"Steal something? Why, Catherine Joan Ellis!"
"Here, hold my purse.” Cabby swung the overstuffed bag by its long strap, and Louise grabbed it.
"Uff. What have you got in this thing?"
"Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Now, listen, there's this photo taped to Max's cash register. I'm gonna swipe it. Just you bat those thick eyelashes and give Red a little ‘honey chile’ in that sexy drawl of yours."
"I've never called anybody ‘honey chile’ in my life!"
"Okay, call him ‘Rhett, darlin',’ if you have to. He'll melt. Just keep him occupied for a few minutes so I can get the snapshot. I'm almost sure it shows a street sign in front of Frankie's house."
Louise held back. "Almost sure?” But Cabby was halfway in the door. Energized by the younger woman's resolve, Louise put one foot in front of the other and was soon inside the luncheonette with her partner in crime.
The place was packed. Every booth and stool was taken. From behind the counter, crockery rattled and steam hissed. Louise took a deep breath. Then she inhaled again—even more deeply. Cabby was right. Max's Luncheonette was serving the kind of coffee most New Yorkers hadn't tasted since before the war.
As Louise ordered two take-out coffees, she cast Red a big, sunny smile. The counterman paused for just a beat in his rush to fill the breakfast orders and ogled her with a greasy leer. Louise's stomach roiled. And Red wasn't the only one paying attention; a square-jawed man in a blue suit and gray fedora had his eyes on her while pretending to read the Daily News. Louise inched away from the booth where he sat alone. Red plunked the cardboard cups on the counter and held out his hand for the money.
Leaning against the register as Cabby had instructed, batting her eyelashes at Red, Louise dug in her change purse for the right coins—a nickel landed on his outstretched palm, then one penny, two, three—And still the sunny smile, but Red was beginning to show signs of impatience. Her hand shook and change came pouring all over the counter. Behind her Cabby was out the door, her hand in her coat pocket.
In the crisp early-winter sunshine, they walked briskly to the subway entrance. Louise's cheeks were bright red.
Cabby glanced at her sideways. She couldn't tell whether the flush on Louise's face was from disgust—or from something else. “So, our little heist got you all excited, huh?” She raised her penciled eyebrows. “Or was it the dreamboat in the blue suit? He sure was giving you the eye."
"Don't be ridiculous. The guy in the hat? I didn't even notice him.” Louise handed Cabby a cardboard cup. “I told you—I'm done with men."
"Yeah. Riiiight.” Cabby gave her roommate a sidelong glance and jerked her head back toward the luncheonette. “But it looks like they're not done with you."
As heat and the smell of humanity wafted up the subway station steps into the cool air, Cabby and Louise sipped their coffee and studied the faded snapshot of Frankie's daughter pedaling her tricycle. The last of the rush-hour riders veered around them and disappeared down the stairs.
"There it is.” Cabby's finger traced the street sign at the periphery of the shot. “Plain as anything. Frankie lived on New Utrecht Avenue. Bensonhurst, I think. Yeah, right, Bensonhurst. There're all Eye-Ties over there."
Louise pressed her lips in a thin line. “Poor little girl—she's lost her daddy. When we get to Frankie's house, we should bring her something, maybe one of those teddy bears in a sailor suit."
Cabby slanted her gaze under her sleek hat. “So—you're in on this, are you?"
Louise shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound. You've got to get to work. I can go over to Bensonhurst now and start looking for the house."
Cabby took note of the dark circles below Louise's eyes. “No, you won't—you need some rest. You look like a strong wind would blow you over.” She held up her hand as her friend began to protest. “And don't you have another shift at Mrs. Whiting's tonight?"
Louise nodded, once again aware of the weariness flooding her body. She sighed. “One more, then two days off. But tonight should go better. I left a note asking Dr. Baines to increase the dose on her sedative."
"Okay, then. You go home. Get some sleep. I can go by Frankie's house after work. I'll let you know what I find out later. Which means—” Cabby grinned as she plucked Louise's cardboard cup from her hand and held it out of reach behind her own back. “—you won't be needing this coffee, Sleeping Beauty."
* * * *
With the sedative Dr. Baines had prescribed, Louise's patient was once again sleeping soundly. Louise's eyelids were so heavy, she half wondered if she'd accidentally administered a dose to herself. But curiosity about Cabby's visit to Bensonhurst teased her half awake brain. Before leaving the boarding house that evening for her shift, Louise had lingered as long as she dared, hoping Cabby would come clomping up the stairs with news about Frankie. But the clock had ticked on and no Cabby. Finally Louise had been forced to sprint for the subway. No sense speculating, Louise thought, as she fanned her face with a magazine she'd extracted from a rack by the chair; if Cabby discovered anything of importance, I'll hear about it in the morning. With a sigh, she adjusted the frilly shade of the table lamp and began to leaf through an old copy of The Saturday Evening Post....
Louise jerked herself sternly awake, rattling the slick magazine pages. Abandoning the article that had put her to sleep, she flipped to a full-page ad featuring a dark-skinned island girl with a bright red flower behind her ear. Brown Betty Coffee—Fresh—Delicious—Economical. With a wide smile, the girl offered a rattan tray bearing coffee cups; the artist had drawn enticing wisps of steam rising from each one.
That's it, she thought. A cup of strong black java would keep her alert and on duty. When Louise had started her shift, Willie'd provided her with the usual weak slop. Any punch the stuff might once have had was long gone.
And yet every morning there was that enticing aroma, just like the smell at Max's Luncheonette.
Louise glanced at the bedside clock. In the dim glow of the night-light she could barely make out the numerals: 2:37. Five and a half hours until her relief would arrive. What if one of the maids should wander in and find Mrs. Whiting's private-duty nurse sound asleep? She couldn't afford a bad report getting back to the Nursing Registry.
Louise struggled out of her chair's soft depths. There was only one option. She'd find Willie's private cache and make herself a decent cup of strong coffee. Wrapping her pink sweater more tightly around her uniform, she tiptoed to the bedroom door and eased it open. Between the dim-out and saving electricity for the war effort, Mrs. Whiting's apartment was not simply shadowy at night, but downright dark.
She crept across the furniture-crammed living room more by memory than sight, then put on a little speed once she reached the kitchen hallway. Slammm! Oh, God—the telephone table! And the phone had gone flying across the woven straw utility rug with an unearthly clatter. She scooped it up, gentled the receiver onto the base, took a deep breath, and held it.
Nothing.
Okay. So far, so good. The kitchen door stood straight ahead and was usually open. Three more steps. Two. One.
The kitchen light flared on. A menacing figure wielding a weapon dominated the doorway. “Who's there? Stop. I'll call the police."
Blinking, Louise recognized Cleo, the maid, in her crimson robe looking like some African goddess of wrath.
"Jee-zus, Cleo. It's only me. Put down the frying pan.” Louise's heart was thudding so hard she feared it would infarct.
"Nurse Louise?” Cleo set the heavy cast-iron pan on the kitchen table. “What you doing out here in the middle of the night?” The maid was Louise's age, and they got along well, aligning together against the queenly Wilhelmina.
"I'm glad it's you, Cleo. I just came out to make a cup of coffee. You won't tell Willie?"
"Lord, no. She'd have a cow she ever knew you was in her kitchen. But it ain't no skin off my teeth."
"You just go back to bed. I'll fix it myself.”
Louise made a beeline for the stainless-steel canister marked coffee that stood on the counter by the stove.
Cleo took the canister out of her hand. “You don't want that swill, honey. I'll show you where Willie keeps the good stuff.” She opened the refrigerator door, took out an unmarked can half-hidden behind a baked ham, and handed it to Louise. “Willie got connections,” she said, and winked.
Aha! Louise thought. She turned on the tap and let water run into the base of the percolator. “Really?” she replied. “Hmm. Shall I make a cup for you, too, Cleo?” Then she winked back. “Connections, huh?"
"I'll have a cup, sure.” Cleo sat down at the table. “Yeah, this big red-headed guy comes to the super's apartment every Friday morning, regular as clockwork. One of us goes down and stocks up. No coupons, no questions asked. Cash on the barrelhead all that's needed.” She took the cup that Louise handed her. “Get butter and sugar that way too."
Louise sat down and placed the pot on a straw mat between them. “Wish my landlady was so lucky."
Cleo snorted. “Ain't got nothin’ to do with luck.” She poured the coffee. “Just connections. And money, of course.” She topped up her brew with heavy cream and added three spoonfuls of sugar. “That Willie ain't easy to live with, but she sure does know her way around."
Cabby's words were echoing in Louise's mind: It is odd ... Maybe this is my hot story ... Well, she was no journalist like Cabby, but certainly she could ask a few questions.
"So, Cleo,” she said, “is it always the same guy?” She stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. “With the coffee I mean?"
"Well, that's funny. It used to be this Red—"
"Red?” Louise halted the spoon in mid stir.
"Yeah. Big guy with one of them ski slope noses and a fresh mouth. Always making his little joke about needing him some—” She raised a plucked eyebrow and twisted generous lips into a sneer. “—some brown sugar. The nerve! But this past Friday, it was someone new. A Wop with a big belly. Poor guy, he was so nervous, he spilled the beans. I mean, really.” She gave an easy laugh. “Spilled about a pound of coffee beans all over that Kraut super's kitchen table. I don't think old Frankie'll be back again."
"Frankie!” Louise's heart did a somersault into her throat.
"Yeah, like I said. An Eye-Tie named Frankie. He sure didn't want to be there."
The maid downed the last of her coffee, stood up, placed her cup in the sink. “Well, I'm goin’ back to my beauty sleep. Thanks for the java. You better clean up this mess good, or Willie'll have your head."
Louise did clean up, thinking furiously all the while. Then she took the last of the coffee, went back to the dimly lit bedroom, and stared at Mrs. Whiting's boudoir phone, a fancy French model crafted of ivory and brass. She had to talk to Cabby. It was the middle of the night, but she had to talk to Cabby now.
Louise shot a glance at her patient in the bed, a shadowy, gently snoring mountain. Get the phone, Cabby, she prayed as she slowly dialed the number that would ring the wall phone in the corridor next to their room. Wake up and get the phone before someone else does.
On the sixth ring, a sleepy voice answered, “Whaddya want? It better be good, dragging a girl out of bed at three a.m.” Yes, her roommate had beat their troublesome neighbor to the phone.
"Cabby,” Louise whispered. “I made some coffee."
She wasn't expecting the long, stunned silence. When Cabby's response did come, it was acerbic. “Congratulations. Now can I go back to sleep?"
"No, no, you don't understand. I found Willie's good coffee.” Her words were running together. “And you'll never guess who delivered the beans."
"The beans? No, Louise, I have absolutely no idea who delivered the beans.” The tone of her voice could have scraped rust off iron. “Who did it, Louise? Who did it?"
"Don't be so fresh, Cabby. It was Frankie."
"Our Frankie?” Cabby's voice soared from a sarcastic half whisper to a high-pitched squeal.
"Shush. You'll wake up the whole house. Yeah, our Frankie. Cleo told me there's a ring supplying the upper crust over here on the East Side with coffee, butter, sugar, eggs, anything they want—and at top dollar."
A low whistle sounded through the ivory earpiece. Cabby was definitely awake now. She whispered, “Frankie musta got himself involved in some black market racket."
"Right. And then he ended up in the East River.” Louise's mouth was dry. “Listen, we've got to talk. There's a drugstore on the west side of Lexington, just around the corner from Whiting's. Meet me at the lunch counter at eight fifteen. We'll go to the police—"
"The police? Well—Whoops. Sorry, Marion, didn't mean to wake you. Just got word my grandma died. Yeah, I know, it's sad. I'll be off the phone in a minute.” She whispered, “Eight fifteen? I'll be there. Gotta go."
"But, Cabby,” Louise shrieked, suddenly panicked, “we could be in danger. They killed Frankie, you know. Frankie was murdered!"
No response. She was yelling into a dead phone.
A reedy voice came from the bed. “What did you say, dear?” Mrs. Whiting was sitting bolt upright and having one of her rare lucid moments. She plucked at her quilted bed jacket. “Did you say ‘murder?’”
* * * *
A few hours later, Cabby was downing scrambled eggs and toast at the busy drugstore lunch counter. Before Louise could get herself settled on the stool next to a middle-aged businesswoman in a severe suit, Cabby started talking. “I went to Bensonhurst, found Frankie's building."
"What happened?” The lanky boy at the counter raised an eyebrow at Louise, and she motioned to Cabby's plate. “I'll have the same—and coffee, please."
"Oh, Louise, you would have been so proud of me.” Cabby talked with her mouth full, torn between hunger and the need to tell her story. “The apartment door was wide open—people going in with huge bowls of meatballs and slabs of baked ziti, talking Italian a mile a minute. It could have been Naples instead of the good old U. S. of A—” Cabby paused as the counterboy slapped a cup and saucer on the shiny Formica.
"Did you have any trouble?” Louise asked, nodding her thanks for the coffee. The boy acknowledged her with an appreciative smile.
"Nah. I ran down the block to the bakery. I mean, who's going to tell a gal carrying a box of chocolate-covered cannoli to get lost? I found a big platter in the kitchen and started laying out the cannoli.You should have seen all the goodies! No shortage of butter and sugar in that neighborhood, I can tell you."
Listening, Louise took a sip from her cup. Good coffee. The businesswoman had finished her meal and lit up a cigarette. Louise waved the smoke away and turned back to Cabby. “And then?"
"Then there was this priest,” Cabby went on, pushing her empty plate away. “Father Leo—some kind of cousin. He had a taste for cannoli, so I let him help himself. This is what I found out. For those paisanos wine is mother's milk, but Four Roses, uh-uh—it just wasn't Frankie's style. Father Leo said Frankie never touched the hard stuff. The cops are still blaming his death on a drunken accident, but la famiglia thinks there's some kind of vendetta going on. I wouldn't be surprised if...” She let her speculation trail off. “Well, with the Eye-Ties, who knows?"
"What did the widow say?"
"I couldn't get at her, poor thing, a tiny little woman in black on the living room sofa surrounded by mourners three and four deep. She looked scared to death. Wanna make a guess who two of her primo consolers were?"
The boy delivered Louise's eggs and toast, took the departing businesswoman's plate, and applied his rag to the counter. Not a bad-looking meal, Louise thought. But then, this was Lexington Avenue. Louise took a bite of toast. Real butter. “No time for games. Just tell me."
"Max and his counterman, Red."
The boy suddenly paused in his counter wiping.
"Oh, no!” Louise gasped. Then she noticed the kid staring at them and gave him a cold look. He quickly moved on to shine the fountain spigots. With lowered voice, Louise asked, “Are you
sure?"
"You bet!” Louise shushed her, and Cabby went on more quietly. “Even if I was blindfolded, I couldn't mistake that Red, and I've seen Max at the luncheonette a time or two. So, I'm staring at them, and that Max, playing the big padrone, hands the widow a thick envelope, one of those brown ones from the bank. The lady's eyes flew wide open. Who woulda thunk it—old Max a generous SOB?"
"Cabby.” Louise was shaking, but her voice was steady and low. “I want you to think very carefully.” She took a bracing gulp of coffee. It was truly terrific, just like the good stuff at Mrs. Whiting's. “Did Max or Red see you there?"
Before Cabby could answer, the shoe dropped: this wonderful coffee she was drinking probably came from exactly the same source as Mrs. Whiting's.
"Well...” At the gravity of Louise's tone, Cabby faltered. “Red sure gave me a look ... And it was funny, I saw this other guy—he looked so familiar—hanging around outside the building, and I thought I knew him from Max's, but ... Why? What's wrong?"
For a long minute Louise was silent. She gazed around the drugstore. The counterboy had gone to the phone booth. She could see him through the glass in the closed door, dialing a number. Hmm. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Red is the one who usually delivers the coffee to Mrs. Whiting's building. Last Friday was the only time Frankie delivered, and Cleo said he was shaking in his shoes."
"No kidding?” Cabby whistled and narrowed her eyes. “They're in it on your end too? Wow! Red doesn't seem smart enough to run something as complicated as a black-market operation. I bet it's Max.” In her excitement, her voice rose. “Bootleg coffee! Whaddaya know? He probably has connections down at the docks."
"Keep your voice down, Cabby.” Louise crumpled her napkin on top of her uneaten eggs. The boy was heading back to the counter.
"You think Frankie maybe was going to blow the whistle on the whole deal?” Cabby asked in a whisper that could have been heard in Central Park.
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