Shot in the Dark Page 5

  “Seriously, Matt, after what you witnessed tonight, I’m surprised at your judgment—or lack thereof.”

  “I told you already, I’m not Richard Crest. I don’t mistreat women.”

  “That’s not the point. You don’t know these women.”

  “That’s what the app is for, Clare, to get to know them.”

  “You mean in the biblical sense?”

  “You trust my mother’s judgment, don’t you? She’s probably having a wonderful evening with that Silver Fox date of hers.”

  “A man whose name you can’t even tell me.” I pointed at his phone. “And who is this Cinder-ella that contacted you? You said she had ‘second thoughts.’ What does that mean?”

  “Remember the little blonde who said I reminded her of her father? Well, she texted me that she kept thinking about our conversation—even during her other dates tonight—and she wanted to see me again.” The Tinkerbell noise sounded. “That’s her. She’s rolling up now. Gotta go!”

  Shaking my head, I pulled out my ring of keys. Against my own better judgment, I unlocked the door and once again set my ex-husband free in the concrete jungle of love.

  A minute later, I watched him climb into an old-fashioned yellow cab with his smiling Cinder-ella giddily sliding over as he slipped into the backseat.

  The petite blonde had a Millennial Marilyn Monroe thing going, complete with platinum glamour curls, false eyelashes, beauty mark, tight sweater, and (to trend-ify the whole look) rhinestone cat glasses.

  With a mighty exhale, I locked the front door and set the security alarm. This night was awful, and I was glad it was over. But I wasn’t ready for bed. I was agitated, wide awake, and getting my appetite back . . .

  Just then, I noticed a long-stemmed rosebud on the espresso bar. The red petals were closed, the edges slightly wilted, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. That’s when I remembered.

  Matt brought this flower . . .

  He obviously left it behind.

  Inhaling the floral aroma, I filled one of our glass latte mugs with warm water. Taking care to avoid the thorns, I placed the thirsty stem inside—and found myself wishing Matt had stayed behind, too, just a little while longer.

  He could have joined me for a bite to eat, helped me figure out how to deal with this disastrous publicity, and (okay, I admit) kept loneliness at bay.

  My fiancé, who usually worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct (where he supervised the OD Squad), had been putting in long hours on some special project at One Police Plaza.

  Mike planned to crash at his East Village apartment late tonight, but I expected to hear from him soon—especially in light of our viral-video shooting.

  With that thought, I pulled out my smartphone, turned it back on, and searched for any new messages from the man my body and soul still ached for.

  There were three unread texts—all old ones from Nancy.

  My heart sank a little until I saw the “urgent” new voice mail waiting for me. Unfortunately, the message wasn’t from Mike Quinn. The caller ID read PIER 66 MARITIME, a popular watering hole on the Hudson River.

  Who would leave me a voice mail from a bar phone?

  Curiosity piqued, I hit play—

  “It’s me, dear,” cooed my octogenarian employer. “Please don’t tell my son about this. You know how Matteo tends to overreact. That’s why I’m contacting you. I hate to admit it, but . . . I’m in a pickle!”

  Nine

  BY the time I got to Madame, she wasn’t just “in a pickle,” she was well on her way to being pickled.

  “I’m stranded,” she went on to explain in her phone message. “And my mobile refuses to recharge!”

  Without the use of her phone, Madame couldn’t order (or pay for) an Uber. She had cash, but at this late hour, yellow cabs seldom trolled for passengers along the desolate riverfront, and she didn’t think it prudent to venture out alone.

  I didn’t think so, either, and quickly called her back on the bar’s phone. When she asked me to order an Uber car for her and put it on the Village Blend’s tab, I insisted on driving her myself.

  “Then let’s make the best of it, shall we? Meet me on Pier 66, and you can enjoy a late dinner!”

  With my appetite back, I agreed and (reluctantly) ended the call. I wasn’t about to grill the poor woman on a public phone, but I was dying to ask the obvious—

  Where in the devil is your swipe-to-meet date? And why isn’t he seeing you home safely?!

  * * *

  • • •

  FIFTEEN minutes later, my curiosity on steroids, I parked our shop’s van under a streetlight on 26th Street.

  I’d hastily spruced up before coming, brushing my Italian roast hair free of its ponytail and swiping on some lipstick. My new jeans and boatneck sweater were presentable enough, so off went the Village Blend apron and on went my wool peacoat. The night was temperate for fall, but temperatures would drop near the river.

  Sure enough, as I crossed Twelfth Avenue and the city’s Greenway, a frigid wind whipped off the dark water, sending my newly freed hair flying. I pulled the strands off my face and pushed on, shoving chilled fingers into coat pockets.

  Despite the cold, I liked being outside. The brisk ocean air was invigorating, a fresh reminder that New York, though crowded and claustrophobic, was also a port city with a long maritime history. No matter how oppressive the city became, an escape to the peace of wide-open water was only a few miles away.

  The very idea was mentally freeing, especially to hardworking stiffs like me—one reason city advocates labored to keep the West Side waterfront accessible to the public (not just multimillionaires). Over the years, broken-down docks were transformed into lush green parks, and sinking piers into grown-up playgrounds.

  My destination was one such playground: Pier 66.

  Formerly a loading dock for train cars, the pier was extended into the Hudson by way of an attached railroad barge, and the whole shebang converted into an outdoor bar and grill.

  As my ankle boots thumped across the dock’s stout wooden flooring, I couldn’t help admiring the weather-beaten hull of the US lightship Frying Pan, now permanently anchored on the south side of the pier as an extension of its restaurant.

  When I first heard the ship’s name, I thought it was a food service gimmick, but I was wrong. For much of her life, Frying Pan had worked as a warning vessel, protecting the hazardous Frying Pan Shoals off the coast of Cape Fear, North Carolina. Once, she even sank into the sea, where she foundered for three years before being raised and awarded landmark designation.

  Now the old red boat shined again, not as a floating lighthouse but a lively venue for happy revelers. My spirits lifted seeing the pulsing life on her restored topside, above the lower deck’s rust and barnacles. Her tower light no longer shined as powerfully, but the bright sounds of laughter and conversation certainly lit up the dark.

  In many ways, she reminded me of the redoubtable employer I’d come here to meet . . .

  All her life, storms had battered Blanche Dreyfus, even as a little girl. Winds of war had swept her from a beautiful Paris home to a Lower East Side tenement. During that harrowing journey, she’d lost her beloved mother and sister, a terrible blow at such a young age. But she overcame it and worked to build a new life in the New World.

  As a young woman, she found happiness again in the form of a handsome Italian American man with a thriving coffee business. When Antonio Allegro swept her off her feet, she thought her marital bliss would never end. But her vital husband’s life was cut short, and she was devastated once more.

  Instead of giving up and selling the business, she worked night and day to get the Village Blend through New York’s toughest years—and her son through the grief of losing an adored father.

  It was a blow, too, when my marriage to that son fell apart. Without a
mother of my own, Matt’s had become one for me. As a pregnant art school dropout, I badly needed one, and she gave me her unwavering support—through not only those first nine months, but also all the rocky years of raising Joy.

  She also taught me everything she knew about the coffee business. And she remained a cherished part of my life, even after the divorce papers set her son free.

  I still cared deeply for my former mother-in-law. I admired her grit and respected her wisdom. Madame had seen and done so much in her life, and she was darn fine company, too. Another reason I quickened my steps down the pier . . .

  When I finally reached the authentic fire-engine red caboose—a less-than-subtle reminder of the converted railroad barge beneath my feet—the hostess greeted me, and I made my way through a gauntlet of crowded tables. Despite the chilly breezes off the water, patio heaters kept the exposed dining area surprisingly comfortable.

  I found Madame regally relaxing at a table, admiring the magnificent view. Up and down our side of the riverbank, Manhattan’s towers lit up the sky, while across the water, Hoboken’s smaller structures shimmered in the Hudson’s black glass.

  Blanche seemed to shimmer, as well. Her violet eyes looked bright, and her silver-white pageboy appeared to reflect the glow from the string of lights above us. Though the heat lamps kept us cozy, she left her chic Italian leather jacket on, parted enough to reveal the elegance of her latte milk sweater and Dancers in Violet scarf.

  Like me, she had applied fresh lipstick, but not blush—she didn’t need to. Her gently wrinkled face, which was usually pale, tonight displayed a pronounced rosiness.

  I gave her a hug and barely sat down before she lifted her half-empty highball glass and declared—

  “You must try one of these!”

  “What is it?”

  “Rum, ginger beer, and a dash of lime.”

  Aha, I thought, the mystery of those flushed cheeks is suddenly solved. “You’re drinking a Dark and Stormy—”

  “Not exactly. Here they mix things up their own way and call it Troubled Waters.”

  Considering my evening, either name seemed appropriate.

  While Pier 66 featured casual self-service from a center bar and grill, Madame had arranged for waiter service. (She always did have a knack for negotiating special treatment in this town, and I certainly wasn’t going to refuse a little pampering.)

  “So?” I said after giving our waiter the order. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  “My date?”

  “Yes. What happened to your Silver Fox?”

  “Wrong animal. Albert was more of a Slimy Snake.”

  Ten

  FOR a moment, I thought she was joking. The look on her face told me otherwise.

  “A snake?” I repeated. “But you seemed so happy when you met him at the Blend.”

  “Oh, he was charming enough, though not as interested in art or culture as he claimed in his profile. The real estate market was what he enjoyed talking about, and he did—all night long . . .”

  She waved her hand. “Albert brought me here for after-dinner drinks, just so he could point out all the structures on the Jersey skyline that he and his financial institution had bankrolled over the years.”

  “Well, I’m sure you learned something.”

  “Oh, I did. The lesson came when I visited the women’s room, where I was confronted by my escort’s irate sister-in-law—”

  “You mean his brother’s wife?”

  “No, dear, I mean his spouse’s sister.”

  “Albert is married?!”

  Madame nodded. “He was using the app to step out on his young wife.”

  “Excuse me, did you say young wife?”

  “As the snake hastily explained to me—his sexy new wife enjoyed his money and gave him plenty of physical gratification, but out of bed she was a complete bore. He couldn’t talk to her, he said, and he enjoyed the romance of taking mature, accomplished women like me out on the town.”

  “I guess that’s flattering.”

  “It’s ridiculous! I sent him on his way, refusing even a ride home. But with pride cometh the fall.” Madame patted her pageboy and looked away. “My phone went dead.”

  “Well, it’s over now. And we’re making the best of it, right?”

  “Indeed we are!” She finished her drink and raised her empty glass.

  Just in time, the waiter appeared with a cocktail for me, and fetched a new one for her.

  I could see why Madame was feeling no pain. Troubled Waters wasn’t so bad in highball form. The bubbly mix had a citrus-sweet tang and peppery ginger beer sting. It tickled my nose and packed a head-spinning punch. But its powerful effect didn’t deter me, and when the waiter returned with our food, I asked him for a refill.

  Since Madame had dined earlier, she ordered dessert (apple strudel).

  I, on the other hand, could have consumed every item on their “Octoberfest Celebration” menu. Resisting all-out gluttony, I settled on the Chicken Schnitzel Sandwich with Bavarian Beer Cheese Sauce, braised red cabbage, and a side of German potato salad.

  The white meat chicken was pounded as thin as a deutsche mark, the bread crumbs sautéed to crunchy perfection. The seeded bun was fresh, and the beer cheese was an inspired touch that added a creamy richness to the simple sammie. The cabbage brought back savory memories, as did the Hot German Potato Salad—it was the kind with bacon and vinegar that a local church in my Pennsylvania hometown served during their Octoberfest, and I forked the tangy, smoky bites into my mouth with a contented sigh.

  “You know, Madame,” I said between unladylike mouthfuls, “yours isn’t the first bad dating-app story I’ve heard tonight, and it certainly isn’t the worst.”

  “I can roll with the punches.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know if I can stand it anymore. I’m sorry, but I’m beginning to despise this ‘swipe-right’ culture. I can’t understand why women and men are continually putting themselves in situations where they can be humiliated, betrayed, or worse.”

  Madame raised an eyebrow. “It sounds as if you have personal experience.”

  “I do.”

  “You surprise me, Clare! You’re engaged to a perfectly wonderful and chivalrous man. Why are you using a dating app?”

  “Not me! My ‘personal experience’ involved two customers . . .”

  I briefly gave her the skinny on Gun Girl and her Crusher, including the unfortunate news that a video of the event had gone viral on the Internet.

  “The Village Blend’s image is taking a beating,” I lamented. “And I don’t know how to turn it around . . .”

  Madame’s reaction surprised me. She didn’t appear upset. In fact, she seemed amused.

  “I am sorry for that poor girl and that foolish boy. Both clearly lack maturity, good judgment, and the most basic tenets of civil behavior. But what happened tonight could prove to be a positive thing.”

  “Positive? I’m sorry, but I can’t see a silver lining to this particular Dark and Stormy.”

  “Perhaps a little perspective might help . . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  Madame’s violet gaze moved over the river. She tipped her head toward a slow parade of working barges. Some floated by us in silence, others with bright blasts of their air horns.

  “I’ve watched the years pass like those barges, Clare, some quiet as death, others with earsplitting changes. I’ve seen shops open and close; buildings rise and fall; trends come and go. Through it all, new generations always tried to break through boundaries. Out with the old, in with the new! But there’s very little new when it comes to human behavior. That’s why a single crime can change everything.”

  “A single crime? In this town?”

  Madame nodded. Then she leaned forward and fixed her eyes on mine. “Tell me. Have you e
ver heard of the Groovy Murders?”

  Eleven

  “THE Groovy Murders?” I shook my head.

  “It was 1967. They called it the Summer of Love. But all that peace, love, and understanding didn’t last long . . .”

  Signaling for another cocktail, Madame went on with her story, her gaze going glassy as her thoughts traveled back to the 1950s and early ’60s.

  She and Matt’s father were young shop owners, working hard to keep their business afloat in a neighborhood of modest means. Meanwhile, all around them, struggling poets and writers, avant-garde artists, and urban folk musicians were driving the counterculture movement.

  Greenwich Village became synonymous with bohemia, birthing experimental theaters and art galleries, radical small presses and cutting-edge clubs.

  During those years, Blanche and Antonio Allegro served strong coffee and Italian and French pastries to some of the country’s most influential iconoclasts—from Willem de Kooning to William S. Burroughs; Jackson Pollock to Jack Kerouac; Andy Warhol to Allen Ginsberg; Joan Mitchell to Johnny Allen (aka Jimi) Hendrix and Bob Dylan.

  “It was a liberating time, full of new ideas and boundless possibilities . . .” A little smile brightened Madame’s face, but it slowly faded. “By 1967 the culture began to shift. Beatniks, poetry, and bongo drums gave way to hippies, free love, and psychedelic drugs . . .”

  In Madame’s view, it was a slow devolution.

  “Artists, writers, musicians who came to the Village in the past worked very hard. They took odd jobs to survive while they focused with ferocity and passion on producing and evolving their art. This, my dear, was the hidden bedrock beneath our little bohemia.”

  “What do you mean hidden bedrock?”

  “From distant shores, bedrock is invisible. That’s why naïve eyes see bohemian life as romantic. While the Village continued to attract serious artists and committed activists, it also attracted those who heard only the siren’s call to mere pleasure seeking.”