“This is my friend,” Fay Di said. “Tell her what you told me.”
The girl turned to say something, but Fay Di went back behind the counter. A young man came from the kitchen with a tray of pastries. Fay Di busied herself with putting them in the proper cases, refusing to look at the girl.
“Sarah?” I said. “Is that your name?”
The girl whipped her head back to me. She didn’t answer, as though I had asked a dangerous question. She was very pretty, with smooth skin. Unlike my daughter, she wore a touch of lipstick, a modest pink, very becoming. Her white bakery cap sat fetchingly on her shining black hair.
“My name for America,” she said, eyes downcast.
“Sarah, this is very important. Do you know something about someone who would perhaps enjoy causing trouble for Lim Xiao?”
Again, she didn’t answer. She seemed very nervous. I have lived in Chinatown many years, so I thought I might know why. Leaning forward, I whispered, “You are in America illegally, am I correct?”
She started to jump up, but I put my hand over hers. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come to cause you problems. In fact, if you help me, perhaps I can help you.”
She looked around again to find Fay Di staring calmly at her from behind the counter. She turned back to me, then looked down at the hands in her lap. “Li Qiu,” she whispered, so quietly I almost didn’t hear her.
“Li Qiu? Who is that?”
“He comes from village close mine, in Fukien.” Her Cantonese was poor, but I thought it enterprising of her to attempt to learn to speak it, just as it was for her to take an American name. All dialects of Chinese are written with the same characters, but they are spoken differently. Most of the new immigrants now are from Fukien province, not Guangdong, as my generation was. Their language is Fukienese. Many of them also speak Mandarin, but that’s not much use in Chinatown, either. These people can get only the worst jobs until they learn either English or Cantonese. Most decide on English because it’s a simpler language, Cantonese being very subtle, very complex. This Sarah, I decided, must be hardworking, hoping to better herself, plus she must be intelligent.
She spoke up again. “Li Qiu, not a nice man.” She squirmed a little in her seat. “Thinks, because I Fukiense also, I friends of him. Tells things I do not want to hear.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Tries impress me, make me think he’s big. Not big, just nasty. Takes job at Sweet Tasty Sweet only so to learn things about rich owner. Says, rich owner going make him rich also. Says, I go with him, we be rich both.”
“Do you know what he meant?”
“No. But since yesterday, Li Qiu doesn’t come to work.”
From the records in the tiny office in the back, Fay Di showed me a photograph of Li Qiu. I asked for his address. “I shouldn’t be doing this!” she hissed. “I could get fired!”
“You are the manager. Unless Lim Xiao comes here himself, who’ll fire you? Right now Lim Xiao is worried about other things.” I tried to sound reassuring. Often in the course of a case, an investigator must convince people to do things they probably should not do.
Shaking her head, Fay Di quickly scribbled some Chinese characters on a counter check.
The address for Li Qiu was a rundown building on East Broadway. Standing outside looking at it, I cannot say I approved of the condition it was in. It was probably owned by a Hong Kong Chinese. They are investors who take very poor care of their buildings. I am not someone who likes to tell other people what to do, but the Hong Kong Chinese should go back to Hong Kong, taking their money with them.
I had many ideas of how I might gain entry to the building, but I was not forced to use any of them. The lock on the front door was broken. As I might have expected.
Li Qiu lived on the third floor. I myself live on the fourth floor, so climbing these stairs presented no difficulty. An investigator must be prepared to expend physical effort at any time if an investigation requires it.
When I found apartment 3D, I stood for a moment to catch my breath. I wouldn’t have done so, but I needed the full power of my lungs. Finally, I pounded on the door, screaming, “You make too much noise! All the time, noise, noise, noise! You have to stop! Be quiet!”
I went on like that until the door opened. It was only a tiny crack, but I shoved the door, still screaming, waving my arms. I am not a large woman. The man peering through the crack seemed startled when I pushed. “I live downstairs! How can I sleep? How can I play with my grandchildren? How can I do anything? Much too noisy up here! You shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I ran out of things to scream, but I just started over.
Now I could recognize Li Qiu, standing at the half-opened door, glaring at me. He must have thought I was crazy. If I’d been able to understand him, I might have learned whether I was right, but he replied in angry Fukienese whispers. It was clear to me he didn’t want me to disturb the neighbors.
He tried to shut the door, but I jumped up as though to scratch out his eyes. Out of instinct he leapt back, as I’d planned. I was able to see into the room. No one else was visible, but I could see a closed door leading to another room. The place Li Qiu lived was quite untidy, with a bad smell. Clothes were strewn on the couch, take-out containers on the floor. The windows, which looked out onto a brick wall in any case, were covered by bed sheets hammered onto the frames.
The place was disgusting. I’d be humiliated if any of my children lived like this, even for five minutes.
Yet a Chloé handbag, open, its contents scattered, sat on a pizza box on a rickety table.
Chinatown is New York City’s center for knock-off designer goods. I’ve seen them all my life. I am not a person who likes to boast, but I can tell the real from the false on sight.
This handbag was real. It had cost its owner a good deal of money.
Li Qiu pushed my shoulder. I stopped screaming, as though he had frightened me. Shaking my head, I backed away. I walked down the stairs muttering.
Out on the street, I almost used the small telephone in my purse to call Carl Ting at his police precinct. Then I remembered my daughter telling me she had been able to find lawbreakers by their telephone numbers. I was not a lawbreaker, of course, but I didn’t want Carl Ting to find me. I called from a public telephone with a roof like a pagoda.
“A woman has been kidnapped,” I told Carl Ting. “She is in an apartment on East Broadway. You must hurry.” I gave him the address.
“Who is this?”
“A neighbor. The kidnapper is Li Qiu. He lives upstairs. He is a bad man.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Is it the kind of thing policemen think is funny?” I’m sure there’s nothing Carl Ting thinks is funny, as he has no sense of humor at all. “You must hurry to save her.” Remembering what my son had said, I added, “This information comes from Chin Tien Hua.”
“Tim Chin? What does he have to do with this?”
“Nothing. He wants someone to rescue her. He thinks you’re the best man to do it.”
“Why didn’t he call me himself?”
“He’s in a meeting. You cannot reach him. Rescue the woman. Then call my—call Chin Tien Hua.” Quickly, I hung up the phone.
Valerie Lim was rescued within the hour. I learned this because my son called me later, very upset.
“The cops told the Lims I was the one who told them! They’re furious!”
“But it was not you. Was it?”
“It must have been Lydia! I’ll kill her.”
“It could not have been your sister. She knows nothing about this case. I never reached her.”
“Then why do they think that?”
“I have no idea. It must have been someone whose name sounds similar. But why are the Lims upset? Their daughter was returned to them.”
“That’s a disaster, too! Do you know who rescued her? Carl Ting!”
“Did he? I think that’s lovely. I must congratulate his mother that her son is a hero.”
&
nbsp; “That’s what Valerie thinks, too.” I could hear the disgust in my son’s words. “All she can talk about is how brave he is. How scared she was, but then how safe she felt, tied up in the bathroom, the minute she heard his voice. The only reason she called me, besides to thank me for telling the police—which her parents will never forgive me for, even though I didn’t do it!—is to find out if I know Carl. She wants to know everything about him.”
“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.
THE BAKER OF BLEECKER STREET
Jeffery Deaver
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 han
d 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.
Brandon, of course, agreed: “Okay. Sure. Stay on him.”
Outside, snow fluttered down and wind rattled the panes of this large, shabby room—the office that didn’t exist.
It was situated in a six-story limestone walk-up in Times Square, overlooking the Brill Building, where so much wonderful music was made. Major, retired major, Tom Brandon loved music, all kinds. Tin Pan Alley—much of it written in the Brill Building—and classical and jazz and Glenn Miller, God rest his soul, who’d died just last month, flying to entertain troops. Jack Murphy liked, guess what, Irish tunes. Pipes, whistles, bodhrams, concertinas, guitars. He sang sappy ballads, too, after a round or two or three of Bushmills. He had a terrible voice, but he picked up the bar tab for all the boys, so Brandon and the rest of them in the office could hardly complain.