Джон Краули - New Haven Noir

That night after dinner the boy got down on his knees to say his prayers. His mother sat on the bed. She reminded him to pray first for others. So he asked God to make Nana better. Then his mother said he should give thanks. So he said, God, thank you that Monday is over and tomorrow is Tuesday and I can go back to Vacation Bible School. Then he said, I hate Mondays, God. I really hate them. His mother was upset. Don’t say things like that, she said. I told you, God doesn’t want us to hate. The boy said he was sorry. But he already knew he was going to hell. Then his mother said he should say a prayer for himself. He shut his eyes tightly.

Dear God, he said, when I grow up, please, God, I will do anything you want. I will be anything you want. But please, God, please, don’t let me grow up to be a Negro. Amen.

Author’s Note: For more on the origin of this story, see Chapter 1 of my novel Palace Council as well as the author’s note at the end of the book. The Edward Malley store on Chapel Street did indeed have the window display the boy describes in 1948. In the fall of that year, New Haven did indeed retire the streetcars. The Vacation Bible School lessons are drawn from Florence M. Waterman, Standard Vacation Bible School Courses: Primary — First Year, published in 1922.

Food Terminal Plaza

It was the way her hand hovered around the deli case that first caught his eye. It fluttered back and forth like a butterfly caught in a moment of indecision. Her palm finally came to rest between the salami and the tuna salad and her fingers lightly tap-tap-tapped on the glass window case.

“Come on, already. Pick something, will ya? I wanna order a sandwich and get back on the road,” groused the trucker behind her.

Jimmy saw the heat rise in her cheeks and planted his meaty fists on the countertop. “Leave the lady alone. I’m sure McDonald’s can wait a couple of extra minutes for your delivery. Take your time, miss. Don’t let this bum rush you.”

The trucker angrily tugged on his blue Ferelli Sausage cap. “Screw you, Jimmy. The taco trucks have better food than this place does, anyway.”

“Sure, if you like chowing down on crappy corn cakes filled with mystery meat. Try not to choke on the truck fumes coming from I-95 while you stand there eating your lunch.”

Annabelle’s eyes lowered as she drifted off into thought. She didn’t say a word although she knew the food trucks they were talking about. Parked on a thin strip of asphalt along the waterfront, they resembled a flock of exotic birds with their colorful array of plume-like flags and flashy yellow, green, and red exteriors. The pulsating sounds of salsa and mariachi music blared from their speakers most of the day and into the night. She’d been drawn to them one evening after rehearsal. Their siren song had lured her past Ikea, under the highway overpass, and on to Long Wharf Drive where the sun was beginning to set. It hung in a fiery ball above a group of white petroleum storage tanks, round as moon pies, that lay across the Sound.

She had walked past the semitrailers and parked cars to where a crowd had gathered. Truckers and New Haven college students stood in separate groups laughing and talking as they ate quesadillas and burritos topped with bright green salsa. One college boy had looked at her askance as she’d joined the end of a line.

“I’ll take two tacos, please,” Annabelle said upon reaching the front of the food truck.

“What kind do you want?” asked the young girl leaning out its side window.

“Oh, dear. I don’t know. I don’t eat Mexican food all that much.” Her mind drew a blank as she studied the menu board. What she wanted to do was turn and run.

“Try the pork loin. They’re nice and juicy tonight,” whispered a voice in her ear.

Spinning around, she saw a trucker standing behind her, his T-shirt stretched tight across his chest and his nipples erect from the wind whipping across the Sound. His gold tooth caught the last rays of light, gleaming bright as hidden treasure.

“Trust me. They’re so moist you’re going to be begging for more. It’s a good night to try things you’ve never had before.” He leered at her and she did as he said. “Give her a beer too,” he added.

That was the first of many drinks Annabelle had that evening.

“My name is Tommy Corona. You know, Corona. Just like the beer.”

It was the last thing she remembered him saying. The next morning, she woke up in a strange bed.

“The chicken salad is nice and fresh today, miss. Why don’t I make a sandwich of it for you?”

The words plucked her from her thoughts and she looked up to where Jimmy stood smiling at her across the deli counter.

“Thank you. That would be nice. I’m sorry that I made you lose a customer.”

“Who? That mook? Oh, hell. Don’t worry about him, pardon my French.”

Annabelle watched as he spread the chicken salad neatly between two slices of bread. He was portly with a sparse head of hair that was carefully combed across his scalp. The tip of his tongue, pink as a wound, grazed his upper lip as he deftly sliced the sandwich in two. This was a man who clearly enjoyed his food.

“There. I think you’ll need a bag of chips to go along with that.”

Annabelle quickly calculated the total in her head. “Please don’t bother. Just the sandwich will be fine.”

“Here, take it,” he said, waving her ten-dollar bill away like a pesky fly. “Lunch is on the house today for having to deal with that jerk. I’d hate to think you wouldn’t come back again.”

“Of course I will. I’m rehearsing a play at Long Wharf Theater next door. So I’ll be working here for a while.”

He brightened and Annabelle thought he wasn’t such a bad-looking man after all. He’d be quite handsome if he were only thirty pounds lighter.

“I thought you looked like a movie star! What’s your name? Have I seen you in anything?”

Annabelle cringed inside, although her smile remained in place. She always sensed the disappointment that usually followed her answer. “Probably not. Most of my work is on the stage. I’m Annabelle Rogers. I’m sure you’ve never heard of me before.”

“Annabelle Rogers,” he repeated. The name tingled on his lips like a fine sparkling wine. “Well, if you’re not a movie star yet, you should be. You’re as pretty as one and you’ve got a good name. Pleased to meet you, Annabelle Rogers. I’m Jimmy Carbonara. You know, Carbonara. Like the spaghetti sauce.”

Annabelle shivered at the memory of Tommy Corona.

“You’re cold! Here, take a cup of coffee with you. Let me know if you like the sandwich and I’ll make something special for you next time.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she smiled. Annabelle Rogers was no twenty-year-old, but still totally doable. Tall and slim, she was stacked in all the right places. She was an absolute babe and completely out of his league. He’d never thought about going to the theater before. Maybe it was time he got some culture. He was already dreaming what to make her for lunch tomorrow as she waved goodbye and walked out the door.

Refrigerated trailers hummed where they sat in their bays and hand trucks groaned under the weight of crates loaded with sausages and boned chickens. Annabelle hurried past the meatpacking plants and walked through a parking lot the length of three football fields. Close to the docks, the theater was located in the heart of New Haven’s food terminal.

She hadn’t performed at Long Wharf Theater before and was grateful for the job. People always assumed an actor’s life was filled with glamour and glitz, but the profession wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At least it hadn’t been for her, so far.