The three kept silent for a moment.
"The icon?” Sister Carla asked.
Sheriff Delensa shook his head. “Missing."
* * * *
FRIDAY
Sister Carla lit the candle on the altar of Saint Casimir's, then knelt and said a prayer of thanks and supplication. She was thankful to be alive and thankful that Mrs. Rosczak and her husband, out of hiding now, were alive and safe. Though Sister Carla had not told the sheriff of the blackmail years ago, the Rosczaks had done so.
The sheriff doubted that they would be charged. And though organized crime had been known to be connected to some coal mining operations, Delensa wasn't even sure the hit men could be firmly connected to the Fletchers. Justice had always been hard to come by in the anthracite coalfields. He figured the Fletchers would be able to make some deal in the courts to limit their liability for the fire, but he hoped they'd be held accountable enough to provide some compensation for the church.
So much had already been hurt or destroyed by corruption and greed: the mine engineer; the people of the town whose health had suffered; Jenkinsville, more dead than alive now.
Sister Carla said a prayer for the soul of one of the men hired to get the mine maps and kill Rosczak. The other man was in the hospital with burns and broken bones. Sister Carla could not bring herself to say a prayer for him.
She did say a prayer for the soul of Chester Zamback. She still could not believe he had stolen the icon.
She rose and left the church, not bothering to lock the door.
She walked to the cemetery, stopping to say a prayer at the grave of her parents. She blessed herself and looked up at the shrine to Saint Casimir. The candle on the box had burned out. Only a lump of wax remained.
From the black sack she carried, she pulled out a candle. She knelt to place it in the glass chimney on the box. She paused, then rubbed her hand over the box. It was polished oak, beautifully made. Around the bottom ran a frame in which the walls of the box sat.
She ran her fingers round the frame. At the back, she felt metal: the small lock.
She rose, looked round, saw no one, then stepped up to the low relief of Saint Casimir, wondering. She ran her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.
The key was there. The key to the kingdom of God. Saint Casimir's key. The key to the oak box at the foot of the shrine.
Sister Carla opened the box. It was there, nestled between two spare glass chimneys.
The icon was still in Jenkinsville.
Copyright © 2007 Marianne Wilski Strong
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BOOKED & PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN
Two tales that share a Cuban flavor and the follow-up to a critically acclaimed debut constitute this month's selections. James W. Hall's thriller, Magic City and Mayra Montero's Dancing to “Almendra” both find inspiration in the American mob's influence in Cuba during the middle part of the twentieth century, while Steve Hockensmith, well known to readers of AHMM, follows his Edgar-nominated first novel with a new adventure featuring the Amlingmeyer brothers.
James W. Hall's loner hero, Thorn, has been a hit ever since his debut in Under Cover of Daylight twenty years ago. That novel wasn't intended to be the start of a series. Since then Hall has produced a number of stand-alones, an excellent book of short stories (Paper Products, 1991), a collection of essays, and eight more novels featuring Thorn, including his latest, MAGIC CITY (St. Martin's Minotaur, $24.95).
* * * *
Despite Thorn's penchant for privacy, if not seclusion, Hall manages to find ingenious ways to involve the Florida resident in plenty of compelling action. Thorn is in love and is even contemplating the unthinkable—moving to Miami to be with Alexandra and her father, Lawton, who's sliding ever deeper into the clutches of Alzheimer's. As a kind of test, Thorn plans to spend a week living at Alexandra's place and taking care of her father while she is away.
Thorn is therefore in a position to leap into action when two men attempt a burglary to retrieve a photo in Lawton's possession of the memorable Cassius Clay/Sonny Liston fight and part of the crowd at the 1964 Miami bout. It is this photo that is the catalyst for the adventure that follows. But Hall also uses the still shot to frame the remarkable era when Castro had come to power and the U.S. had not yet learned to deal with it. Miami was a city in ferment with its new influx of Cubans, racial unrest, and politicians and powerful mob figures scheming to find advantage.
That tumultuous period still casts a long shadow, and Thorn must decipher the photo's importance even if he has to team up with a putative enemy who is also desperate to understand its import. The result is another top-notch thriller that uses a volatile bit of history to ratchet suspense and continues to build Thorn's reputation as one of the most memorable and reliable heroes of modern thrillers.
Cuban-born journalist Mayra Montero takes root in the same past in DANCING TO “ALMENDRA” (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $24), which is translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman. The novel is set in Cuba in 1957, when the old order was crumbling and revolution was coloring the climate. Havana was still a glittering capital where American mobsters vied for control of the lucrative hotels, casinos, and nightclubs. The principal narrator is young journalist Joaquín Porrata, who's been relegated to producing entertainment features when what he really wants to do is cover “hard” news. When Joaquín reads about the hit in New York on crime boss Umberto Anastasia, he knows the mobster's death will have important repercussions in Havana. But when he asks to cover that story, his editor sends him instead to the zoo to cover the brutal killing of a hippopotamus.
It takes a fertile imagination to connect the two events but Montero does so brilliantly as she weaves Joaquín's family's story and that of Yolanda, a one-time magician's assistant who lost an arm when one of his “tricks” didn't work as it was supposed to. Yolanda is now reputed to be the girlfriend of powerful mobster Luigi Santo Trafficante, one of Meyer Lansky's lieutenants.
When he finally gets the opportunity he sought, Joaquín gets a rude education in the sordid realities behind the pervasive gang activities in Havana and New York, while the sad story of Yolanda plays as an odd, surrealistic refrain of pain and suffering. Montero proves to be musician and magician as she tells an entrancing story of love and violence in the last days before Batista's regime fell.
Steve Hockensmith's first novel, Holmes on the Range, won all sorts of plaudits from critics, including starred reviews from such important review sources as Publisher's Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal, as well as from this reviewer (AHMM, April 2006).
Now Gustav (Old Red) and Otto (Big Red) are back for a well-deserved encore in which they abandon the range for the railcar. While the title is ON THE WRONG TRACK (St. Martin's Minotaur, $23.95), Hockensmith is definitely on the right track. His sophomore effort is even better than his debut.
For those unfamiliar with the Amlingmeyer brothers, the “old” in Old Red's name is strictly relative—the twenty-seven-year-old cowboy detective is older by some years than brother Big Red. Old Red took a real fancy to the Sherlock Holmes tales that his brother read aloud to him (Old Red's illiterate) and in his first case proved to himself (if no one else) that he has what it takes to be a detective.
But finding a detective agency willing to give a couple of saddle bums jobs as detectives proves difficult, until they run into legendary Pinkerton man Burl Lockhart, who recommends the boys to the Southern Pacific Railroad Co. where they are signed on instantly. The SPRR is having troubles with the notorious Give-'em-Hell gang, and the Amlingmeyers are to be shipped from Ogden, Utah, to San Francisco aboard the Pacific Express to be trained.
Hockensmith has a ball with the trek as the Amlingmeyers cope with the vagaries of train travel and a load of passengers that includes everything from an obnoxious salesman, a beautiful and adventurous lady, a Chinaman escorting a coffin, an officious railroad officer, a snake, and a snake in the grass. And Big Red reveals another weakness almost
as serious as his illiteracy.
The boys will have not only their wits tested, but their courage as well as they try to survive the wicked trials their creator has designed for them in this rollicking sequel. Hockensmith reveals more about the background of the brothers, which will undoubtedly be of interest to fans of the series. And as an afterthought, here's one fan's hope that a man as intelligent and determined as Old Red will not be satisfied to remain illiterate much longer.
Copyright © 2007 Robert C. Hahn
* * * *
Following the critical success of 2004's 9/11 drama Absent Friends, S. J. Rozan offers us IN THIS RAIN(Delacorte, $24), her second standalone novel, and her latest love letter to New York City—albeit signed in blood.
Showboating land developer Walter Glybenhall and Albany-bent mayor Charlie Barr are fixing under-the-table deals on a city-owned Harlem block, which when developed would gentrify the historically black neighborhood and cement the developer's reputation as untouchable. But when suspicious accidents turn deadly on another of Glybenhall's projects in the Bronx—seemingly damning his bid for the Harlem block—the irascible Ann Montgomery, an inspector for the Department of Investigation, finds the trail of evidence leads almost too perfectly back to Glybenhall, not his apparent competitor, Ford Corrington, a mentor to Harlem's troubled youth, who's laid out his own plans to develop the up-for-grabs property into a community center.
Strong personalities fight for the focus of the novel as it follows Montgomery's turbulent investigation into who is really pulling the strings, and the complex plot has enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing until the end. Rozan juxtaposes the beauty of the Big Apple and the ugliness of its corruption as she skillfully weaves the textures of the city into this suspenseful tale. The smell of water in the air of downtown Manhattan, the sticky taste of red
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HOW TO SURVIVE DOWNSIZING by J. MICHLITSCH
Geoffrey Manning sat on the curb, his temple resting against the side of a large metal trashcan. On it someone had stenciled in block letters, “Park Butts Here.” A cardboard box filled with the remnants of Geoff's career sat next to him. An address book, a leggy philodendron, an old clock radio, a Minnesota Twins mug, a fistful of various writing utensils, and several packages of Post-its that weren't, technically, his property.
He had taken the bus from work as usual, as if it were any ordinary Friday evening. But instead of riding it all the way home, he decided at the last moment to disembark in front of The Dockside. The bar sat overlooking the Saint Croix River in a spot north of the cities and not yet engulfed by developers. Guys like Geoff, dressed in button-down collars, sport coats, and pressed chinos, were an oddity at the watering hole generally frequented by the biker set. But in spite of their differences, by the end of the night they were brothers-in-arms trying to erase the events of the day, week, month.
At two A.M. the bartender herded Geoff and his few remaining compatriots to the door. Moments later, the green and blue neon sign above The Dockside's entry blinked off. Its electric buzz severed, Geoff was left standing in the parking lot, alone in a bubble of silence. That's when he eased down to the curb, sitting next to the garbage can.
Not having enough money left for cab fare, calling Brit was his only option. Geoff's cell phone threw a comforting blue glow into his hands as he brought up his friend's number.
"Eight years you gave those people,” Brit Sanderson said after Geoff told her the news of his downsizing. “You put in, what, sixty hours a week? I bet you were the hardest working employee they had. I can't believe it.” Her words came in sharp staccato bursts. “They're going to replace you, I assume?"
"Outsourced,” he barked, his voice flat in the still night.
"To some dude for a quarter of the pay, no doubt. It's things like this that make me believe I'm out here arresting the wrong people. It's the corporate fat cats that need policing.” Brit snorted. “That company never appreciated you anyway, if you ask me. Your boss couldn't even get your name right. What'd he call you? Jimmy? Johnny?"
"Jerry,” Geoff answered, although he couldn't exactly wrap his tongue around the word. It sounded more like “jury."
"Yeah, well, anyway. I can be there in twenty minutes. Just sit tight."
Geoff slipped the cell phone into his jacket pocket and did what he was told: He waited. Some time later, his head leaning against the trashcan and a bit of spittle collecting at the side of his mouth, Geoff awoke from his doze to see two headlights appear over the top of the metal bin. As he chased away the drool with the back of his hand and reached for his carton, the lights passed by, stopping one hundred feet or so at the side of the road.
If he had been in a more coherent state, Geoff wouldn't have bothered reaching for his belongings, as he would have realized Brit didn't drive an SUV. But, at that moment, Geoff was in no shape to make the distinction.
As he struggled to his feet, he saw a man—not Brit, he was able to surmise—exit the SUV. The man walked around the vehicle, opened the passenger side door, leaned in, and took something into his arms. In the light coming from inside the car, Geoff could see it was a woman the man drew from the vehicle, her long hair falling across his shoulder as he picked her up. The plump moon illuminated a pair of creamy white legs that, even to Geoff's foggy mind, didn't look quite right. One was tapered, whereas the other seemed to end bluntly. But when the man walked around the SUV and took his first step into the grassy ditch at the side of the road, something fell, and then the legs were symmetrical again.
The man carried the woman down the gully and into the pine trees that skirted the river beyond.
Geoff started for the car, his carton under his arm.
Later the police will ask Geoff if he intended to follow the couple into the trees.
"No,” Geoff will say. “I just thought the polite thing to do was to find the woman's shoe and return it to her."
"So why didn't you?"
To this he will say, “I guess I was too drunk."
And if anyone saw him that night, they could have attested to such, for as he made his way to the SUV he swayed unsteadily. When he reached the vehicle, he adjusted his focus toward the ground. He glimpsed the outline of a shoe, or more specifically, a ladies’ stiletto. He reached down with his free hand and picked it up. Just then, a second set of headlights came down the road and pulled into The Dockside. “That's my ride,” thought Geoff, and he started back toward the parking lot. When he reached Brit's car, he dropped the brown pump into his carton and opened the passenger's side door.
"Hey, buddy,” Brit said, as Geoff settled himself in his seat. “Long day, huh?"
"Very,” he said. He was asleep seconds later.
* * * *
Geoff awoke the next morning sprawled out on the sofa in his living room, still fully clothed from the night before. He was in no hurry to open the lids of his eyes. Instead he opted to keep them shut tight and go over the events of the day before. It had not been a dream, of course, Mr. Hanley inviting him into his office to break the news.
Geoff wasn't the first employee to find himself in this position. For the last several months, the Company had been going through a restructuring, meaning it was combining jobs, eliminating others, and farming the rest out. Geoff's position fell into the latter category.
"As you know, Jerry, we have had to make ... Sorry to have to tell you ... We're sure you can understand ... We were happy to have you as a member of ... Thanks for your understanding, Jerry."
He barely heard the man's insipid speech, for he couldn't take his eyes off the desk between them. Unfurled upon it were blueprints. The irony of the situation was unbearable: Geoff was getting downsized, while his boss was getting upsized to a two story minimansion. And what did he say to his boss in response to the flagrant inequity of the situation? He offered the man his hand and said, “Thank you."
Geoff groaned as he pushed himself up on the couch. He sat there for a moment, w
ondering what he should do next, both with his life and the day. He couldn't remember the last time he had woken up with a hangover or the last Saturday he didn't spend at the office. The best idea would be to go back to sleep, wake up on Sunday, a day he knew what to do with. The newspaper in the morning, a ball game on television in the afternoon, a pizza for dinner.
He held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. On the floor next to him sat the paraphernalia of his former career. In the eight years he had worked for the Company, Geoff had never stolen anything. Fudging on his time card was out of the question as well, so when he remembered ransacking the supply closet yesterday afternoon, regret curled up in his stomach. Perhaps he'd mail the pens and Post-its back in an anonymous package with a note attached. “Took these by mistake,” it would say. He leaned over and withdrew the philodendron, one of its long tendrils catching on another object in the carton.
"What the—?” he asked. He reached into the box and freed a size seven ladies’ brown Italian leather stiletto from the plant's vine. Had there been a woman the night before at The Dockside? Surely not. Geoff wasn't in the habit of picking up strange women, let alone absconding with one of their shoes.
And then it came to him.
He asked himself some of the same questions the police will ask him in a few days from now. “Why didn't you say anything, Geoff? Why didn't you tell your friend Sergeant Sanderson?"
"I didn't want to bother her. I didn't think it was important,” will be his answer.
"But the next morning you thought differently."
"Yeah,” Geoff will say.
He scrambled to his feet, and as quickly as he could, he made his way to the bathroom, undressing along the way. He climbed into the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his mind. It did.
* * * *
With his car parked in The Dockside's lot, Geoff walked the length of road to where he thought he saw the man and the woman, keeping an eye on the hardscrabble tufts that carpeted the ditch. He went several yards beyond what he thought necessary and then turned around and started back. During this second pass, Geoff studied the growth farther down where the shade of trees smothered light. The blades stood like delicate picket fences between trunks of pine. It wasn't long before he noticed a section of long grass had been disturbed, pushed to the side, forming an unnatural V. Geoff made his way to the opening. He studied the ground for a moment and then continued into the cool shade of the pines, their needles softening his steps.
AHMM, June 2007 Page 14