Once Upon a Grind (21 page)

Z
ENICA
Limousine Service was in an area of Astoria packed with hookah bars, Turkish coffee shops, and Arab restaurants unofficially dubbed Little Egypt.

I'd arrived early enough to loiter across the street. I watched Lincoln Town Cars come and go, but there was no sign of the driver with the bowler.

There was no sign of Boris, either.

I paced impatiently until he finally called. He'd rented a car to widen his search for Esther, but it had broken down. Now he was miles away, on the shoulder of the expressway between Manhattan and Queens, awaiting a replacement car. He couldn't possibly be here before noon.

I saw no point in delaying. The car service seemed benign enough, so I pushed through its creaking wooden door.

Inside, the sun gleamed through a streaked window. Once upon a time these walls were white. A bulletin board overflowed with dog-eared notices and schedules. A yellowing poster depicted Bauhaus buildings beside a river, the word
Zenica
emblazoned across the top.

Behind the counter, a balding man in shirtsleeves listened patiently as I regaled him with the story I'd prepared.

“I took a ride in one of your cars last night and I left something in the backseat. I don't know the driver's name, but he had longish dark hair and wore a bowler.”

“You're looking for Eldar. He's around the corner at the Queen Catherine.”

“What's that?”

“Queen Catherine Café is Bosnian diner.”

He scribbled something on the back of a business card and slid it across the countertop. It was the café's address.

*   *   *

T
WO
things struck me as I approached the Queen Catherine: the mouthwatering scent of grilled lamb, beef, and exotic spices wafting through the open door; and the gang of rough-looking men crowding the outdoor tables.

Despite the latter, I refused to slow my pace.

A lot of women in this city—and probably as many men—would have been intimidated by the undisguised male stares. But I'd grown up in a factory town in Western Pennsylvania, more specifically, in my nonna's Italian grocery. While cozy out front, our store had a back door where my dad ran numbers and sports betting for a group of . . . let's just say
local businessmen
.

Consequently, I spent many happy years around bulldog faces and Popeye forearms. Stubbly chins chewing stumps of cigars said “home sweet home” to me. Besides, I was too worried about my missing barista to be deterred.

Veering off the sidewalk, I walked through the open door, surprising more than a few of those bulldog faces. But once inside the tiny restaurant, it was my turn to be astonished.

I expected an unsanitary little hole-in-the-wall packed with more dour, wary men, dented Formica tabletops, a television blaring some sporting event, perhaps a forest of dusty plastic plants.

Instead the interior of the Queen Catherine was neat, charming, and practically empty. There was the now-familiar Bosnian flag mounted on the wall. Beside it a framed medieval portrait of “Blessed Catherine of Bosnia.”

Of the six little tables, each covered by a woven cloth and twin place settings, only one was occupied. I recognized the customer by his long, wavy hair and the bowler on the chair beside him.

More than a little impatient, I charged across the polished hardwood floor and right up to the man.

“Excuse me, I need your help,” I said, looming over him. “You picked up two women in front of my Greenwich Village coffeehouse last night. I need to know where you took them.”

The hat man looked close to forty, maybe a little younger, with weary eyes. His hand rubbed a prominent jaw, then he shrugged stocky shoulders.

“It's not every day an attractive woman approaches me, so I will make allowances for your brusqueness.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“You ask questions about a friend. You don't introduce yourself. You don't say, ‘Hello, Eldar, how is your day?' You don't even ask to share coffee with me.”

He shook his head as if he were contemplating the decline of civilization.

“Please sit,” he said at last. “We will talk. Perhaps I can be of help.”

Dialing down my inner cop, I politely nodded.

If I were going to get any information from this man, I would have to accept some hospitality, suppress all urges to go “manic Manhattan,” and call on the manners my nonna taught me.

And so I did.

T
AKING
a seat, I started over. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Clare Cosi and I manage the Village Blend.”

“Ha! That's how I know you! You make the most wonderful coffees.”

This, I realized, would carry weight. Matt once trekked through the Balkan Peninsula. He told me sharing coffee was a cherished ritual in that part of the world, a beloved custom for cementing bonds between friends and family. Now Eldar leaned across the tiny table and extended a very large hand.

“I am honored to meet you, Clare Cosi. You like coffee, yes? Then you will love Bosnian coffee!”

Eldar called to the woman at the register. “Bosnian coffee for two!”

I was passing familiar with this method of preparing coffee—a single-boil variation of Turkish brew—but Eldar took such pleasure in introducing me to his native beverage that I happily played the naïf as he explained the brewing process.

The waitress soon arrived with an ornate copper tray,
Sarajevo
embossed around one edge. Each of us was given a small, intricately decorated
džezva
, a bell-shaped pot with a long handle designed to keep coffee grounds out of the cup.

Mimicking Eldar, I dropped a sugar cube into my demitasse, and slowly tilted my
džezva
, pouring the thick, black brew over the sweet square.

The coffee was superb: rich and strong like Turkish, but with a body and taste all its own. After sighs of satisfaction, I decided enough friendly pleasantries had been exchanged that I could now explain my problem.

“One of my baristas left my coffeehouse in a distressed state last night. I think of her as a daughter, Eldar, and I'm very concerned. She was with one of your regular customers, and I'm sure she got into your car. It's important that I find this young woman. A lot of people are worried about her.”

Eldar drained his cup and nodded. “Your friend is a big, bosomy girl, eh? I remember because she was not one of Red's usual friends.”

“You mean my barista isn't a party girl?”

“No. I mean she isn't a man.”

Okay, that answer was frank and honest. Good start.
“So you're saying Red is popular with the opposite sex?”

He shrugged. “I'm not saying anything about Red.”

“But you just did. And since she's a friend of my friend, I'd like to know a little more about her. I'm concerned—”

Eldar cut me off with a gesture toward the approaching waitress. “You will join me for lunch,” he said. It was not a question.

The tantalizing scent of sizzling meat dominated the restaurant from the moment I'd entered (and I
did
skip breakfast), so I nodded my thanks, which was even more genuine once I saw what we'd be eating.

“Is that a hamburger?” I asked, dumbfounded. It was the largest one I'd ever seen, about the size of a Frisbee.

“Is Bosnian burger,” he said with pride. “Much better than Mr. Mack Donald's.” He smiled and explained the dish was called
pljeskavica
. And the fresh-baked bun, which looked like a thicker and fluffier version of a pita, he called
lepinja
.

He pointed to the three copper bowls that came with our meal, which contained traditional Bosnian condiments: raw onions,
kajmak
(a slightly fermented cheese butter), and a delicious roasted red pepper and eggplant spread called
ajvar
.

“I know this spread,” I was happy to inform him. “Russians make something close to this, don't they?”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “They call it ‘poor man's caviar.'”

Eldar sliced the burger in quarters and dug in. I followed his lead by spreading on the cheese-butter and
ajvar
and sprinkling on the raw onions. The juicy, charcoal-grilled lamb-and-beef patty made a spectacular base for the riotous flourish of bright, tangy, salty-creamy Bosnian condiments; and for a few minutes, my interview was forgotten in a foodie haze.

With lunch so pleasantly under way, Eldar now seemed more willing to open up, which shouldn't have surprised me. As my nonna said:
“Breaking bread helps break the ice.”

“Before you judge Red,” he began, “you should know she had a hard childhood. Is not easy for a child to lose her mother and be sent away to live in another country with strict, cold relatives. So I do not blame her for her wish.”

“What wish is that?”

“A wish to find her prince. After so many hard years, Red wants a rich husband who will make the rest of her life easy. What is wrong with that?”

“I'm not judging,” I said between my final few bites of Bosnian burger. “I'm only asking. And given your comment about the number of her male companions, I assume she's putting the fairy-tale theory in play.”

“Excuse me?”

“For a girl to find her prince, she must kiss a lot of frogs.”

Eldar laughed. “That is one way to look at it. But there is a place she's found recently that does not admit frogs. Red calls it the Prince Charming Club. Is special spot for matchmaking. Rich men go there, men from other parts of the world who find themselves in New York—for work or politics or pleasure. They want pretty wives or girlfriends who can help them know this country.”

“Is that where you took Red and Esther last night?”

“Oh, no. That club is too exclusive. Your friend has no key to get in. I took the girls to Red's apartment, not far from here.”

Eldar set money on the table and rose. He adjusted his navy sport jacket, placed the bowler on his head, and gestured to the door.

“Come, Clare Cosi. I will take you there.”

E
LDAR
insisted I ride in the front seat. To make room, he moved several blocks of unfinished wood, and a rough carving of a leaping deer. Wooden figures were affixed to the dashboard: a tiny frog, a snarling wolf, and an old woman.

“Your carvings are beautiful. Did you study art?”

“My grandfather was carpenter. My father was forester. When I could hold knife, I began to carve.”

“When did you come to New York?”

“Eight years ago. Before that, I lived in London. I moved there from Bosnia.”

“Why did you leave?”

“War was bad, Ms. Cosi, many left. I lost much of my family.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I was just a boy, but I grew up quick. In London, I drove cab but didn't own. Here in America, car is mine. I own part of company, too.”

“Well, thank you for taking me to see Red.”

“You are lucky. I have order to pick her up at noon. If your friend is with her, your luck continues. If not, you speak with Red.”

I paused, studying Eldar's profile, then took a chance. “I know another friend of Red's. A Russian girl with blond hair named Anya. Do you know her?”

“Oh, yes.” Eldar nodded. “Very pretty girl, Anya. Very pretty. Have not seen her for some time. Red said she got into trouble with a woman on Upper East Side.” He shot me a sideways glance. “You know the kind.”

“What do you mean?”

Eldar raised one hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for loot.

“Can you tell me the name of this woman?”

Instead of a reply, Eldar made a sudden swerve that threw me against the shoulder strap. We landed in an illegal parking spot in front of a fire hydrant.

“We're here,” he announced, adjusting his bowler. “Talk to Red about her business. Is not for me to say.”

On the opposite end of Astoria, we'd halted in front of a neat two-story brick house. A calico cat was perched in the bay window, observing our arrival with curiosity. A statue of the Virgin Mary presided over a small flower garden out front.

“Red lives here?” I asked, surprised.

“Basement apartment in back,” Eldar replied. “But she usually waits for me on sidewalk.”

He produced a smartphone and speed-dialed. After a moment he frowned and cut the engine.

“Not like her. Red had important meeting. Told me I must come
on time
.”

“What kind of meeting?”

Concerned, Eldar told me more. “That problem with Anya? Red is trying to fix it.”

“With who? Where are you taking Red?”

“I don't know. Better to ask her. Is her business.”

We exited the car and circled the house to the back. A small concrete patio led to a narrow yard of grass that stretched to a tall wooden fence. We took five steps down to the sunken door of a basement apartment. Eldar knocked once, and the door swung open.

“Žabica!”
he called. “Out of bed, sleepyhead! Your coach awaits!”

Eldar's choice of words sent shivers through me. I'd heard those very words in the dead of night, during my fitful vision.

Now sunlight arched into a tiny, crowded room, and I stifled a scream when I saw a scarlet stain spread out on the animal print carpet.

Moving closer, I realized I was only seeing the edge of a wine-colored nightdress, not a puddle of blood and gore.

Then I spied tiny pink feet with bright red toenails mingled with the lace, and I pushed past the stunned driver, into the batik-walled apartment.

Red was lying on the floor, soot black hair splayed around her head. I didn't have to touch her to know she was dead. Rigor mortis had already set in. Her eyes were half open and unfocused. Her scarlet lips were parted like a fish gasping for air. And there was a hypodermic needle sticking out of the vein of her left forearm.

“
Žabica!
Oh, my
Žabica!
”

Eldar rushed into the room, but I pushed him back. “Don't touch anything,” I warned. “This is a crime scene!”

“But
Žabica . . .”

“She's gone,” I rasped, clutching his arms. “Go outside and wait for me.”

Square shoulders hunched, he allowed me to guide him onto the patio.

I cautiously looked around. The apartment consisted of two rooms and a bath, all empty. There was no sign of Esther, no indication she'd been there.

Except for a resin-stained bong, there was no sign of other drugs.

Exhaling a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, I stepped outside again. Eldar was leaning against the house, tears staining his face.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“We call the police.”

He shook his head hard. “I don't like police.”

Another Matt
, I thought.
“Don't worry. I'll call them.”

Sergeant Emmanuel Franco answered my speed dial on the first ring.

“Hey, Coffee Lady. What's up?”

“How soon can you get to Astoria, Queens?”

“Why?”

I told him.

“Be there in twenty. Don't contact the borough cops. I need to see the crime scene first.”

“Can't we get into trouble? Failure to report a crime to the proper authorities?”

“You just did. Leave the rest to me.”