Taco Noir (4 page)

              I first made the cook’s acquaintance about a dozen years ago or so. He had already been at his spot long enough to attract dust, but a new operator in the area had tried to squeeze Manny for protection. When you make a steady paycheck in this burg, there’s always a new operator who wants a taste. Manny employed yours truly to have a small chat with said operator, and I came out on top. In return, Manny kept me in falafels and hummus for a whole year, but the meter had expired on our arrangement long ago. I took his the absence of change on his part to mean that he had a tip, rather than assume he now served the most expensive sandwiches on the planet.

              “All right,” I said as I fished around for another napkin to help eradicate the evidence of a deep fried lunch from my trench coat. “Spill!”

              “The McDermotts are in the middle of a particularly ugly divorce,” Manny said, dicing an onion as he spoke. “They’re pointing fingers at each other, accusing the other of sleeping around.”

              “That’s how they play the game, isn’t it?” I asked, still wiping my fingers. Manny was a master of oil, hot sauce, and tahini, and while his cart might not be much to look at, what he did there was so good it should have been illegal in most states. “Each side tells the judge that the other side done them wrong, they slide hizhonor a fat envelope, and the fattest envelope wins.”

              From what I knew about Little Anthony McDermott, I felt it would have been a safe bet to assume that his envelope was the fattest. He owned all the radio stations in town and about half of the movie houses. He made his money the old-fashioned way, through dead relatives, and from what Manny told me, he would spend more cash betting on an afternoon game between the Yankees and the Red Sox than he would like to see doled out to the little woman. Apparently Little Anthony held big grudges.

              “In this case, all bets are off,” smiled Manny. “Their case ended up in Judge Thurston’s courtroom.”

              I stopped my post-sandwich wipe down long enough to digest this little tidbit along with my high calorie lunch.

              Judge Lawrence Thurston was the last of the hard cases, and in a city where most of the judges wore parking meters around their necks, he was as solid as oak. He couldn’t be bought, influenced, or threatened, and he absolutely despised mouths with silver spoons in them.  It served McDermott right. The only reason he ended up in Thurston’s court was because he was apparently too naïve or cheap to bribe the docket clerk to put his case in the hands of a judge who could be bought.

              “Thurston, huh?” I replied. “I guess that there IS a chance that Mrs. McDermott might get what’s coming to her.”

              “Not if Little Anthony has any say in the matter.”

              “What do you mean?” I asked. “There’s no way that Thurston would let this case get bounced to another courtroom.” Once the judge had a case, he was like a dog with a soup bone.

              “I heard Little Anthony talking to his mouthpiece,” Manny said, glancing over his shoulder for any passers-by of the non-customer type. “He told his lawyer to get some shamus on the job to dig up some dirt on his wife. Something that he can beat her over the head with in court, so to speak.”

              “And said mouthpiece hasn’t yet found said shamus to dig up said dirt?” I asked, figuring that Manny had earned his change from the sawbuck.

              “One can only assume,” said Manny, turning his considerable talents to a bin full of chickpeas. “One can only assume.”

I caught up with Little Anthony McDermott as he was exiting the courtroom. He was shooting daggers at the Mrs. and her meek little mouse of an attorney. Mrs. McDermott, a striking blonde in her late thirties, seemed immune to Little Anthony’s considerable charm, probably from years of waking up to that same enduring sneer. Her mouth-piece, though, looked as rattled as a can of salted peanuts.

              “Do the world a favor, Anthony,” shouted the Mrs. across the bow of her lawyer. “Drop dead.”

              “Oh, it won’t be me who’s doing the dropping, peaches,” called back Little Anthony, stepping towards the little woman. His lawyer, a much more seasoned and substantial mouthpiece, stepped between McDermott and the object of his affections, pushing back his client before he could do anything hasty in a courthouse lobby full of witnesses.

              “Keep your head on, Mr. McDermott,” said the suit, a guy in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and a mustache that made him look as if he tied young women to railroad tracks and laughed maniacally in his spare time. “We’ve got to play this one by the book. Judge Thurston will be all over you until this is through.”

              “I’m cool, I’m cool!” snapped Little Anthony, stopping in his tracks and straightening his suit. He gave the Mrs. one last sneer as she blew him a raspberry on her way out. I guess the spark wasn’t completely gone.

              I took this moment to walk towards McDermott so that I could introduce myself and offer my humble services. Mrs. McDermott was a pistol, and he was a keg of dynamite, so it was only a matter of time till one of them did something stupid. In his case, he could afford to pay for court-documented photos of his wife caught in the act of “stupid.” I stepped in front of the bulldog of a man, relying on my bulk to stop him. He was in such a hurry to get out of the courthouse he almost bowled me over instead.

              “Watch where you’re going, flat foot,” barked Little Anthony as he tried to elbow past me. I gave him a quick bow and my best soft-soap salesman voice.

              “I’m no copper, Mr. McDermott,” I told the little bulldog, looking down into his eyes. I told him my name, and mentioned that I was in the investigations racket. “The word around the old courthouse is that you are in need of someone with my particular … skill set.”

              “Standing in my way?” he snapped. I considered telling him he might need someone to help him reach the top of his bookshelf, but reminded myself that I was trying to pick up a client as opposed to losing one.

              “I believe that he may indeed be of some use to us, after all, Mr. McDermott,” said his slick lawyer. I smiled a little wider at the two, hoping that action wouldn’t result in a case of diabetes.

              “Oh,” replied Anthony dumbly to his mouthpiece. Time seemed to stand still as Little Anthony took this simple concept and rolled it over in his mind. “You mean he can get the goods on Martha and we can turn it over to Judge Tightwads in there.” Eureka. Apparently Little Anthony could put two and two together and occasionally come up with four. He was truly a testament to private education.

              “Uh…not how I would put it, but yes,” agreed the shyster. If Little Anthony McDermott ever heard the phrase “no,” it certainly wouldn’t have come from this mug.

              “Fine,” said McDermott, turning away once again and aiming his fire plug body towards the front entrance. “Get me some pictures, something I can use in court, and I’ll toss a little something your way.” He got to the door and paused, looking annoyed at his mouthpiece. The lawyer scrambled to open the door for his pugnacious client. “Heck, I might even give you a sawbuck or two.”

              I had paid a sawbuck for the falafel and the tip on the McDermott case, and an extra sawbuck wasn’t even worth my conversation with Little Anthony. If Anthony was empathetic enough to tell my feelings, or anyone’s feelings, he didn’t let on. I was about to tell the little man where he could place his sawbuck when his lawyer stepped between us, having the good sense that he should earn his retainer. Before the shyster or I could tell Anthony anything, the taxi containing the little woman and her lawyer drove past. Little Anthony filled the air with a tirade of obscenities that would offend a sailor’s delicate sensibilities.

              I let the lawyer and Anthony go, following them out of the building. The attorney hailed a cab while a limo pulled up for Little Anthony. As the lawyer climbed into the cab to leave, I wondered why he wasn’t leaving with McDermott. Looking into the limo, I got my answer.

              The windows of the limo were covered, unlawful as hell, but when you have money, the world is the oyster you shuck. Little Anthony closed the door and the car sped away, but before it did I caught a glimpse of a well-manicured hand resting on McDermott’s leg. It was dripping with expensive jewelry, and between that and the rubbing motion it was performing on Little Anthony’s leg, I assumed that it wasn’t his kid sister. I watched the tail lights of the limo fade into the night before walking back to Manny’s falafel cart.

              I reached into the tub of ice that Manny kept next to his cart and pulled out a bottle of pop. I rested the bottle top on the edge of Manny’s cart and gave it a smack, shooting the cap into the air and earning a look of irritation from Manny.

              “”It’ll be a nickel for the pop,” Manny growled.

              “Take it out of that sawbuck I gave you earlier,” I said, draining the bottle and debating whether to give the bottle back to the sandwich man or keep it for the deposit. “The McDermott case dried up.” I told him about Little Anthony’s inclination for thrift in matters of the heart, and looking at the pop bottle, Manny mentioned that there was a lot of that going around. I tossed the pop bottle over to him.

              “You’re aware that it takes two to tango?” asked Manny, an impish grin spreading across his mug. It took me a moment, but the impish grin crossed my face as well.

              I thought of the well-manicured, bejeweled hand giving McDermott’s leg a pat down earlier, and it occurred to me that if Mr. McDermott wasn’t going to pony up the cash to seal up his divorce case, then the soon-to-be former Mrs. McDermott and her lawyer might. I bid Manny a good evening and turned towards the street to get a cab of my own when Manny called after me.

              “It’s STILL a nickel for the pop,” he said. I flipped a silver dollar over my shoulder, and never heard it hit the sidewalk.

              “Keep the change,” I told him. I heard the dollar clink as it went into his change purse.

              “What change?” he laughed as he started dicing up the chickpeas for the night court session.

MANNY’S COURT HOUSE FALAFEL

2 cups dried chickpeas, sorted and rinsed

1 teaspoon baking powder

¼ cup chopped cilantro

Pinch of salt

1 onion, chopped

4 cloves of garlic, crushed

1 tablespoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon ground coriander

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

¼ cup chopped parsley

Pepper

Oil for frying

8 warmed pitas

Tahini sauce

• Dump the chickpeas in a bowl and drown them in water overnight. Next drain the little suckers and give them a quick rinse. Toss the peas into a processor and grind them until they are chopped like a hot car. Throw in the baking powder, onion, garlic, and the dry ingredients. Pulse the mix until it can’t be pulsed no more and season with the salt and pepper.
  

• Pour the oil in a pan and crank up the heat until it gets to 375 degrees F.
  

• Roll the falafel mixture like a juvenile delinquent rolls a tourist. If you are like the delinquents I know, you should have a bunch of two-inch, Ping-Pong-sized balls. Fry the balls in the hot oil, turning them until they are a light, crusty, dark brown on all sides. Remove them and drain them on a paper towel-lined plate.
  

• Drop the falafel balls onto a warm pita and drizzle a little of the tahini sauce over it. Top your pita with a little cheese and some shredded lettuce. Or don’t. What do I care?
  

If you don’t have any tahini sauce, here’s a trick a mug in Casablanca taught me. Take a ½ cup of tahini (and by that I mean sesame seed paste), add three cloves of crushed garlic, ½ teaspoon of salt, three tablespoons of olive oil, ¼ cup of lemon juice, and a small bunch of parsley. Dump them into a food processor, give them a whirl, and whip ‘em like they were cheating at cards.

THE CASE OF THE SECOND STORY EXPOSURE

Where what’s good for the soul is good for the gander

I stumbled into my office on a miserable, dank January morning. I had spent the entire week in the woods tailing an unfaithful husband and it had rained the entire time, leading me to believe that God doesn’t much care for me. What had started as a case of the sniffles had picked up steam and turned into a full-blown case of evil. I plopped down on my office couch and watched the ceiling fan spin. Five minutes later I realized that my fan wasn’t on, so I closed my eyes and tried to get some rest.

              I came to the office to get some rest because the postage stamp I call an apartment has a cot in it that saw double-duty at Valley Forge, and I know from past experience that the couch in my office is the most comfortable piece of furniture I own.

Don’t ask.

After a while I drifted in and out of consciousness, with visions of my past coming back to haunt me like Ebenezer Scrooge on a holiday bender. I woke up to a machine gun sneezing fit. After the last of the sneezes faded, I heard a familiar voice say “Gesundheit.”

              I sprang up from my couch, and then immediately regretted it. The ceiling fan was now still, but the rest of the room spun counter clockwise. Little red dots clouded my vision and when I connected them they spelled out expletives. I melted back down into my couch

              “Jimmy Two-Fingers,” I sighed, lying back onto my sickbed. “How did you get in here? I could have sworn I had locked the door?” I could have been mistaken. In the state I was in, I was lucky I was in the right office.