Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  I began to worry as to exactly what that ending might be when a hand grabbed hold of my hair and roughly jerked back my head. The cold air nipped at my throat, its chill as sharp as a knife’s blade.

  “Stay out of things that don’t concern you,” a voice harshly instructed.

  The words slid past as I concentrated on absorbing the tone, the inflection and pitch, hoping to one day be able to identify my attacker.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked, and savagely tore the tape off my mouth.

  “Yes,” I croaked, wanting nothing more than to eventually have a chance for revenge.

  “Good. Because otherwise your eyes and mouth will be sewn shut, just like your friend.”

  That proved to be all the high octane fuel needed to set me on fire. This had to be the same man who had murdered both Bitsy and Magda.

  Logic told me not to react. I paid little heed as my hand instinctively flew up and grabbed hold of his face mask. I pulled as hard as I could, trying to rip it off, and it began to give way. The next thing I knew, a dull pain roared through the back of my neck, my arm fell to my side, and I was swallowed by a pool of darkness.

  Fourteen

  It was cold when I awoke, and my body hurt like hell. But the important thing was that I was still alive. Or at least, I seemed to be.

  Then my attacker’s last words came rushing back to me. I held my breath, afraid of what harm might have been done while I lay unconscious. Still, there was no other choice but to try and open my eyes.

  A cry of relief escaped my lips to find that neither my mouth nor my lids had been viciously sewn shut. It was equally reassuring to feel all the loose pebbles and glass that cut into my hands around me. That simple detail revealed that I hadn’t been dragged off somewhere else, but was still lying in the alley. For once, I didn’t even mind the sound of rats scampering by. Instead, I continued to lie there for a while before finally gathering the strength to check out the rest of my body.

  My arms and legs moved easily, and none of my limbs appeared to be broken. In fact, I didn’t really ache until I tried to sit up. That was when I cursed out loud. No wonder I hurt. My torso had been used as a football.

  I nervously took a deep breath. No trouble there. Thank goodness, at least my lungs hadn’t been punctured. Then I gently began to poke around. There weren’t any obvious bones sticking out, nor did I seem to have a specific sharp pain anywhere. With luck, the only problem would be a bad case of bruising, along with a jaw that was beginning to swell.

  I slowly crawled onto my hands and knees and took a look around. There were two sets of footprints leading in from the street, along with a skid mark that ran between them. I figured that was where my boots must have dragged through the snow. The same two pair then headed back out, minus one unconscious redhead.

  I glanced about to see if any evidence had been left behind. But the only thing in sight was the broken Bud bottle I’d slammed into someone’s knee. Next to it lay a crumpled pack of Marlboros. I slipped the empty box into my pocket, and then slowly stood up.

  That’s when the pain near the back of my head sprang to life. I gingerly ran my fingers along the nape of my neck. A large tender bump had formed. I was probably lucky to still be all in one piece; however, there was no denying the anger that was beginning to build up inside me. The son of a bitch who had done this had also burned Magda alive like a piece of charred meat. No way was I about to keep my nose out of his business—whatever that might be.

  Staggering through the alley, I spied my purse where it had been tossed near a garbage can. Tottering over, I picked it up. My attackers hadn’t bothered to take anything.

  Then I carefully made my way to my Chevy. Unlocking the door, I crept inside, and slowly drove home. I felt so beat that I didn’t even fight a Saab over the first available space in my garage, but instead settled for the next one to be found.

  I wondered if this was how it felt to be eighty years old as I timidly walked down my block. My next thought was to ponder if I’d ever actually reach the ripe old age of eighty at the rate I was going.

  I entered my building and stood facing three long flights of stairs.

  How does Gerda do this every day at her age? I wondered, and slowly began to pull myself up, all the while vowing that my next building would have an elevator.

  I entered my apartment, glad to finally be home. The answering machine blinked hello, and I went over to see who had phoned.

  “Hey, chere. I have to work late tonight. So don’t wait for me to eat dinner,” Jake said.

  His voice sounded tired and resigned, as though he were off fighting a war that couldn’t be won. For once, I was glad that he wouldn’t be home for a while.

  I stripped off my clothes and headed into the shower. Standing under the water, I let its warmth beat down on me, wishing that it would wash away every bruise and unseen hurt as it coursed through my hair, streamed over my shoulders, and flowed down my back.

  Who set those thugs on me, anyway? I pondered, and mentally began to run down a possible list of suspects.

  It had happened too fast for Sy Abrams to be involved. Maybe Giancarlo Giamonte had made a call, knowing there was a good chance that I’d head straight for the Beaver’s Den. The other likely culprit was Tiffany Stewart. She had every reason to want to scare me away, based on what I’d learned so far.

  I put that thought on hold as I toweled myself off and began to inspect what bodily damage had been done.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall,

  Who’s the fairest one of all?

  It sure as hell wasn’t me today. The sight of all those bruises certainly wasn’t pretty. Besides which, my jaw was now swollen and turning various shades of black and blue.

  I popped some Motrin, slapped on a couple of bandages, and applied a cold compress to my jaw. I’d have to hold it in place, which gave me a few minutes to kill. Fortunately, I knew exactly what to do with them. I picked up the phone and placed a call to Tiffany Stewart.

  “Hello?” answered the same sexy voice that I’d first heard just a few days before.

  “Hey, Tiffany. This is your good friend Rachel Porter,” I told her.

  “Rachel who?” she asked, playing dumb.

  “Oh, come on. You remember me. I’m the federal agent that came by to see you the other day,” I replied.

  “Oh yes. That’s right. Now I remember. I gave you the name of a PR firm. So how’d that work out for you?” she inquired, with a studied note of indifference.

  “Just terrific. Thanks for asking. In fact, after that I paid Muffy Carson Ellsworth a visit,” I informed her.

  That tidbit was met by a moment of silence.

  “How nice for you. Although Muffy is a bit out of the loop these days. She still thinks that she’s the queen bee, if you know what I mean,” Tiffany finally responded.

  “Funny. She had something to say about you, as well,” I replied.

  “Oh yeah? Like what? That she doesn’t approve of the fact that I wasn’t ‘to the manor born’?” Tiffany snidely retorted.

  “No. More along the lines that you slept with Bitsy von Falken’s husband,” I responded, dropping my first bombshell. “Muffy doesn’t seem to think that you were very discreet, but rather chose to flaunt the affair in Bitsy’s face.”

  “What does that old woman know, anyway?” Tiffany countered. “For God’s sakes, she’s in love with a fag and thinks that he’s straight.”

  “You must mean Giancarlo Giamonte,” I said, preparing to release my second nuke.

  “What? You know him as well?” she sharply questioned.

  “I sure do. In fact, I spent this afternoon with him,” I replied.

  “Oh yeah? Then you must have had a hell of a time sitting around that tomb of his, dishing about who does what to whom at which parties,” she sniped.

  “Actually, he was nice enough to show me his collection of shahtoosh shawls,” I revealed.

  “Get the hell out of here! You mean,
he didn’t know that you’re a Fed? How delicious is that? What a complete moron!” she crowed a bit too victoriously. “So, did you arrest him, or what?”

  “Why should you care?” I countered. “Or is it that you want him out of the way so that you can try and set up your own shahtoosh shawl outlet again?”

  “Where’d you get that idea from? Is that what Giancarlo told you? If so, he’s a goddamn liar. For chrissakes, Giamonte’s nothing but a jealous fag who wishes he had my boobs. Besides which, what would I want to do that for? I’m not one of those down-and-out, stick-up-the-ass socialites that’s been reduced to selling shawls from out of her Louis Vuitton luggage. I have far better prospects than that.”

  It seemed to me the lady did protest too much.

  “Let me try and guess. Such as selling illegal diamonds?” I ventured, taking a stab.

  “My, my. But you have been one busy little bee, haven’t you?” Tiffany nearly growled into the phone. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they must have been smoking some pretty strong weed. After all, I’m the widow of a very wealthy man. Remember?”

  “Yes, and from what I hear, he left the bulk of his estate to his sons,” I countered.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t believe all the gossip that’s flying around. It could prove to be dangerous,” she warned.

  “To whom?” I asked, my jaw beginning to throb.

  “To people who poke into things that are none of their business. Let me give you a piece of advice. I have my contacts. One word to them and you’ll be told to leave me alone,” Tiffany cautioned.

  “Really? And who might those be? The two thugs that jumped me tonight? Or is it your buddy who’s ‘on the job’?” I snarled, not in the mood for any more games.

  “This is the only warning that you’re going to get from me, Porter. Don’t call here anymore and stay the hell out of my business,” Tiffany responded, and hung up.

  I listened to the dial tone as if it might possibly reveal something. Then I placed the receiver back in its cradle.

  There was no question that Tiffany had something to hide. But if she hadn’t wanted me to dig around, then why had she bothered to call in the first place? I added that to my list of questions yet to be answered.

  By now the compress was warm and I threw it in the sink. Then I slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a soft, loose sweater. A generous dose of concealer helped to hide some of the black and blue marks on my jaw. After that, I rearranged my long, red hair as best I could to try and cover the rest of it. Only then did I head over to Gerda’s.

  Spam began to bark upon my approach, as though he instinctively knew my footsteps. I knocked and Gerda immediately answered the door. Her normally cheerful face dropped in alarm.

  “Oh my goodness! What happened to you?” she exclaimed, and without waiting for a response, pulled me inside her apartment.

  So much for my expert makeup job.

  “It’s nothing. I just took a spill on the ice. That’s all. Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to slough it off.

  But Gerda wasn’t about to let the matter rest.

  “If a fall did this to your face, then I can only imagine what it’s done to the rest of you. You must be hurt somewhere else,” she said adamantly.

  “I have a few other bruises, but it’s no big deal,” I replied, determined to make light of the situation.

  “Has Jake seen you yet?” she questioned, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “No. He won’t be home until later. I just stopped by to get Spam.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not going anywhere in that condition. First I’ll look at your bruises and then you’ll stay for a late dinner,” she insisted.

  I had to admit, the aroma coming from her kitchen was far too tempting to resist. Spam seemed to second the motion by jumping up and licking my face. It was clear that I’d never be able to leave without first letting her fuss over me. That being the case, I figured that I might as well stay and eat.

  “All right. But I already cleaned myself up,” I warned, knowing there was little choice but to give in to the inevitable.

  “I’m sure you did. But it’s always good to have another pair of eyes. Most likely, you missed something,” Gerda said, and led me into the bathroom. She flicked on a set of bulbs that were bright enough to have lit up a city. “Now let me take a look.”

  I reluctantly removed my sweatpants and top.

  “Oy gevalt!” Gerda cried out. She clucked her tongue and shook her head at the sight. “If this is from a fall, then I’m a twenty-year-old showgirl. Rachel, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Really, Gerda, it was due to my own clumsiness and stupidity,” I retorted, standing by my story.

  And in part, that was true. If I hadn’t been such a klutz, I wouldn’t have slipped on the ice and kept my eyes glued to the ground, but have watched where I was going. Perhaps then I’d have had time to fend off my attackers.

  “Is there any ointment under those Band-Aids?” she sternly questioned.

  “No,” I admitted. “But believe me, they’re all right.”

  “I believe that about as much as I believe that you fell on the ice,” she tartly retorted, and briskly ripped off a bandage.

  “Ouch!” I complained.

  But my protest fell on deaf ears as Gerda proceeded to remove every single one. Then she carefully cleaned each cut and applied a dab of ointment to it.

  “Personally, I think you should go to the emergency room and have a doctor check this out,” Gerda said, her fingers probing for any other wounds.

  “Absolutely not,” I obstinately responded; however, I began to relax under her touch.

  “You’re a very stubborn girl, Rachel. But I love you, anyway,” Gerda replied after finishing up. “All right then. Get dressed and come into the kitchen. At least you can eat some nourishing food.”

  She was right about that. I sat down to a bowl of homemade matzoh-ball soup. The rich chicken broth seemed to heal me from the inside out. My grandmother had always made it whenever I felt sick, calling each bowl Jewish penicillin. She must have known what she was doing because I’d instantly feel better, just as I did now.

  “There’s chicken roasting in the oven, and I’ll heat up some potato latkes from the other night.”

  Spam heard those words and immediately began to whine.

  “Yes, yes. And you’ll get some, too, my little meshugge,” Gerda affectionately reassured him.

  Spam must have understood Yiddish, for he patiently laid back down and rested his chin on my foot. I finished my soup as Gerda continued to bustle about the kitchen.

  “Gerda, where did you learn to cook?” I asked.

  She turned to look at me with a pot holder in her hand. “Why from my mother, of course. And she learned from her mother, who learned from her mother, who learned from her mother. Just the same as your grandmother taught your mother, and your mother taught you.”

  I started to laugh. “I’m afraid that I dropped the ball on that one.”

  Gerda sliced up some challah bread and set it on the table.

  “Don’t be silly, Rachel. You may not realize it, but there are lots of things your mother and grandmother taught you that you’ll never forget. How else do you think we’re able to carry on with our lives? You’re here right now because this was your grandmother’s home. Your mother grew up here, and now you’ve returned for a while. It’s like a migration. Well, much in our lives works the same way. Who we are is based on what we learned as a child,” she explained.

  “If that’s true, then what about those children who lost their parents in the Holocaust? How did they learn to get by?” I questioned, my mind wandering back to what I’d seen today.

  All that ivory still haunted me. Perhaps people had more in common with elephants than we realized.

  “Many of them became lost souls who had to find their own way. That is, unless they had other relatives to turn to. But why are you asking me this?” She
began to carve the chicken.

  I reached for a piece of bread as Gerda placed a plate with chicken, carrots, and latkes before me.

  “It’s just something that I’ve been thinking about lately.”

  If what she said was correct, then my grandmother and mother had been repositories of accumulated knowledge handed down over each generation, just as with matriarchal elephants. I’d grown up in a household of women. How much of what I learned had been unconsciously passed on to me by the adults? And what might I have never known if my mother and grandmother hadn’t been around?

  Perhaps it was collective wisdom, and ancient memories, that had drawn me back to New York. Though my family was gone, they’d always remain as much a part of me as New York City, where I’d been born.

  “And what if there are things too painful to look back on?” I asked, remembering the sister I’d lost.

  “We can’t escape our past. However we can choose to dwell on those things that we prefer to remember. The others, you tuck away and take out only once in a while,” Gerda wisely advised, and kissed the top of my head. “Now, eat.”

  Every bite made me feel better, as though it were tonic for my soul—as long as I remembered to chew only on the right side of my mouth.

  I tried to help clean up after dinner, but Gerda refused to hear of it.

  “Absolutely not. You shouldn’t be doing a thing for the next few days,” she commanded, as we finished our tea.

  “By the way, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask,” I mentioned.

  “What? You want I should put salt on the sidewalk so that you don’t slip again?” she questioned, casting a cynical eye my way.

  I chose to ignore the remark.

  “I’ve become interested in the diamond trade and was wondering if David would mind talking to me about it,” I replied, refusing to rise to the bait.

  Gerda couldn’t have looked more pleased. Perhaps she thought that her grandson and I might finally bond over precious gems.