I found myself looking out the front window of my condo at the moonlight reflecting off the black waters of Sheepshead Bay and beyond to Manhattan Beach. I’d lived here for a lot of years now. I had intended to move Carmella, Israel, and me into a nice house, but I never got the chance. The marriage started to crumble almost from the second we took our vows. Given that we were business partners, that she was pregnant with another man’s child, and that I was still reeling from Katy’s murder, it was a miracle we lasted fifteen minutes. And Carmella had a rage in her that dated back to a time before her name was Carmella or Melendez, to when she had been abused as a little girl. One time I asked her why she chose to spell her new first name with a double l, a very untraditional spelling for a Spanish speaker. She told me it was a final Fuck you! to her mother who had reacted with shame to the abuse. Talk about baggage… I should have known our marriage was a mistake. She should have known. We did know, both of us knew, but we did it anyway. Sometimes I think our stubbornness in the face of the facts is what defines human behavior.
The bell rang and the spell was broken. No more staring into the black waters, not tonight.
I pressed the talk button. “Hello.”
“It’s Mary.”
I buzzed her in and when she came up, I took her coat.
God, she looked spectacular and without trying. Or maybe that was the trick, to seem like you’re not trying. She wore a blue silk blouse that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes over loose fitting black slacks that still somehow managed to accentuate her curves. There was a little bit more makeup on her face than yesterday, but not too much. Between the makeup and the blouse her eyes made the rest of the room seem positively unlit.
“You look nice,” I said. I could be so articulate.
“As do you.”
“Come in. Red or white?”
I’d already selected one of each and had them waiting. They were both ridiculous, of course. It’s funny how I resented our customers who bought wines just to impress and here I was ready to pour a perfectly chilled Montrachet or the Chateau Mouton Rothschild I’d already decanted-purposely leaving the emptied bottle in plain sight for her to see. But until she stepped through my door, it hadn’t occurred to me that she might not drink wine or that if she did, her taste might run to Glen Ellen white zinfandel or strawberry wine coolers. My fears were allayed when she walked slowly past me and carefully inspected both bottles.
“My god, Moe, you don’t skimp on a girl. That’s several hundred dollars of wine there on your counter.”
“Don’t worry about it, I get a big discount.”
“How’s that?”
“I know the owners of a few wine stores. Well, what’s your pleasure?”
“I’ll go with the Rothschild.”
“Excellent choice,” I said like a gleeful waiter calculating his twenty percent tip. “I was going to have some of that myself.”
“I thought you might. You strike me as a red wine man.”
I poured a finger of the wine for her to taste. “I do? Why’s that?”
She didn’t answer immediately, instead focusing her attention on the contents of the glass. She handled the task expertly, though she dispensed with swishing it around her mouth and sucking air in through her lips. That part of the tasting process is a surefire romance killer. It’s like going for ribs on a first date. Then I remembered that I took Katy for ribs at the Buffalo Roadhouse on what was essentially our first date. So much for shoulds and shouldn’ts.
“Oooh, this is amazing,” she whispered. “As to reds and whites and you-whites, even the best whites, are what they are. They tend to be about one thing. Reds are more complex. They have more depth and character, more texture, subtlety, and nuance. Like you, I suspect, more than what they seem.”
I poured some for myself and added more to her glass. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
“As a compliment.”
“And you reached this conclusion how? From spending a few minutes talking to me in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge? I didn’t think there was much subtext in my giving you directions back to Greenpoint.”
“Between men and women, there’s always subtext.”
We both drank to that. I might have been a little smitten, but I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet, not on the strength of answers any man would want to hear.
“Seriously, Mary, how did-”
She cut me off. “I asked about you. I had to go back to 4 °Court Street again today,” she said, blushing a bit and taking a prodigious gulp of wine, “and I mentioned your name to one of the lawyers and he…”
“What lawyer? What firm?”
“I’d rather not say, Moe. He’s a client and…”
“Okay. What did he say?”
“I’m sorry, Moe, I wasn’t checking up on you. I was just curious.”
“It’s fine.”
She felt compelled to explain. “Like I told you yesterday, I’m new here and I never expected to be quite so overwhelmed as I feel by it all. I’m a grown woman, for goodness sakes, yet it’s gotten to me. For a solid month now I’ve had lawyers hitting on me every day and I’m weary. Lawyers, Jesus, like I’d date a lawyer ever again.” She took another gulp and held her glass out for more. “People don’t realize how hard it is to make friends when you’re near fifty and in a new city and you don’t really want to socialize with your clients. Then I hit your car and you were so sweet about it and here I am. I guess I’m feeling vulnerable.”
“I understand. I do. So what did this lawyer tell you?”
“A lot of things,” she said, turning away. “About your first wife being murdered and your divorce from your business partner. He said you did good work.”
“And the wine stores?”
“That too. I’m sorry.”
“Cut it out, Mary Lambert. No more apologizing. Deal?”
She pecked me on the cheek. “Deal.”
I poured us both a little bit more wine and Mary, feeling relaxed, went back to sipping and began walking around my living room, staring at the photos on my wall and the ones on the coffee table. That unnamed lawyer had actually done me a huge favor. I now felt spared from the pressure of choosing my words carefully when explaining about the faces in the photos.
“My goodness, your daughter is a beauty.”
“I think so.” I kvelled a little about Sarah being a vet.
We went through all the pictures: Katy, Carmella, Israel, Miriam and her family, Aaron and his, Mr. Roth, Wit, Preacher “the Creature” Simmons and me at an Over-50 two-on-two b-ball tournament, Klaus, Kosta, and ten others. Then Mary found a partially hidden photo I’d forgotten was there and wished I’d taken down years ago. It was of three uniformed cops, arms around each other’s shoulders, in front of Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island. The three cops all had shaggy ‘70s haircuts and bad brush mustaches. They all seemed happy and more like brothers than just colleagues. Now two of them were dead.
“I’ll be damned,” she said, “that’s you at the end there! Jee-sus, will you look at that hair and those whiskas? These days, you’d be charged with a Class A misdemeanor for that look.”
“Ah, the ‘70s…”
“Who are these otha two happy fellas here?” The wine was definitely bringing out the Boston in her speech.
“That guy there on the right’s named Larry McDonald and the other guy’s Rico Tripoli. The guys in our precinct used to call us the Three Stooges.”
“Moe, Larry, and… Rico?”
“Rico had wavy hair, so he was Curly.”
She asked, “Where was this picha taken?”
“Coney Island, in front of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs.”
“I’ve heard of that place.”
“Yeah, well, famous is in the name.”
“Wise guy!” She slapped my arm. “Come on, let’s go there fah dinner. I’ve always wanted to see Coney Island fah myself.”
“It’s freezing out and it’ll be deserted.”
“Even betta.”
It was freezing out and Coney Island was deserted, at least the amusement park was. Nathan’s Famous, on the other hand, was bustling with activity. That was the amazing thing about the joint. It was nearly always busy: day or night, no matter the season. Years ago I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t about the food, not really. It was about what the food and the smells and the sight of the place represented. I mean, the hot dogs were okay and the fries were the best on earth, but Nathan’s was about so much more. It was a touchstone, a safe place where people could time travel, where they could return and relive, if only briefly, their happiest childhood memories. For so many people, Nathan’s represented comfort and security and, sometimes, sadly, the one good thing in their fucked-up lives. I can’t tell you how many suicides ate their last meals at Nathan’s. I didn’t mention that last bit to Mary. She was having too good a time and I wasn’t about to break the trance.