“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.”
“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.