Whole Latte Life (4 page)

“Mrs. DeMartino.” His voice changes. She hears it lower, sees him reach for the Report. “Let me help you fill this out. You’re visibly shaken by this, and—”

“Well of course I am. My friend’s disappeared. Where could she have gone?” She pulls her cell phone from her purse and checks it for messages. “And here I am, sitting in a police station waiting for the worst news. I mean, what about her husband? And her children? I can’t stay here any longer. Seeing all this police stuff is scaring the hell out of me.”

“Wait. Wait, wait. You also can’t go out into the city shook up like this. Take a few minutes and calm down. I’ll get you a coffee, just hang on.”

Rachel watches him cross the room, pick up the coffee pot and swirl around a few drops of cold, muddy liquid pooled in the bottom before slamming it back onto the coffee maker.

“I have to get out of here,” she says, standing, when he returns empty-handed.

“Listen, I just finished my shift. I’ll walk you across the street for a coffee. Pull yourself together there. For your friend’s sake, okay? Come on, we’ll get this Report filled out.”

Michael’s seen this before. The situation has to settle, to find its place in her thoughts, to make sense. He orders at the counter, then sets his key ring and food on the square table and takes a seat, shifting it to face the doorway. He lifts the top of the hard roll on his plate. “Best roast beef sandwich in town. Little mayo, horseradish. Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Joe can make you a half. You’ll feel better with a little food in you.”

“Please. No.”

“Okay then. Now, Mrs. DeMartino.” He scoops a forkful of coleslaw.

“Rachel. Call me Rachel,” she says, glancing out the door.

“Rachel. Now about this friend of yours.”

“Sara Beth.”

He turns when he notices her look past him at someone approaching. Joe sets down two steaming mugs of coffee. “You have enough? The food’s good?” Joe asks.

“The best.” Joe gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before turning back to the counter. “He and my Pop were paisans,” he explains to Rachel, shifting in his seat and glancing around the room. “Both their parents came from the Italian mountains. Let me tell you a story about them.”

“Really,” Rachel insists, “I don’t have time for stories.”

“Hear me out, the story explains something. See, both couples, my father’s parents and Joe’s parents, came to Ellis Island on the same boat.” Rachel sips her coffee, no nod, no nothing. He waits for a second until she glances to the door. “Coming here with only the clothes on their backs, the four of them struck up a friendship on that boat. They lived in the same tenement houses and bought homes on the same block in Queens, raised their families doors apart, took turns having the holidays.” He turns back toward Joe. “Always together. Ever since the boat ride.”

“Okay. Nice story. Joe over there grew up next door to your father.”

“See, right off the boat,” he continues, “their fathers were masons. Coming from the old country, that’s all they knew. Working with their hands. So with the union work around the city, bricklaying and labor work on the commercial sites, they followed the jobs.” He finishes the roll and washes it down with coffee. “They worked hard and saved hard. After about ten years, they settled in Queens, on that same street. They did okay.”

He sees that Rachel is about to bolt when she checks her watch. “I’m sorry, but—” she begins.

“Joe and my Pop were like brothers. Eventually Pop bought a house down the same street from Joe. They raised their families as neighbors, just like their parents. I grew up on that street.”

“Well. That’s great, but I think…”

He sees it coming, the way she looks at her purse, then up at the door. It’s in her resigned smile and quick breath, the moment before she decides to leave.

“Wait a sec, okay?” He nods toward Joe behind the counter. “Joe’s sixty-six now, could retire with a big bank account. But that would kill him. This,” he motions around the small deli, “this is his, you know. His life. His bricks and his mortar and his sweat. His wife, Lena, cooks the sausages and meatballs, and brings in her specialty eggplant parmagiana. They’ve got another ten years in here, easy.”

Rachel’s eyes sweep the deli, her purse in her lap, hands through the shoulder strap. At the far end, a small counter with red-cushioned, silver stools butts up against the meat case, full of the freshest cold cuts around. Tubs of macaroni and potato salads fill the cooler case behind the counter.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Michael asks. “Between the two of them, they’ve fed this corner of Manhattan for twenty-five years. The Manhattan that Joe’s mason father and shipmate friend,
my
grandfather, helped to build.”

Rachel shifts, as though to stand. “I’d like to hear more, really, but—”

“My dad was a union mason all his life, too. Had a stroke a few years ago and never fully recovered. He died last year.”

“Well, I’m very sorry. But this isn’t helping me—”

“Thanks. Joe took the loss hard. He was so close to Pop that I’m like a son to him, too. And that, Rachel…It’s Rachel, right? That’s why I understand your worry about your friend. I grew up watching a great friendship. The same expression is on your face that I saw on Joe’s, when he lost my Pop.”

“You take an extremely long time to get to the point,” Rachel says. “And how does that point help me?”

He turns up his hands. “You’ve lost a good friend, and it makes me want to help. Now, since she’s not a minor and hasn’t been kidnapped, you can do one of two things.”

“Okay.” She pulls her chair in close.

“One, we sit here and get that report finished. What they’ll do with it at the Station is a Risk Assessment. Prioritize it, give you a copy before they file it away. Too much else is going on, you know?” He takes a swallow of coffee and wipes his mouth with the napkin.

“And the second thing?”

Michael leans close over the table. “Sara Beth. Let me guess. Attractive, educated forty-something, leading a tame life. Nice husband, couple of smart kids, white picket fence, PTA?”

“Pretty close.”

“Comes to the Big Apple for this
Ladies’ Weekend
and, basically, is seduced. Manhattan looked her dead in the eye, gave her a good stiff drink, a dinner, exciting atmosphere…Except you can’t seduce a married woman unless something’s wrong at home. With her old man, with her life.”

“What are you saying?”

“Something’s screwed up at home, or maybe in her thinking, and it’s so bad that she can’t go back. It happens. Anything come to mind?”

Rachel sits up straighter. “It’s presumptuous of you to tell me Sara Beth’s head is messed up.”

He starts to stand. “I was just looking for clues. They’re always there, somewhere.”

“Wait.” She grabs his arm. “You said I could do two things.”

“Rachel.” So he sits again and tries something else. “I don’t see you going back to…”

“Connecticut.”

“Connecticut. Right. I don’t see you leaving here without a fight. Believe me, you’ve made yourself clear on that. But don’t go hunting her down. You’ll only put yourself,” he glances past her, then back at her face. “At risk. It’s better to wait her out for a few days. Where are you staying?”

“The Plaza. Till Sunday.”

“So she knows where she can reach you. That note means this is her
choice
. Give her time, be there for her if she calls or comes back with her tail between her legs. But let her come back to you.”

“So you’re telling me to spend the next few days waiting in my room. That’s the best the NYPD can do?”

He pauses, not sure how to help her. “Well, no. But with no signs of foul play, and she’s not a risk to herself or anyone else, our hands are tied. So go ahead and see the sights. But don’t check out of The Plaza. If she tries to contact you, the desk will take a message. And she’ll know you’re still in the city.”

“I don’t have much choice, except now I’m flying solo.”

“Can you call someone to stay with you? A husband? A sister?”

She eyes him for a cautious second, but he never sees this one coming. “I’m a widow.”

“Now it’s my turn for sympathy.”

“Well thank you. And Sara Beth asked me not to bring her husband in on this.”

“That’s ridiculous. And there’s no one else you can call?”

“No one near enough to make the trip.”

“That’s a tough one then. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Maybe call her family then.”

“But she asked me not to. I mean, what’s she thinking? It’s not like I can just ignore this and what, go bowling?”

Lord knows he’s spent his share of hours alone in desperate situations. There is nothing worse, your worries spinning like a fantastic kaleidoscope sucking you right into it. Maybe he can help her that way, to worry less. “You can, you know.”

“What?”

“Just go with me on this. Go bowling.”

He kind of figured it would happen, the way she abruptly stands, hikes her bag on her shoulder and reaches in for a few dollars to pay for her coffee. “What the hell? My friend is in serious trouble and you’re telling me to go bowling? I’m really losing my patience.”

“Hear me out, okay? Please listen.”

She pauses, then slowly sits again, that bag and two dollars clutched in her lap.

“No, I don’t mean definitely bowling. It’s a figure of speech. But you’ll imagine the worst waiting alone in your hotel. Believe me, I’ve been there.” His voice drops. “She could be
anywhere
. So finish that report, then go out and spend a few hours bowling, or eating, or at a show, doesn’t matter what. Bring your cell and it’ll help you wait.” Now, he stands. “That’s the only thing you can do, really. Pass some time while waiting. Maybe you’ll remember something she said in the meantime.”

Rachel doesn’t answer. She sits looking at her hands, at the counter, out the window, anywhere but at his face.

He checks his watch. “Listen. I thought it might help, you know? That’s all.”

Footsteps come up behind him. “Michael.”

He turns around and can’t help smiling. “Lena. How are you today?”

“Good, Michael. Here.” Lena is small and moves quietly, a strand of gray hair slipping from her bun. She hands him a red apple she held behind her back. “For Maggie.”

“You spoil her, just like she’s your kid. She got spooked today, I practically ran over a woman a few blocks back and it shook her up.”

“Poor horse. You tell Maggie I’m sorry, and stop by for sugar cubes tomorrow.” Lena gives his hand a squeeze and turns back to the kitchen. “And be careful.”

There is a second, one that he stretches into a long pause, because sometimes someone needs one, or a situation does, when all that hinges on the day can happen in that pause, before he turns back to the table and pushes in his chair. “Mrs. DeMartino. Take care now. And I hope your friend’s all right. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. You let us know if anything develops.” He picks up his keys and walks to the door.

Rachel looks out the window onto the narrow street at dusk. Too much is happening, too fast. This is not how she planned on spending her long weekend, this sitting in a Manhattan deli, scared for her friend, talking to a police officer. “Damn it,” she says, scrunching up her napkin. Why did Carl have to go and die? This would never have happened if he were here.