on the garbage that's available in the markets these days?"

  "I'd rather butcher that camel myself,” Cabby agreed. “Except the OPA would probably toss me in the clink for violating wartime rationing regulations. Who would ever have thought that a government organization with a stupid name like Office of Price Administration would come to be the scourge of a meat-deprived populace?"

  Louise gave a weary nod. “Meat. Sugar. Eggs. Butter.” She could have gone on and on, but she was too tired to continue the litany of deprivation. She was working as night nurse on a case on 72nd Street between Lexington and Park. A swank address but no easy job. The elderly patient roamed her apartment night and day, tearing her clothes off completely or draping herself in finery she pulled from one of her many closets. Last night the patient had taken a fancy to a red silk robe purchased decades earlier in Shanghai. Getting her into a flannel nightgown, sedated, and settled in bed involved Louise, both maids, and high drama. And then the day nurse had the nerve to show up late for the second day in a row. The trains on the IRT were few and far between after rush hour and jammed with fresh-mouthed G.I.'s when they did come. Louise hadn't gotten home to Brooklyn and her bed until almost noon.

  And then, when Cabby came home at five thirty, Louise had abandoned her fitful sleep, ironed the uniform she'd rolled up in a damp towel that morning, endured that ghastly meal. Now, all she wanted was to flop down in the overstuffed armchair with a cup of cocoa, listen to a piano concert on the old Philco, t
hen sleep the entire night away. When had life come down to so few pleasures?

  "Cabby, do you think we dare fire up the hot plate for some cocoa? I couldn't even pretend to drink Helda's ersatz coffee at supper."

  "Sure, I've got a half hour before I have to go to the Y.” Cabby was taking a course in commando tactics for women at the Brooklyn YWCA. She'd already put her newly limbered muscles to work by demonstrating the fireman's carry for the women in their boarding house. She'd also volunteered to show everyone how to break down a door, but their landlady had put the kibosh on that. “And, besides, if we do it right away, Helda will still be in the kitchen listening to ‘Blondie’ while she dries the dishes."

  When they were settled with their steaming mugs, Cabby announced, “I had a cup of real, full-brewed coffee today. It was ... fabulous!"

  "Ooh, stop! You're making me jealous.” Louise cupped her hands around her mug, absorbing comfort from its warmth and chocolaty goodness. “Where'd you find real coffee, Cabby? You hanging out at the Ritz these days?"

  "Don't I wish. No, this was just down Flatbush Avenue at Max's.” Cabby told her tale, ending with the news that Frankie was no longer manning the counter at the luncheonette.

  "Hmm. I thought he must have found another job.” Louise ran her finger around the rim of the battered mug, pausing at a chip in each revolution.

  "The new counterman said Frankie went to California to work in a defense plant."

  Louise's head jerked up. “No, he didn't. I saw him this morning. I was just leaving my patient's building and Frankie was pushing a hand cart loaded down with boxes. The super let him in at the service entrance."

  "You sure it was Frankie?"

  "Absolutely. He was half a block away in overalls and work jacket instead of kitchen whites, but I'd know him anywhere. Who else has a paunch like that?"

  "Hmm ... maybe he has a twin brother. Anyhow, that cuppa joe was the high point of my day. How was work for you?"

  In between sips of cocoa Louise told her about the Chinese-robe drama. “And Mrs. Whiting is a big woman too. Getting the nightgown on her was some comic scene. What I don't have to do for my eight bucks a night!"

  "Don't you have any help?"

  "Well, Cleo, the younger maid, helps if I ask. She's some spunky girl. I could come to like her. But that damn cook! Wilhelmina? She gets Mrs. Whiting riled up deliberately—just to spite me."

  "How?"

  "She serves food everyone in the house knows Mrs. Whiting hates. Last night she gave her rice pudding with raisins. Madame almost threw it across the room. Then Willie flounces out of there at nine o'clock like the Queen of Sheba and I have to deal not only with a demented patient, but a furious one."

  "Why don't you ask for a different case?"

  "I just might, but I hate to let the Registry down. So many girls are overseas they're hurting for nurses. This is the Whiting family, a big case for Sullivan's. But, speaking of Willie, you know what happened this morning?"

  "Uhm?” Cabby's mouth was full of cocoa.

  "The day nurse was late, so Willie had to serve me breakfast. You can bet she was happy about that. Well, I could smell the coffee brewing. Divine. Just like what you were talking about at Max's. But when Cleo brought in the breakfast trays, the coffee was hogwash. Neither of us could drink it, but Mrs. Whiting is beyond complaining—she just throws things."

  "Can't you tell someone? Who's in charge?"

  "Her son drops by once in a while to check on things, but he comes in the daytime and I'm never there. Anyhow, maybe I'm making up the whole thing. Maybe I'm just so starved for good coffee, I hallucinated the smell."

  "I've never thought of you as the delusional type.” Cabby tilted her head. “But you know, it is odd how some people manage to get prime foodstuffs in spite of rationing. What do they know that the rest of us don't?"

  Louise yawned and stretched. “Beats me. I've got to get going or I'll never catch a train. If I have to spring for a cab all the way to the Upper East Side my purse will roll over and die."

  As Louise pried herself out of the comfortable chair and reached for her uniform bag, Cabby continued with a faraway gleam in her eye, “You know, it really is more than odd. Helda can't get coffee to save her life, and ... hmm ... maybe this is my hot story. I think I'll just schmooze around a bit, ask a few questions."

  * * * *

  The next morning Cabby clattered down the porch steps to buy one of the early papers. “Hey, newsie, gimme a Mirror." She handed the boy two pennies and snatched up the tabloid. The sunny street was already busy with lunchbox-toting neighbors headed for the subway.

  Settling in at a deserted end of the breakfast table, she spread out the Mirror and sipped at her chicory-laced breakfast coffee. Another bloody battle on the Russian front, the Brits drop more bombs on Turin. Yeah, it was all sad as hell. No way to start a day. She should save the paper for after supper, but a newspaperwoman had to be informed. She turned to page five, and a Brooklyn headline attracted her attention. Reading on in the article, she suddenly gasped and choked on her oatmeal.

  A few minutes later, Cabby was pacing the boarding house's wide front hall with the early edition jammed under her arm. Just where the hell was Louise when she needed her? The newspaper under her arm felt like it weighed ten pounds, and it wasn't even The New York Times. She checked Helda's grandfather clock. Nine fifteen. Louise should be coming any minute. Cabby opened the front door, again, looked down the street. Again. Two dogs and a mailman.

  As she slapped gray kid gloves against her palm, Helda clattered out of the parlor dragging her canister vacuum. “Something wrong, Miss Ellis?” Helda asked. “You've usually gone to work by now."

  Cabby shook her head, no need worrying their landlady. Helda was a good egg, a wide-hipped, comfortable woman who'd always been willing to let the rent slide a day or two in emergencies. “Just waiting for Louise. Something I have to tell her."

  Helda took a turkey-feathered duster to the window sill. “At least you don't have long to wait. Here comes Miss Hunter down the sidewalk now."

  Cabby threw the door open. “Louise!” Before her roommate could step over the threshold, Cabby grabbed her uniform bag and hung it on the coat rack. “Walk me to the subway. We can talk on the way."

  "Does it have to be now?” At Cabby's flustered tone, Louise's expression altered from exhausted to worried. She frowned. “I'm on my last legs."

  "Yes. Now.” Cabby propelled the protesting Louise back out onto the porch, then shook the newspaper open, turned to page five, and stabbed a bright red fingernail at a small article. “Read this."

  brooklyn man drowns

  The body of Francis Leo Dattilo, 30-year-old restaurant worker, was recovered from the East River by a police launch late yesterday afternoon. Police believe Dattilo drowned after falling from Pier 9, at the foot of Old Slip. An empty bottle of Four Roses bourbon was found in his pocket. The deceased worked at Max's Luncheonette, Flatbush Avenue, Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, and he leaves a wife and three children.

  "Is that Frankie?” Louise croaked.

  "You bet.” Cabby jammed on her gloves. “Something stinks here. Frankie was no booze hound. If he was shellacked when he fell off that pier, I'm Greta Garbo on roller skates."

  Louise skimmed through the article a second time. She refolded the paper, her hazel eyes tired again. “Yeah, it does seem fishy."

  "That's why we've got to do something. I have an idea."

  "We?” Louise's tone was doubtful. “Cabby, we hardly knew Frankie."

  "Nonsense. Everyone in the neighborhood knows—knew—Frankie. We saw him almost every day.” Cabby's compact body trembled. Why was she taking this so hard, she wondered. It couldn't be just Frankie. Louise was right—she hardly knew him. It was more than Frankie. Everything was wrong. The world was wrong. American boys younger than her were being blown to bits on the battlefield, and she didn't fall apart. But Frankie, this friendly goombah, he was from the block. He was one of thei
rs.

  Louise placed a comforting hand on Cabby's arm. “Who knows what went on in Frankie's life, Cab? We only ever saw him behind the counter. He could have been a secret lush, you know. Or he could have jumped on purpose."

  "Suicide? Frankie? You kidding me?"

  "I've seen it before, in patients you would never expect. They put up a good front and then one day..."

  "Oh, bull feathers,” Cabby sputtered, regaining her resolution. She tipped her black felt hat low on her forehead. “Come on, kid. We're going to Max's."

  "Max's?"

  "Yeah. Right now—pronto.” Cabby trotted down the worn marble steps to the sidewalk. “Then I've got to get to the Times, or I'll be out on my keister."

  "But, Cabby, what can we do at the luncheonette?” Louise followed, skimming along on the balls of her feet.

  "For starters we can find out more about this supposed drowning."

  "Ask questions at Max's? Uh-uh. Not me.” Louise stopped, dead center in the middle of the sidewalk. “I don't want to start any trouble—Ouch!” She staggered as a fast moving baby carriage slammed into the back of her legs.

  "Jeez, sister. Watch where ya goin'.” A young mother in a plaid headscarf swerved her pram to the left.

  "I'm so sorry,” Louise began, but Cabby gave the girl a Brooklyn look. “Why doncha watch yerself, sister.” She grabbed Louise's elbow, and they pushed past three schoolgirls arm-in-arm, taking up half the sidewalk, then stepped out into the street to avoid an open sidewalk coal chute.

  "Who said anything about questions?” Cabby continued. “We're just going to Max's to ... to get a cup of coffee. I wouldn't trust anything that creep, Red, said, anyhow. But I need to find Frankie's address so I can talk to his widow."

  "From what you say about that Red, he won't give it to you."

  Cabby paused, considering. Then she winked. “Yeah, I think he will—in a manner of speaking."

  The women had turned from their quiet block onto busy Flatbush Avenue, with its markets, dry cleaners, bakeries, Irish bars. They wove through the crush of shoppers shoving into the kosher butcher and stopped in front of Max's. Cabby pivoted and grasped Louise by both arms. “Okay. Here's the plan. You're going to distract Red so I can steal something."