A Matter of Chance

by Julie Maloney

  “I failed her.”

  We were in a public place in Brooklyn, not far from the police department where he had just twisted and turned the nephew into an unsuspecting mess. Touching wasn’t allowed in the daylight.

  John D’Orfini knew how to wait.

  I KNOW I’ VE mentioned this before (turn back the pages), but you need to understand that knowing how to wait requires patience, and patience is a virtue of which I believed I had none.

  “WE’RE LEARNING MORE. I know it’s slow going.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned in across the table, but with his hands nowhere close enough for me to touch. I wanted him to be inside me. I separated one part of my heart from the other. It would have been easier to tell him everything, but I resisted because I believed Hannah and George knew where my girl was.

  “If we can find out more on Uncle, we can find out how the heck Hilda’s car ended up in a private garage in Brooklyn.”

  “I wasn’t prepared for any of this,” I said. “I had a daughter. I worked and painted a little. I divorced Steve because we stopped loving each other. I used to drink coffee with a twist of lemon rind. I was ordinary and I was okay with it.”

  John D’Orfini circled me back. This was a stay-the-course kind of guy.

  “There’s nothing ordinary about your paintings,” he said.

  This was the first time he spoke of my work this way. I felt the heat on my face.

  “There’s a reason Hilda’s car showed up here. I want to find out why.”

  “Let’s go to Mueller’s Bakery and ask George,” I said.

  “First, I have to pick up a file. I’ll meet you at Penn Station tomorrow, in the morning, and together we’ll head out to Brooklyn.”

  He said it as if we were going to another state—Ohio, or even farther west: one of the Dakotas.

  THE NEXT MORNING, John D’Orfini handed me the file. It was Saturday. “I thought you might want to read this,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Just read it so you know who we’re dealing with.”

  Over the years, Hannah had been careful—selective—cautious around the neighborhood “fixer.” She baked with her head down.

  But when it came to others who needed help, she was a kind of broker. She overheard conversations by making herself invisible when necessary, lost inside cookie crème filling and a pastry cutter. When a woman beaten blue around her right eye sat silent with her shoulders turned inward, husband at her side, Hannah talked to Uncle in a quiet voice. Two weeks later, no one questioned the husband’s disappearance. When an eighteen-year-old about to graduate from high school was expected to turn down a full scholarship to Yeshiva University to go to work and help support his three younger sisters and one brother, Hannah spoke to Uncle. The following September, the boy attended his first college class. Four years later, Uncle was at his graduation ceremony. For the right price, Uncle could get you out of the country with a “paper package,” including passport, credit cards, and a new Social Security number.

  “Twenty thousand dollars can buy a new life.” John D’Orfini said. “A ‘package’ on the street is as easy to get as a new washing machine.” He pointed to the file open on my lap. The subway rumbled underground, making enough noise to hide our conversation. “There’s pages of deals here that were made at Mueller’s Bakery,” he said. “It seemed Hannah ran a kind of social services department without the paperwork. She brought the stories to Uncle. She described what the people needed, and Uncle made their problems go away. No questions asked. I suspected the fixer did more than help the needy.”

  “Was Hannah afraid of him?” I asked. D’Orfini shrugged.

  “I’m pretty sure Hannah did the talking, but George was never out of sight when she did the brokering. Uncle got rid of people he thought were a problem. As far as we know, Hannah and George made sure not to create problems for the guy. I think they knew how to play it right. They understood that things could go a whole lot smoother with a delicate touch—like the way they turn out those iced pastries. It’s what I call finesse.”

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

  “Hannah and George have finesse. In my business, finesse requires a strong set of closed lips. I think Uncle knew they could keep their mouths shut. Hell, look at them. What have they told us? Nothing. This takes practice. Most people don’t know when to be quiet.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED at Mueller’s, George was behind the counter, replenishing a half-empty baking sheet of miniature fruit tarts. He must have suspected why we had come: one more set of questions, one more denial. The FBI had already paid a visit to Mueller’s Bakery, but Hannah and George had revealed nothing.

  They continued to bake, skilled at keeping their heads down.

  George called for Hannah to come out front. The two high school girls who worked on the weekends behind the counter ignored us.

  “Hannah!” George called, just as Hannah swung through the door from the kitchen. He nodded toward me first, but Hannah acknowledged John D’Orfini and then me with a closed smile.

  “Ah . . . I know what you will like.” She scooped up two almond biscotti dipped in chocolate on one end. Hannah was a server—the type of woman who knew what people needed before they asked.

  “HOW WELL DID you know this customer of yours named Kosinski? You know he died recently.” John D’Orfini hammered. Hannah spoke ahead of her husband.

  “Mr. Uncle came in for his bread every Thursday.”

  “Did you ever ask him for a favor?”

  “What kind of favor?” George asked, ignoring Hannah’s eyes.

  “Any kind.” After four years of listening to John D’Orfini’s style of “ask, listen, write it down,” I knew the less he said, the more he thought. He liked to refer to his investigative method as “planning where to put it.” “I’m planning what to say to catch the bastard who’s lying to my face.”

  John D’Orfini lowered his voice. He spoke slowly, careful not to frighten Hannah and George away, although his words were sharp. “Kidnapping is a federal offense,” he said. “I don’t like one bit that whoever stole Lavinia Stewart thought he—or she—could come into my town and take a child.” He stared at the bakers. He hesitated, letting the silence build. His eyes darkened. “Both of you better understand that any questionable relationship you may have had with the deceased—Mr. Kosinski—could lead to serious punishment.”

  A light perspiration built around John D’Orfini’s temples.

  “Kosinski was a bad man. We’ve been watching him for some time now.”

  He stopped again and turned away. He was a master at increasing tension. He looked back at Hannah and George and said, “We suspect that he’s involved in a prostitution ring. He may be responsible for the kidnapping of this woman’s eight-year-old girl.”

  What was he saying?

  George winced. Which horror made him react? The idea of child prostitution or the kidnapping? He and Hannah carefully avoided the other’s face. Give nothing away. I could see it. I could imagine the conversation. . . .

  We are bakers. We bake with our heads down. We buy our flour and sugar and butter from the man who pulls his truck around to the back each week. We do not ask his name. We do what we are told. We pay three percent of our profits to the man in the truck. We tuck the money inside a paper bag with one fresh-baked turnover.

  John D’Orfini chipped away at their blank faces.

  “Do you recognize the seriousness of what I’m telling you? You could go to jail for life.” He picked up his coffee and waited before continuing. He knew just how far to tilt his head, fold his arms across his chest, and whisper, as if in a horse’s ear. “I wouldn’t want to see that happen to such fine bakers.”

  He dipped the chocolate end of his biscotti into his coffee and took a quick bite. He kept his eyes on George, who hadn’t left Hannah’s side. If George was the weaker of the two, then John D’Orfini wanted to be the one who
broke him.

  “Ah . . . yah. Mr. D’Orfini. Yah,” George said, while Hannah folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white from the baking flour. Her lips closed.

  John D’Orfini stopped speaking. His tongue swooshed around the inside of his cheeks, cleaning up loose crumbs. He knew I had flinched at the sound of the word prostitution. It started a ringing sound in my head, until it bloomed into a bang from temple to temple across my forehead.

  THE AIR IN the subway hung hot and heavy over our heads as we rode back into Manhattan. John D’Orfini spoke in a voice so quiet I had to lean in, nearly putting my head on his shoulder.

  “Uncle was in the mob. The Russian mob. That we know for sure. The FBI has a file on him that’s a mile long.” He spoke looking straight ahead.

  “He was involved in a prostitution ring seven years ago, but he served no time. His hotshot lawyer played up his medical disability. His blind status got him off when the jury couldn’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  I held my face as still as could be. I gave nothing away. “What did he do for a living?” I asked. This was my chance to tell John D’Orfini about my room in Brooklyn, but I let it slip by without even reaching for it. It was too soon. I didn’t know enough. Or was I afraid of what he might find out?

  The train rumbled underground. John D’Orfini waited as we rode out into the daylight. “He owned a tiny shop around the corner. Fixed clocks and timepieces all day before he went blind from diabetes.”

  “Clocks? A repair shop paid for his custom suits and dress shirts?”

  “Don’t forget the timepieces,” John D’Orfini said.

  John D’Orfini didn’t pursue the subject of prostitution. I remained quiet as we continued the ride into Manhattan. I went over how he had threatened Hannah and George. Only once had he raised his voice, but even then they had sat there stonelike, drinking coffee.

  I broke my silence as we exited the subway at Thirty-Third Street and Sixth Avenue.

  I took my time as I spoke. “I know you wanted me to see Hannah and George today so I wouldn’t feel left out or ignored. And I know it’s been four years.” I hesitated. “I just want to say thanks.”

  I floated above the anguish. Evelyn’s death had shown me that things didn’t stay the same. Vinni was four years older. Twelve. If my mother had been here, she would have said that twelve-year-olds don’t believe in hope. That hope doesn’t bring happiness even if we were to sing the line in a song. But my mother was dead and Vinni was not.

  ON THE CORNER of Twenty-Third Street, John D’Orfini stopped and faced me. We stared at each other until I said, “What?”

  Finally, he said, “I should go.”

  He jumped into a cab and headed for Penn Station.

  I suspected he didn’t want me to ask about the prostitution ring. Was he dismissing me or holding back something he knew would make me scream? He didn’t know that I had been watching the bakery from my room across the street.

  Hadn’t he said, “There’s nothing ordinary about your paintings”?

  Couldn’t he see that my paintings screamed in the dark?

  I had stumbled upon the girls—young and skinny—as they disappeared down the alleyway two buildings away from Mueller’s. As they lost their way into the dark, they seemed less real than Vinni. Less real than her voice in my head. Of course, I knew my mother believed the voices in her head were real, too. I knew voices could get so loud that you couldn’t hear a thing.

  I waited for his cab to turn, and then I walked down the stairs into the subway to catch the train back to my room in Brooklyn.

  AT 2:00 A.M ., I was certain most of Brooklyn was asleep. I watched from my room across the street as the rain splatted against the window like angry darts. My focus fastened on the black limousine parked near Mueller’s Bakery. Now was not a good time to relieve myself, so I squeezed my pee in tight. I waited by the window for what seemed like forever, hoping to see the limo’s door open. The pee pushed harder on my bladder. My heart pounded through my chest as the idea to bang on the driver’s window lodged in my brain with a fierce voice. I had to move. Maybe it was the possibility of warm urine running down the insides of my legs. I threw the keys in my jeans pocket and left the room.

  The leftover bar smell of fried calamari stank up the hallway. When I opened the outside door, I saw the limo’s parking lights shining on the street. I heard the hum of the engine.

  Just as I ran across the street, thunder and lightning ripped apart the sky. The limousine sped away. There were no girls in sight. Maybe they had run like hell down the alleyway to get out of the rain. Or the driver had seen me and decided against dropping them off. I sat down in the street and peed all over myself, letting the rain wash me from head to toe. All my strength left as I watched the red taillights from the racing limo fade.

  I dropped my head on my knees and howled. I thought the roar of the rain had stifled the sound of my tears, but someone had been watching and listening. A pair of strong arms pulled me up from behind and draped a blanket over my shoulders. “Child,” the man whispered in my ear, “if you continue this, you’ll be no use to her when she comes home.”

  I saw the back of his head. I recognized the shape of his body, the inward curve of his shoulders, the slow way he walked in the rain. I watched him turn before he opened the door to Mueller’s Bakery. I reached for my keys, but my pocket was empty.

  “George!” I yelled across the street. “Wait!” I cried. But he was gone.

  The rain whipped across my face. It hit my shoulders like stones. Although it was unusually warm for a night in January, I smelled the isolation of winter. The street was empty, and I was locked outside my studio apartment. I had nothing. No phone. No money.

  No child.

  Sometimes Ed the bartender slept in the room behind the bar. I banged on the door, but no one came. I banged again. A voice rose from behind me. I jumped and lost my grip on the blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

  “I theeeeenk I can help you. Theeeees must be yours.” He opened his wet palm to show me a shiny set of keys.

  A stream of rain fell from the brim of the man’s straw fedora, pulled low over his eyes. Before I could say thank you, I wondered where he came from and how two different men had seen me huddled in the street in the middle of the night.

  Who else was watching?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  STANLEY SUGGESTED I TAKE MY TIME BEFORE I MADE A decision about buying Evelyn’s apartment. “Imagine yourself in the space alone,” he said. Plenty of artists opted for aloneness to do their work, but who among them had lost a daughter to a kidnapper? “Sleep there a few nights, if you like,” he said. “I want you to be sure the apartment suits you.”

  Tuba had phoned one afternoon and inquired about the space. “Stanley told me he’s offered you the apartment before anyone else. Buy it, dear. Buy it and get on with it all.” I imagined this was what Tuba was doing. Ever since I had met her, she had impressed me with her crispness, although others might have described her as “cool.” Her flowing garments disguised whatever story she had hidden. She moved with a sense of airiness, as if stopping too long might freeze her in place.

  Steve weighed in with an opinion after Tuba’s.

  “It’s up to you. If you want to sell your place and move into Evelyn’s, it’s yours to sell. Just be sure it’s what you want.”

  I was surprised to hear Steve urge me to do what I want.

  When I wanted my mother to die because she was crazy, I didn’t really mean it. Four years ago, I wouldn’t have considered moving into another apartment, in case Vinni came looking for me. But she was older now. She would find me if she were close.

  I AGREED TO Stanley’s price—so reasonable, the apartment felt more like a gift. With it came Evelyn’s studio and the timely promise of an art show. Tuba had already invited me to lunch to discuss the promotion of my work. If I moved in February, I’d have time to concentrate on the exhibit, scheduled for an invitation-only reception
held before the first concert of the summer series.

  One year after Evelyn died.

  MY MOVE-IN DATE was set for February 15. Weeks before, I helped Stanley go through Evelyn’s closets. Together, we agreed on what to keep, archive, and destroy. We had given away a few pieces of furniture and moved things around, except for the large velvet couch in front of which Evelyn had fallen the night she died. I already had several paintings of my own in varying stages taking up space in the studio. Evelyn had a hand in all of them. I felt her distant presence guide me as I headed into unfamiliar territory. When Stanley first asked about my buying Evelyn’s apartment, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know if I was trading one empty space for another. But Evelyn’s words about the light—“It’s always about the light, dear”—urged me to do it.

  “I’M GLAD YOU decided to live here,” Stanley said.

  I smiled and hugged him. I opened a window a few inches from the bottom to freshen the air.

  “Makes it easier in some way. Knowing Evelyn’s gone but you’re here makes it a natural transition from one artist to the next. It’s as if she’s passing on to you a blank canvas. I know she’d be pleased.”

  I lifted a white box from the bottom drawer of Evelyn’s dresser. With no indication of what it was, I opened the lid. Inside sat a perfectly preserved baby’s lace bonnet, booties, and organdy dress. A cry stuck in my throat.

  “Stanley,” I called. With a few books in hand, he returned to the bedroom and stood there in silence when I held out the box.

  “What?” I asked. Before I could think further of what words to choose, Stanley took the box and left the room. Later, when we were done for the day, I saw he had placed the box in a shopping bag, along with several framed photos of times he and Evelyn had spent together. The latest was a photo I had taken of the two of them when Stanley had accompanied Evelyn to the costume ball at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Stanley had insisted on holding Evelyn’s elbow, steadying her as they walked down the hallway stairs to a taxi.