Manhattan Mayhem (46 page)

“How lucky for Carl Ting. Now, I have something I must ask you to do.”

“Ma—”

“There is a young woman who calls herself Sarah who works in Sweet Tasty Sweet on Mott Street. She has come to this country to start a new life. She does not have whatever papers she should. She needs a lawyer to help her.”

“I—she needs an immigration lawyer. That’s not the kind of work I do.”

“Then it’s time for you to begin. You’ll find her a charming young lady, also pretty. I’ll meet you at Sweet Tasty Sweet at six p.m. to properly
introduce you.”

“What? I can’t leave the office that early.”

“I will see you there.”

I hung up the telephone. I was about to invite Tien Hua to come to the apartment for dinner after his meeting with Sarah, but they might need to further discuss her situation, perhaps over noodle soup. Also, this case had been an intriguing one. My daughter, I was sure, would want to hear the details.

S. J. ROZAN
’
s work has won multiple awards, including the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, Nero, Macavity, and Japanese Maltese Falcon. She has published thirteen books and four dozen short stories under her own name and two books with Carlos Dews as the writing team of Sam Cabot. S. J. was born in the Bronx and lives in lower Manhattan. She teaches fiction writing in a summer workshop in Assisi, Italy (
artworkshopintl.com
). Her newest book is Sam Cabot’s
Skin of the Wolf.

His call to action, to avenge the terrible crimes done to his country, came in the form of a note tucked into a neatly folded dollar bill.

Standing behind the glass cases in his bakery, Luca Cracco avoided looking directly at the man who handed him the cash. The customer was a tall balding fellow with liver spots on his forehead. No words were exchanged as the customer, whose name was Geller, took the crisp brown paper bag containing a loaf of Cracco’s semolina bread, still warm, still fragrant. If any of the other patrons in the store noted that Cracco pocketed the bill, rather than wield the brass crank of the red mahogany National cash register to deposit the money in the drawer, they didn’t pay it any mind.

Cracco, a man of thirty-two, curly haired and with a proud and imposing belly, rang up another sale. He glanced toward black-haired and voluptuous Violetta, who was replenishing the bin of wheat bread. She would understand why the sale had not been registered, why her husband had not returned change for the dollar when the loaf cost fifteen cents. Their eyes met, hers neither approving nor critical; she knew of her husband’s other activities, and though she would have preferred him to stay true to his role as the best baker in Greenwich Village, she understood there were things a man had to do. Such matters among them.

Cracco did not immediately turn his attention to the message within the bill—he knew largely what it would say—but instead continued to sell to customers from his dwindling stock of goods: the signature semolina loaves and whole wheat, of course, but also more sublime creations:
amaretti, biscotti, brutti ma buoni
(“ugly but good,” as indeed the cookies were),
cannoli, ricciarelli, crostata, panettone, canestrelli, panforte, pignolata, sfogliatelle,
and another of Cracco’s specialties:
ossa dei morti,
“bones of dead men” biscotti.

A rather telling name, he reflected, considering what now sat in the pocket of his flour-dusted slacks, the note embraced by a silver certificate.

Situated in a building that dated to the past century, Cracco’s bakery was shabby and dark, but the cases were well lit and the pastries glowed like jewels in Hedy Lamarr’s bracelet. Cracco believed he had a calling beyond merely baking bread and
dolci
; in this city filled with so many Italian immigrants, he felt it a duty to provide solace to so many who had been derided and mistreated for their connection, however removed, to the black-suited icon of the Axis: Benito Mussolini.

He glanced out the window at Bleecker Street, overcast this icy January afternoon. No sign of anyone in trench coat and fedora, pretending not to surveil the store while doing just that. There wasn’t any reason to believe he was under suspicion. But in these days, in this city, you could never be too careful.

Cracco rang up another sale, then gave his wife a brief nod. She
dusted her hands together with sharp slaps and stepped to the register. He went into the back room, the kitchen, where the ovens were now cool. It was noon, late in the daily life of a bakery; the alchemy of turning such varying ingredients—powders and crystals and gels and liquids—into transcendent sustenance occurred early. He arose every morning at 3:30, swapped pajamas for shirt and dungarees and, careful not to wake Violetta and Beppe and Cristina, descended the steep stairs of their apartment on West Fourth Street. Smoking one of the four cigarettes he allowed himself each day,
primo,
he walked here, fired up the ovens, and got to work.

Now, Cracco pulled the apron over his head and, as was his nature, folded it carefully before placing it in a laundry bin. He took a horsehair brush and swiped at his slacks and shirt, watching the flour dust motes ease into the air. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the dollar bill that Geller, the liver-spot man, had given him. He read the careful handwriting. Yes, as he’d guessed. This was the moment: the final piece of the plan, the last stage of the recipe to bake revenge into bitter bread and force it down the enemy’s throat.

A look at his Breil watch, crafted in Italy, a present from his father, also a baker. The timepiece was simple but elegant, the numbers bright and bold against the dark face.

It was time to leave.

Cracco lit a cigarette,
secundo,
and before the match guttered out, he set fire to Geller’s note and let it curl to ash in one of the ovens. He pulled on his greatcoat and wrapped a scarf around his neck, then topped on his gray fedora. His gloves were cloth and threadbare, worn through completely on the right thumb, but he could not afford to replace them just yet. The shop provided only a modest income, thanks to the war. And, of course, he did not undertake his work for Geller for money, unless you counted the spy paying him one dollar for a fifteen-cent loaf of bread.

Luca Cracco stepped outside as flurries began to fall, frosting the walk, just as he himself might sprinkle powdered sugar on a
bigné di San Giuseppe,
the Roman puff pastry baked just before St. Joseph’s day in March.

“You have confirmation? You really do?”

But Murphy was being Murphy and that meant he wouldn’t be rushed. The man continued in a quick, staccato voice: “I was following him last night. All night. And he goes into the Rialto on Forty-Second Street. You know,
Gaslight
was still playing. After all these months. You can’t get enough of her. Who can? She’s bee-u-tiful. Dontcha think?” Ingrid Bergman, he was speaking of. “Of course, she is. Come on, Tommy. No actress prettier. Agree.”

Jack Murphy worked for Tom Brandon and, when they’d been in the army, had been lower in rank. But another man’s superior status, boss or commander, never figured much in Murphy’s reckoning (except for the one time he was given a decoration by President Roosevelt himself. Murphy had blushed and used the word “sir.” Brandon had been there. He was still surprised at the show of respect.)

Murphy rocked back in the chair. Brandon wondered if the agent would plop his flashy two-tone oxfords, black and white, on Brandon’s desk. But he didn’t. “And whatta you think happens, boss?” The small curly-haired man—taut as a spring—didn’t even seem to be asking a question. “So, the host at the theater does the four-piece place setting giveaway—trashy stuff from Gimbels—and the organist plays a few tunes, then the lights go down and, bango, time for the newsreels.” Murphy ran a hand through his locks, which were red, of course.

“We were talking about confirmation,” Brandon tried.

“I hear you, boss. But listen. No, really. The newsreels, I’m saying. There was one about the Battle of the Bulge.”

Terrible, the German offensive that had started in December of ’44, a month ago. The Allies were making progress, but the battle was still raging.

“And what does he do?” This tiny pistol of a man pointed his finger at his superior and said, “The minute the announcer mentioned the German high command, he takes off his hat.”

Brandon, who resembled nothing so much as a balding shoe salesman at Marshall Field’s in his native Chicago, was perplexed.

But Murphy didn’t notice. Or, more likely, he did. But he didn’t care. He said to the ceiling, “Does that mean Hauptman’s a spy? Does that mean he’s a saboteur? No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying that we need to keep watching him.”

The
him
was a German American mechanic who lived in Queens and who had had some nebulous ties to the American Nazi Party before the war and had recently been seen wandering past the Norden, as in bomb-sight, factory, not so very far from where the men now sat.

And so Murphy was on the case like Sam Spade after a cheating husband.