Taco Noir (2 page)

              With the exception of Mrs. Herm Walther and her new son, Herm Jr.

              That’s when yours truly fell into the picture. It had been my experience that lunks such as Herm Walther, for the most part, fell into relationships with women who were the female version of the same. Not that their knuckles dragged on the ground, you understand, but that they had similar compassions and sensibilities as the lugs they married. None-too-bright, as their mate, none-too-caring, and drifting along to wherever life might happen to deposit them. People like Herm Walther generally got what they asked for.

              Not so with Mrs. Walther.

              Elizabeth Walther washed up on my doorstep fresh-faced, eyes full of innocence and hope. And with a two month old boy in tow. Mrs. Walther was almost a baby herself, and what she knew of life could fill a matchbook. Once upon a time she had been told to be loving, honorable, and obedient, and had done her best to do all these things. Her husband had promised those things as well, but he also promised not to fink on his mobster boss, so it occurred to me that Herm Walther might have been a little light in the commitment department.

              Elizabeth held out hopes for Herm’s return, clearly the most optimistic individual I had ever met, and told me that the cops had not shared her sunny outlook. They dutifully took her statement and filed it in the trash when she wasn’t looking. She had dragged Herm Jr. across the city looking for any clue to his Pa’s whereabouts and had come up empty, but still determined. Her path, as well as her resources, had just about run dry, but if she could pay the rent with grit she would have lived in the Taj Mahal. She believed that her beloved Herm was still out there and she begged me to locate him.

              Part of me wanted to tell her that she didn’t so much need a private eye as a shovel, but one look into those wide, innocent baby-blues, and I couldn’t refuse. She was a good kid, too good for the likes of Herm Walther, and if I could bring some closure to her then perhaps she could move on and give Herm Jr. the kind of life his old man never had.

              Yeah, sometimes I’m stupid like that.

              After Mrs. Walther left I placed a few phone calls, doing my best to stay off of Zack Demone’s radar as I did so. Eventually an old pal of mine from the DA’s office, Mike McCarthy, gave me the first lead I had. He confirmed that not only did the DA’s case against Demone fall apart after Herm disappeared, but that he had been hearing rumors and whispers that Herm might have gone upstate after all, or as his informant had told him, “Herm had gone to live on the farm where his dog Rover lived.”

              McCarthy had assumed that his informant’s wit was about as dry as Lake Erie, but I knew better. Word on the street was that Zack Demone had done all right by his mom when the big bucks began to roll in and bought her a spread out in the country that would turn Central Park a little greener with envy. Since it was out of character for Demone to do anything for anyone but himself, it was a good bet that this show of fondness for his old Ma had some kind of strings attached. We filled up on coffee and decided to take in the country air.

              The farm itself was a slice of American Pie al a mode, a piece of Americana straight out of Ma and Pa Kettle. Despite all the down-home hokum, Mrs. Demone was a polite and civil hostess, and received us with old-world civility. She took us on a brief tour of the grounds, pointing out the fruit trees in the distance next to her victory garden. Sitting us down on the front porch, Ma Demone set Mike and me up with hulking pieces of homemade cherry pie and lemonade with the bite of a Doberman. The pie was the best I had ever eaten, and I told the old girl so. While we stuffed our pie holes with pie, Mrs. Demone talked our ears off about what a dream little Zackie was, and how busy he was making his fortune in the city. Ma Demone did say that even though Zack didn’t spend much time visiting, he was thoughtful enough to send some of his ‘little friends’ to bring out the tree that had provided the very same fruit that she had used in the pie we were eating. They were even thoughtful enough to plant it for Mrs. Demone. In the middle of the night.

              Mike and I suddenly got very full of pie.

              While Mrs. Demone took our plates to the kitchen and went to refill our lemonade, Mike and I went out to the garden to have a closer look at the cherry tree. It was an impressive specimen among fruit trees, full of lush leaves and ripe cherries. The limbs were filthy with the fruit, even bowing with them, causing Mike and I to exchange concerned looks.

              “That sure is one healthy tree,” I told the copper.

              “That it is,” he agreed. “I bet she uses some powerful fertilizer.”

              We inspected the trunk of the tree and discovered that it had been planted fairly recently. When we got back to the porch, we thanked Mrs. Demone for the pie and the hospitality. The dear gave us each a peck on the cheek and wrapped up some fruit and sandwiches for the long ride back to the city. We left the farm and drove for about a mile and a half before Mike radioed the station and had the boys round up some shovels and a warrant and meet us at the Demone farm.

              While we waited, Mike and I ate fruit and sandwiches.

              The old girl was in all her glory, whirling this way and that as she filled glasses with lemonade and doled out sandwiches, pie and coffee. She was relishing every minute of our visit, and clearly seemed disappointed when the men finished their excavations and the coroner left for the city. As we watched Mrs. Demone clean up, I could only think of young Elizabeth Walther and the bitter pill I had for her and Herm Jr.

              I knew that the young woman would take this hard, and I couldn’t just go back to the girl empty handed. I closed my eyes and exhaled, looking to the untrained eye as if I might have been praying. I opened my eyes, and had no more inspiration than I had the moment before. I needed something to take some of the pain away.

              And then it hit me….

MA DEMONE’S SWEET CHERRY PIE

For the Crust (enough for top and bottom)

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 sticks unsalted butter

1 tsp. kosher salt

1 tsp. granulated sugar

8-9 tbsp. ice water or more if needed

For Filling

4 cups pitted fresh cherries (about 2 pounds unpitted)

4 tablespoons cornstarch

2/3 to 3/4 cup sugar (adjust this according to the sweetness of your cherries)

1/8 teaspoon salt

Juice of half a lemon

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 egg, beaten with 2 tablespoons water

• Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
  

• Cut the butter into 1/2-inch cubes, put them on a baking sheet, and toss the sheet into the freezer for about an hour.
  

• In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, salt, and sugar and mix well. Slowly add the frozen butter cubes and cut them into the mixture using a pastry knife until you break up the butter to the size of large buckshot. Add the water slowly until the dough sticks to itself when you give it a pinch.
  

• Remove the dough from the bowl and put it onto a clean, dry, flat work surface. Press the dough into small discs. If the dough crumbles and doesn’t cooperate, slowly add more water, tablespoon by tablespoon, until the dough shows you some respect.
  

• Sprinkle each disk lightly with flour and wrap individually in plastic wrap. Place in fridge for 1 hour.
  

• Stir the cherries, cornstarch, sugar, salt, lemon and vanilla extract together gently in a large bowl.
  

• Roll out half of the chilled dough on a floured work surface to a 13-inch round. Gently place the round into a 9-inch pie pan, either by rolling it around the rolling pin and unrolling it over the pan or by folding it into quarters and unfolding it in the pan. Trim edges to a half-inch overhang.
  

• Spoon filling into pie crust, discarding most of the liquid in the bowl.
  

• Roll out the remaining dough into a 12-inch round on a lightly floured surface, cover the filling, and trim it, leaving a 1-inch overhang. Fold the overhang under the bottom crust, pressing the edge to seal it, and crimp the edge nice and pretty, so as to make Ma Demone proud. Brush the egg wash over the pie crust.
  

• Cut slits in the crust with a sharp knife, forming vents, and bake the pie for 25 minutes. Reduce the temperature to 350 degrees F and bake the pie for 25 to 30 minutes more, or until the crust is golden. Let the pie cool on a rack.
  

            Enjoy it with a nice, hearty cup of Joe.

THE CASE OF THE UPPER CRUST

More than just crust can be blown sky high
.

The noise coming from the doorman at Dino’s Ristorante  Italiano was a cross between a punch in the gut and the air slowly leaving a slashed car tire. Not that I would know firsthand.  My friend smiled, taking the doorman’s slack jaw and senseless stuttering as a referendum on her good looks and charming personality. While I generally agreed with such assessments, I had a feeling that the doorman’s hesitation was due less to my captivating dinner guest’s considerable charms and more to the fact that I had shown my persona in a place where I was considered mucho non grata. Muscling my way past the gaping jaws of the mute doorman, I opened the glass and mahogany door and escorted my guest inside.

              It was still very early in the evening, well before the joint picked up a full head of steam, and there were only about a half-dozen souls in the place. The stiffs were busy making nice with each other, stuffing their faces, clinking their glasses, and chirping like well-fed birds. My companion and I made our way to the hat check girl. I removed my trench coat and she her stole, and we handed them forth. The girl, a red-headed gum chewer who I had seen the last time I was here, froze in mid-chew, her Juicy Fruit threatening to go overboard.

              “It’ll go stale that way,” I said, using a couple of fingers to push the girl’s yap shut. She remained still, but you could hear a gulping sound across the restaurant. The girl turned out to be solid after all, and rallied the troops enough to take our garments and stow them in the back, wherever overcoats go to sleep. My friend and I turned and walked towards the dining area, only to be stopped on the one yard line by a swarthy man-mountain in an industrial strength tuxedo.

              “Youse aren’t welcome here,” said the monolith, a dark haired, mustached slab whose eyebrows met in the center of his forehead and embraced like old prep school chums.

              “If I only went to places in town where I was welcome,” I said, elbowing past the Cyclops on my way towards procuring a window table for my lovely companion and myself, “I would never go anywhere.”

              The man-mountain continued to stare, arms crossed over his chest and a look in his eye designed to instill terror in those who stood beneath his towering gaze. In my line of work, I had been intimidated by the best, so I held out a chair for my guest and took a seat for myself. The goon continued to stare us down, his eyebrows rising and falling with every breath, so I asked him for the wine list. He continued his stare until it dawned on him that his gaze was less-than-wilting, and he regained his ability to speak.

              “Youse aren’t welcome here,” he repeated, the record apparently having a skip in that particular groove.

              “We’ll need to see a menu, of course,” I told the troglodyte, “but go ahead and start us off with whatever passes for Chianti Classico in this joint.”

              A confused look passed over the big man’s face, as if he were trying to divide one-thousand and eighty-three by fourteen. I imagine that he was debating whether or not he should throw us out on our keisters or if the rules had changed when he wasn’t looking. Evidently uncertainty was on our side and the giant disappeared, reappearing moments later with a pair of glasses and a small jug of wine. He sat the glasses down and began to pour, only to freeze as an ear-splitting voice cut through the dining room.

              “Luigi!” boomed the voice, causing the giant to snap the bottle upwards, a few stray drops of wine staining his lapel. The diners also stopped their revelry and turned their gaze to the kitchen, from where the voice issued. A man in a chef’s toque and a white apron stood, butcher’s knife in hand, glaring at my table. I took advantage of the lull to relieve the giant of his bottle and topped off our glasses.

              The chef continued to stare until it dawned on him that he held the attention of every paying patron in the place. The sneer that decorated his face slowly and uncomfortably twisted into a clenched smile, one that bore only the faintest family resemblance to sincerity.

              “Please, everyone, please! Eat! Drink! Be merry!” The chef lowered his knife as he walked towards our table, his free hand waving to regulars and greeting them, but his eyes never leaving us.

              “Luigi,” hissed the chef through his gritted teeth. “Get them the hell out of here!” Luigi snapped himself out of his stupor and put a firm hand on my shoulder, readying himself to make me his improvisational shot put. I countered his move with one of my own, shooting my hand into the left breast pocket of my jacket.

              “Careful,” I warned the two men. “You wouldn’t want me to put a hole in my coat in the middle of your dining room, would you?”

              Uncertainty washed over the big man, and he turned to the small chef for guidance. The chef’s face flushed under the toque, and he gave a quick nod towards his large subordinate. Luigi took the cue, and his hand flew away from me as if I was the business end of an oscillating fan. I counted myself lucky that neither of them called my bluff, seeing as how I didn’t have anything more lethal than old breath mints in my jacket. The chef’s pinched smile held, and with a nod he sent the giant on his way, leaving the three of us at the table. With only two glasses between us, the cook was going to have to be the odd man out.