Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

“Mrs. Funerro—” Visions of being trapped in the old lady’s apartment when he was a grocery delivery boy years ago, delayed by tales of sciatica and back spasms, made him cut her off. “Did you say Mr. Epstein is dead? You found his body?”

She exhaled. “I thought the police were observant. How will you find clues if you aren’t even listening to what I say?”

Ippolito unholstered his gun. Mrs. Funerro gasped. Putting a finger to his lips, he crept to the doorway with the surprising grace of the obese.

“I told you, I found his body. There’s no one else here now.”

He scanned the shop. Formica cases sat packed with fresh racks of oversized chocolate chip cookies, perfectly frosted layer cakes, and pastries of every shape and filling. Glass and stainless steel reflected the holiday window lights while the Now Servin sign was reset to zero, a string of number tabs hanging below it like a tongue. A flat tray filled with some kind of cookie waited atop the serving counter to be put away. Everything looked as normal as any of the dozen bakeries and bagel shops around the neighborhood, except for the wide red puddle staining the black-and-white tile floor. A slight slope had allowed it to spread almost to the front door.

Ippolito sighed. “Oh boy.”

Epstein’s body lay facedown behind the serving counter. Ippolito crouched and rolled him partway over. The front of his baker’s whites was now squishy scarlet from the nasty, raw gash at his throat, while dozens of tiny rips revealed more wounds on his body. Their edges looked as though something had been gnawing at him.

What the hell? “You were the only person here?” he asked without turning. “No one else? No animals, dogs, or some rats, maybe?”

“Rats? Eppy kept a clean shop.”

He gently set the body back down. No sign of a struggle was in evidence, but a gingerbread figure lay near Epstein’s outstretched hand in a grotesque parody of the dead man. The cookie wasn’t a traditional shape; still humanoid, it looked like a man in a suit and hat, holding a gun. The white frosting gave it a pin-striped suit and mobster attitude, still evident even though half its head and one shoulder had been bitten off. It had apparently come from the sheet of similar cookies inside the case — all those rows were symmetrical except the top, which presumably was missing the half-eaten one. Ippolito picked up a sheet of wax paper.

“Hello, saliva traces and DNA.”

He started to rise, when he noticed something on the glass inside the case. In front of all the mouth-watering treats (Resist the temptation! he scolded himself), words had been written in what looked like Epstein’s blood:

Run, run, as fast as you can

Can’t catch me…

Mrs. Funerro came up behind him. “Did you find something? Is that a clue?”

Quickly he stood, using his bulk to block her view of the body and, more importantly, the writing. “You must have watched police shows on TV. You know I can’t say anything.” Especially if I don’t want everyone from here to Astoria to know about it He held the half-eaten cookie behind his back. “Forensics will tell us what happened. For now, I need you to do something very important.”

The old woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “You want me to canvass for witnesses? I could do that — I know everyone from Shore Road to Fort Hamilton Parkway. Maybe somebody saw something. That snippy waitress got her break at the diner a little while ago. Maybe she knows something — she’s always talking to those boys who go in there, the little gossip.”

“No, no, that could be dangerous.” Ippolito put an arm around her skeletal shoulder and guided her through the kitchen to the rear door. “I need you to go back to your house and write down everything you saw and experienced here tonight.”

“Write down…?”

“You’re our main witness right now. We need to protect you.” He nodded solemnly. “I’ll have a car sent to watch your door, too. Just in case.”

Hope enlivened her voice. “Am I… in danger, you think?”

“Just in case.” He touched one beefy finger to the side of his nose. “But do me a favor — no axes. We can’t have our most valuable witness hurting herself.”

Now she was positively glowing. “Of course. Of course, you’re right. But the Bridgeview is on my way. If I stop there I can question—”

“Straight. Home.” He closed the door before she could argue.

Epstein had kept a small office next to the kitchen. Ippolito used its phone to make his report before going back out to the front shop to wait for assistance. Through the front window he watched snow begin to fall on an empty Fourth Avenue. Memories of his grocery delivery days returned like ghosts of Christmases past. Way too many years ago. Years and pounds . He started to smile until a glare reflected off the floor and reminded him why he was there. The car, a Mercedes SUV with a Christmas tree’s worth of headlights, had stopped at a red light outside. A shirtless young man wearing a thick gold rope around his neck hung out the passenger window.

“I love you, Angieeee! Merry Fucking Christmas!” the man screamed. “Aaaaaaaaa! I love you, Aaaangieeee!”

Across the street an apartment window slammed open. “She don’t love you, ’cause she’s up here sucking my dick! Just shut the hell up!”

Now the driver of the SUV joined in. “You can’t talk to my boy like that! Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

The light turned green and the SUV sped off in a screech of tires and obscenities. “Home sweet home,” Ippolito shook his head. “Where everybody’s a tough guy and no one takes crap from no one, because their boys have got their backs.”

He turned away from the window and his memories to study the scene. The tray atop the serving counter was also filled with those mobster gingerbread men, in eight neat rows of four. Gingerly he avoided the pool of blood as he stood over them. The cryptic message on the display case was backwards from this side, but the baked goods looked just as wonderful. From this position he couldn’t see the body either, and any of the smells death brings were smothered by the overwhelming scent of delightful holiday treats.

“Temptation,” he reminded himself. He stared into the display case, feeling like a child, before something odd caught his eye: One of the gingerbread mobsters had red hands. And they all had white frosting eyes and pinstripes, but red mouths.

Ippolito frowned. The gingerbread mobsters on the countertop looked identical, but with white frosting mouths. He picked one up and circled the counter, stepped over Epstein’s body, and crouched to take one from inside the case. His knees creaked. Holding the two side by side he noticed the one from inside the case, in addition to the varied coloring, also seemed… bigger.

Fatter.

“Hmph.”

Carefully he replaced the larger one, an involuntary grunt escaping his pursed lips as he reached. “Jesus , I’ve got to lose some weight. My New Year’s resolution.” Still in a crouch, he leaned against the counter for support. The hand on which he rested his weight clutched the gingerbread mobster from the countertop.

“What are you looking at?”

The gingerbread mobster had no reply. Its white frosting eyes remained unblinking, its white frosting mouth remained in a fixed sneer.

The temptation proved too much. He cocked his head at the cookie and adopted the tone of the SUV driver: “Fuck me? Fuck you!” He chuckled as he bit off its head and chewed. “Yeah, I can eat you. It isn’t New Year’s yet.” He took another bite. The gingerbread was still faintly warm, and a hint of cinnamon tickled his palate. It dissolved in his mouth like butter on hot pancakes, leaving an aftertaste of gingery vanilla.