New Haven Noir

by Amy Bloom

  The elevator doors closed. His father rolled the cart down another hallway. The boy stood there staring. He had never seen his father smile before. Not like that.

  When his father was gone, the boy went back into the room with the suitcases and back into the little passage and back into the kitchen and back into the hallway and back into Men Staff Lounge. He sat on the bench again. He sat there for two more hours. His father came in, stern and unsmiling. He took the boy to the bathroom. He gave the boy an apple and a peanut butter sandwich to eat. He said, You’ll only have to sit here a few more hours, son. I’m leaving early today.

  The boy sat on the bench for three more hours. Then his father came back. He asked if the boy had to go to the bathroom. The boy said no. They went out into the hall. His father went into Staff Men Dressing. He was out fifteen minutes later, back in his suit and crisp white shirt. He took the boy’s hand and they left the hotel. Across the street was an ice cream shop. He bought the boy a cone and they walked to the trolley stop. His father hardly said a word on the ride home. They passed Yale again. The boy looked out at the stone towers with their long windows and wondered how it would feel to be one of the kids inside throwing his shoes out.

  That night after dinner the boy got down on his knees to say his prayers. His mother sat on the bed. She reminded him to pray first for others. So he asked God to make Nana better. Then his mother said he should give thanks. So he said, God, thank you that Monday is over and tomorrow is Tuesday and I can go back to Vacation Bible School. Then he said, I hate Mondays, God. I really hate them. His mother was upset. Don’t say things like that, she said. I told you, God doesn’t want us to hate. The boy said he was sorry. But he already knew he was going to hell. Then his mother said he should say a prayer for himself. He shut his eyes tightly.

  Dear God, he said, when I grow up, please, God, I will do anything you want. I will be anything you want. But please, God, please, don’t let me grow up to be a Negro. Amen.

  Author’s Note: For more on the origin of this story, see Chapter 1 of my novel Palace Council as well as the author’s note at the end of the book. The Edward Malley store on Chapel Street did indeed have the window display the boy describes in 1948. In the fall of that year, New Haven did indeed retire the streetcars. The Vacation Bible School lessons are drawn from Florence M. Waterman, Standard Vacation Bible School Courses: Primary–First Year, published in 1922.

  Second Act

  by Jessica Speart

  Food Terminal Plaza

  It was the way her hand hovered around the deli case that first caught his eye. It fluttered back and forth like a butterfly caught in a moment of indecision. Her palm finally came to rest between the salami and the tuna salad and her fingers lightly tap-tap-tapped on the glass window case.

  “Come on, already. Pick something, will ya? I wanna order a sandwich and get back on the road,” groused the trucker behind her.

  Jimmy saw the heat rise in her cheeks and planted his meaty fists on the countertop. “Leave the lady alone. I’m sure McDonald’s can wait a couple of extra minutes for your delivery. Take your time, miss. Don’t let this bum rush you.”

  The trucker angrily tugged on his blue Ferelli Sausage cap. “Screw you, Jimmy. The taco trucks have better food than this place does, anyway.”

  “Sure, if you like chowing down on crappy corn cakes filled with mystery meat. Try not to choke on the truck fumes coming from I-95 while you stand there eating your lunch.”

  Annabelle’s eyes lowered as she drifted off into thought. She didn’t say a word although she knew the food trucks they were talking about. Parked on a thin strip of asphalt along the waterfront, they resembled a flock of exotic birds with their colorful array of plume-like flags and flashy yellow, green, and red exteriors. The pulsating sounds of salsa and mariachi music blared from their speakers most of the day and into the night. She’d been drawn to them one evening after rehearsal. Their siren song had lured her past Ikea, under the highway overpass, and on to Long Wharf Drive where the sun was beginning to set. It hung in a fiery ball above a group of white petroleum storage tanks, round as moon pies, that lay across the Sound.

  She had walked past the semitrailers and parked cars to where a crowd had gathered. Truckers and New Haven college students stood in separate groups laughing and talking as they ate quesadillas and burritos topped with bright green salsa. One college boy had looked at her askance as she’d joined the end of a line.

  “I’ll take two tacos, please,” Annabelle said upon reaching the front of the food truck.

  “What kind do you want?” asked the young girl leaning out its side window.

  “Oh, dear. I don’t know. I don’t eat Mexican food all that much.” Her mind drew a blank as she studied the menu board. What she wanted to do was turn and run.

  “Try the pork loin. They’re nice and juicy tonight,” whispered a voice in her ear.

  Spinning around, she saw a trucker standing behind her, his T-shirt stretched tight across his chest and his nipples erect from the wind whipping across the Sound. His gold tooth caught the last rays of light, gleaming bright as hidden treasure.

  “Trust me. They’re so moist you’re going to be begging for more. It’s a good night to try things you’ve never had before.” He leered at her and she did as he said. “Give her a beer too,” he added.

  That was the first of many drinks Annabelle had that evening.

  “My name is Tommy Corona. You know, Corona. Just like the beer.”

  It was the last thing she remembered him saying. The next morning, she woke up in a strange bed.

  * * *

  “The chicken salad is nice and fresh today, miss. Why don’t I make a sandwich of it for you?”

  The words plucked her from her thoughts and she looked up to where Jimmy stood smiling at her across the deli counter.

  “Thank you. That would be nice. I’m sorry that I made you lose a customer.”

  “Who? That mook? Oh, hell. Don’t worry about him, pardon my French.”

  Annabelle watched as he spread the chicken salad neatly between two slices of bread. He was portly with a sparse head of hair that was carefully combed across his scalp. The tip of his tongue, pink as a wound, grazed his upper lip as he deftly sliced the sandwich in two. This was a man who clearly enjoyed his food.

  “There. I think you’ll need a bag of chips to go along with that.”

  Annabelle quickly calculated the total in her head. “Please don’t bother. Just the sandwich will be fine.”

  “Here, take it,” he said, waving her ten-dollar bill away like a pesky fly. “Lunch is on the house today for having to deal with that jerk. I’d hate to think you wouldn’t come back again.”

  “Of course I will. I’m rehearsing a play at Long Wharf Theater next door. So I’ll be working here for a while.”

  He brightened and Annabelle thought he wasn’t such a bad-looking man after all. He’d be quite handsome if he were only thirty pounds lighter.

  “I thought you looked like a movie star! What’s your name? Have I seen you in anything?”

  Annabelle cringed inside, although her smile remained in place. She always sensed the disappointment that usually followed her answer. “Probably not. Most of my work is on the stage. I’m Annabelle Rogers. I’m sure you’ve never heard of me before.”

  “Annabelle Rogers,” he repeated. The name tingled on his lips like a fine sparkling wine. “Well, if you’re not a movie star yet, you should be. You’re as pretty as one and you’ve got a good name. Pleased to meet you, Annabelle Rogers. I’m Jimmy Carbonara. You know, Carbonara. Like the spaghetti sauce.”

  Annabelle shivered at the memory of Tommy Corona.

  “You’re cold! Here, take a cup of coffee with you. Let me know if you like the sandwich and I’ll make something special for you next time.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she smiled. Annabelle Rogers was no twenty-year-old, but still totally doable. Tall and slim, she was stacked in
all the right places. She was an absolute babe and completely out of his league. He’d never thought about going to the theater before. Maybe it was time he got some culture. He was already dreaming what to make her for lunch tomorrow as she waved goodbye and walked out the door.

  * * *

  Refrigerated trailers hummed where they sat in their bays and hand trucks groaned under the weight of crates loaded with sausages and boned chickens. Annabelle hurried past the meatpacking plants and walked through a parking lot the length of three football fields. Close to the docks, the theater was located in the heart of New Haven’s food terminal.

  She hadn’t performed at Long Wharf Theater before and was grateful for the job. People always assumed an actor’s life was filled with glamour and glitz, but the profession wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At least it hadn’t been for her, so far.

  It had been nearly a year since her last acting gig, and the ones she tended to land paid very little. Some of them paid nothing at all. Unemployment checks gradually kicked in, but they eventually ran out and then she was left to scramble. Annabelle usually managed to find work waiting tables, temping as a phone-sex operator or a lowly telemarketer dialing for dollars. There were days when she felt as if her life had become nothing more than a walking cliché.

  People always said that talent and hard work would eventually pay off. Annabelle had believed that to be true when she’d left Kansas and moved to New York City. She’d relentlessly studied her craft and gone on endless auditions and cattle calls. But years later she remained just another pretty face, one in a long line of hopefuls who were still pounding the pavement. Only now, at forty-six years old, she was no longer so young and her beauty was on the wane. It wasn’t the same for men. Show business could be cruel that way. George Clooney was box-office gold at fifty-four while Anne Hathaway felt washed up at thirty-two. A woman of Annabelle’s age was considered ancient.

  She had vowed to give up acting any number of times but couldn’t get off the merry-go-round. A small role always seemed to come along that was just enough to keep her going. She found herself trapped in a perpetual game of trying to grab hold of the brass ring. What Annabelle needed was a decent break but she’d begun to think it would never come. Not until a few weeks ago.

  Thank God for the casting director who’d seen her perform in some half-assed play at a run-down warehouse in Brooklyn. Her prayers were answered when he’d called and offered her the lead in a new production at Long Wharf Theater the very next day.

  All those years of heartache and scrimping to get by might finally be over. A plum role and good reviews would help to launch her career. With any luck, the play would move to Broadway and movie roles would begin to roll in. Maybe she’d no longer be plagued by nightmares of being a bag lady. Instead, Ryan Seacrest would ask to interview her as she walked down the red carpet of her dreams.

  She had worked hard for this and paid her dues. Success was now within her reach. Annabelle Rogers was bound and determined not to let anything stop her.

  * * *

  Jimmy Carbonara’s heart skipped a beat as she entered his store the next afternoon.

  “So you must have liked the sandwich, huh?”

  Annabelle smiled and he had to remind himself to breathe as the rest of the customers melted into the background.

  “It was delicious, Jimmy. The best I’ve ever had.”

  Just the way she said his name made his testosterone level soar. “That’s ’cause I put a little extra love into it. What can I get you today?”

  “Surprise me, Jimmy. Make me something special.”

  Annabelle couldn’t have been feeling better. She was beginning to remember her lines and the director seemed to be happy, even if rehearsals were still a bit bumpy. Then there was Jimmy. A man hadn’t looked at her this way in years.

  He thrust a round to-go tin into her hands. “Here, I made it for you this morning in case you showed up. How about I take you out to dinner tonight? Nothing fancy, just some good food. We can go to the Italian place next door.”

  She hesitated. “Thank you, Jimmy. That’s very nice, but—”

  “Aw, come on. Give a guy a break. This way I can say I once went out with a famous actress.”

  She took a peek inside the tin. A mound of egg salad had been molded in the shape of a heart.

  “Hey, I know I’m not Sylvester Stallone, but I’m no Pee-wee Herman either.”

  Annabelle was surprised to hear herself laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re my charming gentleman caller.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

  “He’s a wonderful character from The Glass Menagerie. It’s a play by Tennessee Williams that I was once in.”

  “So, what do you say? Can I take you to dinner tonight or what?”

  Annabelle considered the invitation. What harm could it do? She’d been working hard and was tired of living on canned tuna and pizza. Besides, an evening out might help her relax.

  “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll meet you here at seven o’clock.”

  Jimmy gave her a wink. “I’ll be waiting with bells and whistles on.”

  He kept an eye on the time for the rest of the day. At six forty-five, he opened a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and slipped some mood music into the boom box. When she hadn’t arrived by seven fifteen, his stomach started to churn. He began to anxiously pace the floor when the clock hit seven thirty.

  What in the hell’s going on? Is this bitch standing me up?

  He was cursing every woman he’d ever known by seven forty-five when she finally opened the door. He’d never seen such a vision before. Annabelle Rogers was decked out in a gauzy formfitting red dress. B.B. King wailed the blues as she walked into his store. Now this had been something worth waiting for.

  Her body tingled as she saw him checking her up and down. “Is one of those glasses of wine for me or do you plan on drinking them both yourself?”

  His pulse throbbed as he handed one to her. There was something different about her tonight. Annabelle’s hips swayed to the music as she took a deep sip. His hormones morphed into fireworks while he stood and watched, mesmerized. Jimmy wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her if they stayed here any longer.

  “What say we finish our drink and split this joint? I reserved us a table next door and we’re already late.”

  Annabelle thrust out her lips in a playful pout. “It’s such a beautiful evening, I’d much rather be outside. Why don’t we go and eat at the food trucks? I can hear music playing there and we’ll be able to dance.”

  Her hips swiveled as B.B. King crooned “I Put a Spell on You.” She twirled and wine from her glass spilled onto the floor like tiny drops of blood. How could he deny her anything?

  “It’s a pretty rough place for a lady. Especially with the way you’re dressed tonight. Have you ever been over there?”

  No,” she lied. “But I feel perfectly safe with you.”

  His eyes remained glued to her hips. “Okay. If that’s what you really want to do.”

  “It is, Jimmy. It’s what I want more than anything,” she whispered in his ear, setting his body aflame.

  She needed to drown herself in music after what had happened that day. Rehearsal had started off all right but had gone quickly downhill from there. She’d kept forgetting her lines and been told that the director was looking for a replacement.

  Jimmy put an arm around her waist and guided her across the street, past the highway, over to the food trucks. He placed his jacket over her shoulders to shield her from the wind.

  “Buy me a beer, Jimmy. I’d like a Corona,” she said, and immediately started to dance.

  He considered himself a lucky man as every eye in the truck lot turned toward her. By his fourth beer, Jimmy had to admit that the food trucks weren’t half bad. Even better, Annabelle pressed herself tightly against him. The air crackled with sexual tension as they danced, her body moving sinuously with his. It seemed to mold itself to the part of him
that was growing. Jimmy was fantasizing how the night might end when a trucker came up and stood closely behind her.

  “Hey, mama, remember me? I’m your big daddy from the other night.”

  Annabelle turned her head and her heart leaped into her throat. It was Tommy Corona, the trucker she’d gone home with. “I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else.”