Eye Wit (18 page)

He stared, outraged, at the empty case with its dangling door and shook his head, one long finger automatically adjusting his trademark horn-rim glasses when they slid a tad down his aristocratic nose.

“Madame Fellini and her assistant, Jessica, were seen on the security cameras as they exited the club by the rear entrance.”

Zoran didn’t miss a beat. “If I am correct, Jessica and the widow, perhaps against her will, have left the club and are on the way to the Underground Railroad room in the Brotherhood Synagogue.”

Dan and Yoko looked at Zoran in surprise but, anxious to move, they didn’t stop to ask how he’d reached this insight. Not that he’d have told them right then. They’d experienced his ability to absorb and retain innocuous details and weave them skillfully into some sort of sense.

“
Bon chance
,” Aldon James said, his French accent immaculate, and hastily stepped out of the way as the trio headed for the doorway where he stood.

“Yoko, you know the precise location of the room that was part of the Underground Railroad, correct?” Zoran said as they hurried out of the club.

“You bet she does,” Dan said. He grinned understandingly at Yoko. Neither of them needed to mention the harrowing time last year when thugs had abducted her. That was when the former Quaker Meeting House was empty, before it became a synagogue.

“You can get to the tunnels under New York from that room,” Yoko said. Indeed, that was what she’d done. So had the man chasing her. He’d been responsible for two murders and was after Yoko, intent on making her his third victim, but she had outwitted him and lived to see him sentenced to life imprisonment.

By now, they were running along Gramercy Park South and although Zoran managed to keep pace with Dan and Yoko, he raised a hand in protest.

“The tunnels under New York must be a veritable warren. Too many to seal off. Surely it is not wise to venture into them?”

“I can lead the way, Zoran,” Yoko said. “I’ve a hunch the women will take the tunnel that leads to the subway station at 23
^rd
Street. I helped a few months back with mapping for Con Ed and it was in all the newspapers. Lots of jokes about it being a quick way to get to the subway.”

“Consolidated Edison,” Zoran corrected her, his compulsion for correct names and ultra-correct speech surfacing, not that it was ever hidden far down in his psyche. “I do not like tunnels. They are dirty…and damp…and dark.”

“Not very dirty,” Yoko said and regretted her quick words. What was reasonable to her was possibly traumatic for the OCD Zoran. “ We’ll be able to pick out the right tunnel because Con Ed…I mean Consolidated Edison installed marker lights in the tunnel that leads to the subway station, low wattage, it’s not dark in that tunnel in contrast to the other tunnels, dim but not dark.”

Zoran looked dubious but he picked up his pace and hurried after Yoko and Dan. The gate in the railing around the Brotherhood Synagogue grounds was ajar and a man in sandals and shorts, a black yarmulke on his head, sat at the top of the two shallow steps leading to the synagogue’s front door, which stood wide open. He looked at them warily, relaxing only slightly when Dan waved his badge and called out, “Police, did two women just come in?”

“Two mad women, ran straight in,” and he gestured with his head at the entrance behind him. “I was just coming out and they all but knocked me down. Rude is one thing, crazy is another. I was going to call the rabbi, I didn’t want to leave two
meshuga
nas
rattling around in the synagogue. Lunatics. They warned me about New York, we are safer in Oregon.”

“You’re okay now, we’ve got it,” Dan shouted and he and Yoko ran into the synagogue, Zoran close behind them.

“Here, this room,” Yoko said and hurried into the small office off the front hall, Dan on her heels. The two stopped so suddenly that Zoran bumped into Dan.

“What is it, why…?” Zoran started to say but stopped when he caught sight of the man stumbling across the office towards them. The stranger was clutching his left shoulder. Drops of blood oozed between his fingers.

“A woman shot me with an arrow,” he gasped. “Unbelievable. It nicked my shoulder.” He sank into the desk chair. “I’d just finished exploring the tunnels. I’m a Quaker from Earlham College and I’m writing a history of this place. It was part of the Underground Railroad when it was a Quaker….”

“Zoran, quick, give him your handkerchief,” Yoko interrupted.

“The two women are armed and dangerous,” Zoran warned but he obediently passed an immaculate handkerchief to the Quaker historian, who took it gratefully.

Yoko pulled out her cell phone and gave terse information to the ambulance from St. Vincent’s Hospital. “Sorry, we must hurry,” she said to the Quaker, who nodded in understanding. “Keep that handkerchief pressed firmly against the wound. The EMTs will be here soon. Why don’t you wait outside?”

Yoko crossed the room and moved her hands lightly over the rear wall, feeling for the panel that led to the subterranean depths beneath Manhattan. It didn’t take her long, she’d done this before. The panel slid back and a rush of cool air filled the room, touching their faces with a moist kiss.

“Damp, I knew it would be damp,” Zoran muttered.

One by one, Dan, Yoko and Zoran entered the tunnel.

30

I had lied to Marco Fellini, of course. Deliberately and with malice aforethought. I felt no shame, because my lies had procured my invitation to Fellini’s lair, the very belly of the beast, where I needed to be.

A confirmation call came from Jessica, Fellini’s assistant, about an hour after I’d spoken to Fellini. Could I be at his brownstone at 1:00 in the afternoon the next Monday? I could.

Before the trip, I had much to do: buy tickets to New York and back, brief Mama and Papa on my plans, find a crystal ball to take with me and, most importantly, scatter Brigitta’s ashes over Lac Leman, so often called Lake Geneva, from our favorite balloon. I did that Saturday, just before the son et lumière show.

Papa had made all the arrangements and secured the official permits, which wasn’t difficult, given his stature with the festival and Brigitta’s reputation at Espace Ballons. It wasn’t a showy, dust-scattering high-altitude drop; I was but ten or fifteen meters above the lake’s surface when I emptied the urn, said my final goodbyes and reaffirmed my vow.

On Sunday at ten past noon, I was aboard SWISS LX22. At 3:30 p.m., I left JFK’s baggage claim and cabbed to Frankie Manning’s apartment. True to Frankie’s nature, he had arranged a party to celebrate Brigitta’s life—not a drunken wake exactly, but close. I remember playing a fiddle, long and loud. Mostly I remember watching Frankie dance with 45 women, one for each year of Brigitta’s short time on earth. She would have approved.

Just as she would have approved of me arriving at Marco Fellini’s brownstone at Gramercy Park at 1:00 p.m. the next day, even though I was still fairly hung over and jet-lagged—more the former than the latter.

Brigitta would know that I was keeping my word to her: it was Monday, just nine days after I had vowed to reclaim GrandMama Luludji’s crystal ball, and I was about to fulfill that promise. I shifted the satchel that held my made-in-Taiwan crystal ball to my left hand, climbed the steps of the Fellini brownstone, and pressed the door buzzer.

An attractive older woman answered the door, wearing an auburn-colored silk pant-suit that probably cost more than one of my balloons.

“Welcome, I’m Sophia Fellini,” she said. “You must be Hans.”

She led me through the foyer and into the living room as Marco Fellini rose from a love-seat facing the fireplace and moved towards me, his hand outstretched.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Hans. I hope your flight was good, as good as any flight can be these days, anyway. Can I get you anything to drink? Some tea, perhaps something stronger?”

God, I wanted a drink, just a tiny lock of the hair of the many dogs that had bitten me. Despite my throbbing head, I was able to remember my need to keep a clear mind.

“Sophia, Hans. Please, we are not so formal. We have only just met, but from what Marco has told me, I feel we shall be good friends—and please accept my condolences for your tragic loss. I’m so very sorry.”

I confess to being a little taken aback. Sophia Fellini seemed completely genuine, honestly concerned about me, and Marco Fellini too. They had invited me into their home and could not have been more gracious. Was I wrong about Fellini?

Was it possible that his crystal ball was just that, an anonymous crystal ball with no connection to my family? Or perhaps they were playing me along, trying to find out what I knew about the crystal ball, to see if I represented a threat to Marco Fellini—to both of them, perhaps. I needed to keep an open mind.

As Sophia left the room, Marco Fellini gestured toward my satchel. “I assume you have your crystal ball in the bag? I’m eager to see it, but first, let’s just relax and chat a bit. I’m sure you must be exhausted after your trip.”

“I am a bit worn out,” I said, then told him of last night’s party in my wife’s honor.

“How wonderful,” he said. “I know of Frankie Manning, of course. He is as close to a legend as anyone in the city. What a marvelous homecoming for you.”

“To scatter Brigitta’s ashes? Not yet. I’ll do that in the morning, early. Probably the 7:10 from Whitehall, just as it’s getting light. As I recall, that boat won’t be crowded.”

“Not going out, no. Coming in from Staten Island you’d be right in the middle of rush hour, but not heading out to the island. Just your usual gawking tourists.”

Sophia returned and placed a silver tray on the gilded table in front of us. The tea was good, very strong and very hot. I decided against my usual milk, but did manage several biscuits frosted with dark chocolate, which I never even try to resist.

We didn’t speak of the crystal ball while we had our tea. We talked about the balloon festival instead, the son et lumière, Brigitta’s work at Espace Ballons, and the family balloon rental business. Mostly, they wanted to know how Brigitta and I had become involved in such a fascinating enterprise.

Marco wanted to know. “Was it a…how should I say this? Was it a Gypsy thing? I mean, one thinks of circuses and fortune tellers and show people and dancing, all sorts of glittery entertainment, really. Are there many Roma families involved in the festival, in your business?”

“A number of Roma and Sinti, although we Gypsies don’t necessarily stress that in our promotional materials.”

“Why ever not?” Sophia Fellini said.

“Because we’ve learned to become realists, Sophia. Unfortunately, a good deal of prejudice still exists, even in these times of relative enlightenment. Even in Switzerland, many people, perhaps most people, view Gypsies as undesirables.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Marco Fellini said. “Really? Such bias still exists in this day and age?”

“Not officially, of course,” I said. “I don’t mean to imply that the Swiss government is still as unenlightened as it was during World War II, when they turned away nearly every Jew and every single Gypsy seeking asylum from Hitler. Nowadays, the Swiss authorities are scrupulously fair.

“But the cultural bias against Gypsies remains, as it does everywhere, even here. Just as with Blacks, Jews, and your Native Americans. I suppose one has to be a member of such a minority to understand how deeply such discrimination runs, how pervasive and insidious it is, how much it hurts. Still, like I said, we’ve learned to live with it.”

“To ‘live long and prosper,’” Marco said. “Is that the phrase? Who said that, anyway?”

I smiled. “I believe you’re quoting Mr. Spock, from ‘Star Trek,’ Marco.”

Marco Fellini chuckled. “Ah yes, of course. Spock. Would that all of society was as enlightened as Spock and all those folks in the world of ‘Star Trek.’”

“God save us from the Romulans,” I said. “Those Gypsies of the future.”

“Touché, Hans,” Marco Fellini said. “And that is a very good segue to examining crystal balls of Roma descent, I think. Come, let us adjourn to my study.”

“I’ll leave you boys to your fun,” Sophia Fellini said, picking up the tray. “I do hope you’ll join us for dinner at the club tonight, Hans?”

“Thank you, Sophia, I am looking forward to that.”

Sophia left the room and I picked up my satchel and followed Marco Fellini up the stairs to his study. Thanks to an hour’s-worth of tea, my headache had faded somewhat, but if my heart had been beating any faster, it would have leapt from my chest.

Marco glanced back as we entered his study. I could see the crystal ball over his shoulder, resting in position on the left end of the fireplace mantle.