Ed Mcbain - Nocturne

'"Which isn't exactly horseradish," Georgie reminded her yet another time.

He desperately wanted her to believe that th was what the old lady had in mind when she said her

granddaughter would be taken care of. He wanted her to get off that missing hundred and twenty. He knew where ninety-five of that was. It was in an envelope inside a shoebox on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, tucked into one of a pair of black patent-leather slippers he wore with his tuxedo on special occasions like New Year's Eve.

"What happened to the other hundred and twenty?" Priscilla asked again.

Georgie was still doing arithmetic.

Old lady took a hundred and twenty-five from the bank. But there was only a hundred in the locker. So where'd the other twenty-five go?

Lorenzo was weeping into his hands.

This was because he was Italian. It was also because his lawyer had advised him to tell him everything he knew about this old lady's death before the cops called in a lot of people who'd begin pointing fingers at him. Moscowitz listened without benefit of an interpreter as

Lorenzo broke his tale in broken English.

It was a sad story.

After he heard it, Moscowitz told the detectives he had no doubt the crime had been committed, but there were unique and sympathetic circumstances surrounding it. In view of these unusual conditions, he had advised his client to tell his story in the presence of a district attorney, and was therefore requesting one now.

Which meant he was ready to cop a plea.

It was snowing outside by the time Assistant District Attorney Nellie Brand got to the Eighty-sevel Precinct: She felt cold and bedraggled even though she looked toasty warm and well-tailored in brown leather boots, a beige blouse, and a headband that complemented, and complimented, blue eyes and sand-colored hair.

She'd had an argument with her husband leaving for work this morning, and her manner with detectives she knew as well as those from Eight-Seven was unusually brusque. She knew Moscowitz, too, had in fact lost a court case to him six months ago. Altogether, her mood did not go well for Lorenzo Schiavinato, who looked handsome by half and who had, by his own admission to his attorney, pumped two slugs into a little old lady. Nellie had already been briefed. And in translating, she began the Q and A with the name/address/occupation bullshit, and then eased into a routine she'd followed a hundred times before. Thousand times. It was exactly 11:04 A.M.

Q:

So tell me, sir, how long did you know the murdered woman?

Carella noticed that Nellie, too, had avoided using Schiavinato's name. He figured if the man ever got out of jail, he should change it to Skeever or something. But it also occurred to him that Nellie had called Svetlana Dyalovich "the murdered woman," and wondered if she was having difficulty pronouncing her name, too. Maybe everyone in the world should change his name, he thought, and missed part of Lorenzo's reply.

A:... at the fish market.

Q: Would this be the Lincoln Street Fish Market? A: Yes. Where I work.

Q: And that's where you first met her?

A: Yes.

Q: When was this?

A: The middle of September. Q: This past September. A: Yes.

Q:

So you've know her approximately four months. A bit more than four months.

A:

Yes.

Q:

Were you ever in her apartment on Lincoln Street?

A:

Yes.

Q:

1217 Lincoln Street?

A: Yes.

Q: Apartment 3A?

A: Yes.

Q: When were you there? A: Twice. Q: When?

A: The first time to deliver fish for her cat. Svetlana was sick, she called the market... Q: You called her Svetlana, did you?

A: Yes. That was her name.

Q: And that's what you called her.

A: We were friends.

Q:

Did you visit your friend in her apartment on the night of January 20, two days ago?

A:

I did.

Q:

To deliver fish again?

A: No.

Q: Why were you there, sir?

A: To kill her.

Q: Did you, in fact, kill her? A: Yes. Q: Why?

A: To save her.

The way Lorenzo tells it, Svetlana is a nice old lady who comes to the market every morning to buy fish for her cat, telling him every day in almost perfect Italian... Mica, lei par la Italiano bene. Solo un pocotino. No, no, molto bene.

Congratulating her on the way she speaks his tongue, she shyly denying her facility with language, telling him she needs... Mi bisogna un po di pesce fresco per il mio gatto .. . fresh fish for her cat every day, two fish a day, in the morning, one at night. She feeds him only a day, but the fish must be absolutely fresh my Irina is very fussy," she says in Italian, with girlish wink that tells him she must once have been very beautiful woman. Even at her age, there is still something elegant about the way she walks, a long graceful stride, as if she is crossing a stage; he wonders, sometimes if perhaps she was once an actress.

He first realizes she is in constant pain when, one early morning at the fish market, she can scarcely hold her handbag to pay for her purchase. This is September, and the weather is mild and sunny, but she is struggling nonetheless with the catch on the bag,

and he notices for the first time the gnarled hands and twisted fingers.

She is having such difficulty with the catch on her bag that the pain contorts her face and she turns away from him in embarrassment, continuing her struggle in silence, her back turned to him. When at last she frees the stubborn interlocking metal pieces, she turns to him and he sees that tears are running down her face as she hands him the several dollars for the two fish. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Puoi alzare la voce?" she asks. "Sono unpo sordo."

Asking him to speak a little louder as she is a little deaf. :

He repeats the question, and she answers, in Italian, "Yes, fine, I'm fine."

He learns one day, early in October, that she is originally from Russia and at once a stronger bond is forged, these two immigrants in a city of immigrants, he an Italian seller of fish, thirty-four years old and adrift in a foreign land, she a Russian expatriate in her eighties, a former actress, perhaps, or dancer perhaps, or perhaps even a princess, who knows, seeking fresh seafood for "mio piccolo tesoro Irina."

My little treasure Irina.

She. reminds him somehow of his gentle and cultivated Aunt Lucia who married a greengrocer from Napoli when Lorenzo was only twelve, breaking his heart when she moved to that beautiful but barbaric city so very far to the south.

Their daily exchanges are no longer than ten or fifteen minutes, each, but during this time they each learn much about the other, and he finds that he looks

forward to her early morning visits to the market, pretty silk scarf on her head now that winter is" approaching, woolen gloves on her twisted hands; a worn blue woolen coat, he senses she was once a woman of elegance and taste who has now fallen on hard times here in this harsh city.

One day he tells her why he left Milano.

"I am a gambler," he says. "I owed money."

"Ah," she says, and nods wisely.

"A lot of money. They threatened to kill me. In Italy, this is not an idle threat. I left."

"Do you still gamble?" she asks.

"Ehh," he says, and shrugs, and smiles saying with the slight lifting of his shoulders and faint grin, Yes, signora, every now and then, che fare? "And you?" he asks. "Do you have any habits?"

"I listen to old records," she says.

A week or so later, he learns that she once played piano on the concert stage, often performing at

La Scala in Milan, which is where she learned Italian... "But no! La Scala? Veramente?" "Yes, yes!" Excitedly.

"Not only in Milan," she says, "but also in New

York and London and Paris..."