Chapter 29
Bernie pushed a strand of hair off her cheek as she looked at the store she was about to enter. She just hoped Ernie was correct about this place because her feet were killing her. She didn’t know what she was thinking of wearing her three-inch pink wedges when she was going to be pounding the pavements in New York. Whoever thought that detective work was glamorous or fun obviously hadn’t done any.
But at least this time she’d had enough sense to check the temperature before she’d caught the train down into the city. The forecast had said it was going to be in the nineties so she’d put on her light beige silk-slip dress, which was the closest she could get to not wearing anything without getting herself arrested.
The store was located directly off of Canal Street, a little way out of Chinatown. “Ernie, please be right,” Bernie whispered out loud. Ernie who was one of her ex-boyfriends, now made a living as a professional poker player and moved in the demimonde as the French liked to say. According to him this place sold, what he so euphemistically called “recycled luxury goods” and other people called stolen merchandise.
The store certainly didn’t call attention to itself, Bernie reflected. In fact, the place looked as if it were abandoned. The windows were half-covered with newspaper and the glass that was showing was so dirty Bernie had to squint to make out the words Novelty Items written in gold lettering on the window.
Unopened cardboard cartons were piled next to the door. The door itself had no name or number on it. Unless you knew where you were going you’d never find the place. She just hoped that this scheme would work.
Okay, here we go, she said to herself as she straightened her shoulders and pushed the door open. Hopefully she’d find out who was selling caviar off the books. Her dad hadn’t come up with anything yet. Maybe she could. Anyway, she figured it was worth a shot.
A blast of frigid air greeted her as she stepped inside. The place felt like a meat locker. She didn’t need a sweater she needed a parka she reflected as she rubbed her shoulders to keep them warm. And a flashlight wouldn’t hurt either.
The guy must have a 10-watt fluorescent bulb in the overhead fixture Bernie decided as she threaded her way through stacks of shipping cartons with Chinese characters on them and around buckets designed to catch drips from the ceiling.
She wondered how much the owner of the place was paying off the building inspectors to keep this place open, as she approached the man standing behind the counter. Tall and gaunt, he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater. Very appropriate for a ninety degree New York summer day. But it wasn’t the sweater that got to Bernie, it was the mutton chop whiskers. She was hoping this wasn’t a new guy facial hair style; goatees were bad enough. He lit a cigarette and took a puff.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m looking for something,” she said. “Maybe you can help me.”
“Everyone is looking for something,” he replied.
Cute. This guy’s seen way too many French movies, Bernie thought as she watched him take another puff of his cigarette. Then he stubbed it out in a large ashtray that was overflowing with other slightly smoked cigarettes. Piles of what Bernie took to be invoices were stacked up beside it.
“I’m trying to quit,” he explained as he followed her glance.
Bernie watched as he shuffled the papers together and put them under the counter.
“I take two puffs and put it out,” he continued.
“Is it working?” Bernie asked.
“Not very well,” the man admitted. “Now what are you looking for?”
“I’m catering a party next week.”
The man inclined his head. “Mazel tov.”
“And I’m looking to buy some caviar for it.”
“Caviar is always good.”
“And I was told you sell some here.”
“Who told you this?”
“Ernie.”
The man eyed her up and down. “You don’t look like someone Ernie would know.”
“I used to go out with him.”
The man nodded and lit another cigarette. “I guess he hasn’t exactly come up in the world since then.”
“I guess he hasn’t. He said to call him if you want to check.”
The man waved his hand in the air. “Not necessary. Why come here?”
“I understand your prices are very good.”
“Best in town,” the man allowed.
“I’m interested in five pounds of Caspian beluga from Imperial Enterprises.”
The man inclined his head. “Your people have good taste.”
“Yes they do. But what I really want,” Bernie continued, “is to set up a regular account here.”
She watched as the man nodded. His head looks as if it’s on a spring Bernie thought as he said, “Very nice.”
“Because my associate and I are thinking of offering it as a regular item on our menu and we do volume.” Bernie took out the one of the cards she’d had made up and gave it to him, although she had a little trouble doing that because her fingers were getting numb.
The man held it up to the light and read it out loud. “Sophie Castle. DJM Enterprises. Classic Elegance for Your Event. Able to Handle Parties from 20 to 2,000. Competitive Rates. Call 212-472-3838. So Sophie why haven’t I heard of you before,” he said as he put the card down on the counter.
“I don’t know.” Bernie put on her best imperious stare. “We were mentioned in Vogue last month.”
The man lit another cigarette and took a puff. “I don’t read Vogue.”
Bernie leaned forward. “I don’t care what you read. We’re moving into this market and what I want to know is can you supply me on a regular basis?”
“I don’t see any problem.”
“Like I said, I’m talking large volume. Beluga. Caspian. From Imperial.”
The man grimaced. “Specifying companies makes it trickier.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
Bernie shrugged. “Fine. Then I can go somewhere else. I have two other places on my list.”
The man looked at her. “I have to make a call.”
“And while you do that I’d like to see the cooler you store the caviar in.”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“To make sure the product is properly stored. I don’t want to pay for something we can’t use.”
“I don’t have a cooler,” the man said.
“Then how do you guarantee quality? This product has a very short shelf life.”
“I know what it has. I get it directly from the distributor and then I send the shipment directly to you in specially prepared coolers.”
Bernie silently thanked Ernie for his information—never mind that it had cost her two hundred bucks—while she shook her head. “That’s not good enough.”
“Then what do you want?”
This is it Bernie thought. She took a deep breath and let it out.
“I want to meet with the person you’re getting it from and ascertain your delivery method.”
“That’s not the way he works.”
Bernie shrugged. “Well that’s the way I work.”
The man thought for a moment. Then he said, “What if I have him call you?”
Bernie managed to suppress her smile.
“That might be sufficient.”
“Good.” The man tapped the card Bernie had given him. “This number?” he asked.
Bernie nodded. Ernie had supplied the phone as well. She hadn’t asked where it came from and he hadn’t told her. “And then we’ll discuss price.”
“You’ve had a busy day, Miss Ace Private Detective, what with going down to the city and sleuthing around and all,” Rob was saying to Bernie as she took a long lick of her chocolate-chip-mint ice cream cone.
“That’s Ms. Ace Private Detective to you,” Bernie told him.
They were sitting on a bench over by the Arctic Freeze eating ice cream. It was a little after nine and Bernie was watching a mother and father lead two ice cream gobbling pajama clad little kids back to their SUV and remembering how her parents used to do the same thing when she and Libby were young.
“Did you know that ice cream cones made their debut at the 1904 St. Louis World Fair?” Bernie asked Rob.
“Doesn’t everyone know that?” Rob asked tucking into his vanilla. “So you think this guy is going to call you?”
“Absolutely.” Bernie nibbled on a piece of the chocolate. Chocolate and mint were, she decided, an inspired combination.
“How can you be sure?”
“Why wouldn’t he? He wants to do business. Tell me, why do you always get vanilla?”
“When I find something I like I stick with it,” Rob explained.
Bernie cocked her head. “Is that true with everything?”
Rob grinned. “Talk about leading questions.”
Bernie was about to reply but just then the cell Ernie had supplied Bernie with went off.
“See,” she said to Rob as she fished it out of her bag. “Like I said. No one can resist me.”
But evidently they could because when she answered the person on the other end clicked off.
“Damn,” Bernie said, “I think whoever was calling recognized my voice.”
Rob took another lick of vanilla. “That’s not a good thing.”
“It doesn’t matter.” And she pressed the menu button until she got to Calls Received. “See.” She handed the phone to Rob. “I have the number right here.”
“But you can’t trace it,” he told her.
“That’s true.” She licked a dribble of ice cream off the side of her palm. “I can’t. But my dad can.”