Nagel's Bagels by Barry Rachin (best ereader for pc TXT) 📖

while the guy was writhing on the floor, the sadistic bastard stomped him half to death.”

“Nasty stuff like that… it doesn't happen that often.”

“Small consolation,” Curtis replied peevishly.

The previous year, the owner of the Music Depot spent eight months at a federal prison in Upstate New York. His enforcers were shaking down the venders at the annual Feast of Saint Anthony for two hundred bucks to insure that their grilled sausage and onions stands didn’t end up a pile of splintered toothpicks. Unfortunately, one of the venders who refused to cough up the protection money turned out to be an FBI undercover agent. A month after the Feast of Saint Anthony, a half-dozen cheap hoodlums and tough guy wannabes were indicted and sent off to prison.

"Come back to work."

“After making a total ass of myself?”

“Come back to work,” Becky repeated, grabbing his wrist and squeezing as hard as she could. “I’ll teach you the rope so crap like that doesn’t happen again. Or, if it does, God forbid, you won’t freak out.” Curtis stared at her dumbly, a sad smile creasing his slightly parted lips. Becky Borelli was not to be denied. “I'm not leaving until you return to Nagel’s Bagels.”

*****

Becky’s Uncle Harry was a devout Catholic. He attended church every Sunday, observing all holy days of obligation. He even put up five thousand dollars toward the Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion building fund to lay an elaborate mosaic in the church sacristy. A solid brass plaque identifying Uncle Harry as the primary donor would be prominently displayed on the wall once the project was completed.

But several parishioners approached Father Tomasi complaining about Uncle Harry’s largesse. A harmless, low-level hoodlum, he had been indicted a half dozen times, spending two short stints at minimum security facilities in Connecticut and New Jersey. Nobody knew where he got his merchandise – the designer jeans and handbags, Rolodex watches, jewelry and, on occasion, electronics – that he hawked on the fly out of the rear of his minivan. Uncle Harry wasn’t registered with the Providence Chamber of Commerce or Better Business Bureau.

Parishioners at Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion objected on moral grounds. No matter how elegant the church mosaic, the money was tainted. Uncle Harry was a conniving hypocrite - a fence who trafficked mostly in stolen jewelry and high-end watches - trying to barter his way into heaven, the five thousand dollars no better than a modern-day papal indulgence.

In the end, expedient self-interest prevailed. Father Tomasi waved all protests aside, depositing the stack of small denomination bills held together by a rubber band in the church’s bank account. Paolo and Guido Ricci, gifted artisans who emigrated from Naples in the late eighties, were commissioned to design and build the floor. When the project was three-quarters done, Becky visited the church. The intricate mosaic, constructed from imported, glazed tiles, was breathtakingly beautiful. On the wall directly above a granite bowl containing holy water was a garish plaque with Uncle Harry’s name prominently displayed.

“Lie down with dogs; get up with fleas.” That was the only comment Mrs. Borelli ever made about her dubious brother and the rapturously beautiful mosaic.

Becky solicited Curtis' opinion. “The Assyrian King, Assurbanipal,” The boy said in a thin, wispy voice, “had the walls of his palace decorated with magnificent carvings.”

The strange comment caught Becky off guard. She wasn’t quite sure what it had to do with the ethical dilemma surrounding Uncle Harry. “One scene shows Assurbanipal and his queen enjoying a picnic in their lush palace garden. The mood is relaxed and elegant. Hanging from a tree branch just behind a harp player is the severed head of a defeated king.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He sipped at the coffee. “Whether it’s ancient Mesopotamian or Federal Hill, nothing ever changes

*****

“The Ricci Brothers finished the mosaic.” Becky announced. Three months had passed since Curtis’ mental meltdown and things were progressing smoothly at the bakery. “The church is just around the corner.”

Becky’s father, who always arrived at work hours before everyone else, had already gone home for the day and her mother was closing up. “The mosaic built with tainted money?” Curtis reached for his jacket. “Yeah, let’s take a look.”

Becky told her mother she was taking a break and went out into the March sun. A handful of crocuses and daffodils – just the pale green stems not the flowers yet – had poked through the thawed soil in a flower pot next to the bakery. They hurried down Atwels Avenue, past the high-rise housing for the elderly, Caserta’s pizza and the Tuscan Gardens restaurant.

In late December Bobo Maroni, a low-level enforcer was shot dead, execution style, in broad daylight at the Tuscan Gardens. A brief article appeared on the second page of the Providence Journal. Bobo was eating lunch at the bar - linguini with white clam sauce, a glass of Chianti and a small Greek salad, according to the newspaper. At exactly twelve noon, a middle aged man decked out in a stylish, camel hair coat with a dark fedora pulled down over his eyes, entered. The fellow went directly to the bar and disposed of Bobo with a hollow-point slug from a high-caliber handgun.

What went unreported in the newspaper was the fact that, at approximately eleven forty-five - fifteen minutes before his demise - patrons sitting at the bar drifted elsewhere. As if on cue, they discretely vacated the premises. That is, everyone except the marked man. Becky learned this curious bit of incidental minutia from Uncle Harry, who dispensed the tidbit glibly with a poker face. Obviously the luckless slob had offended some Federal Hill bigwig, stepped over that invisible line. Detectives had to fish Bobo Maroni’s brains along with feta cheese, anchovies and Greek olives from the half-eaten salad.

*****

“So how do you like it?” They were standing in the entryway to the church staring at a group of dolphins frolicking in a turquoise, stone ocean. The circular mosaic, done in earth tones and pastel hues, ran twenty feet in diameter and was ringed with decorative brickwork.

They wandered into the church, which was empty except for an older woman over by the confessional, doing the Stations of the Cross. The old woman finished the last station, dipped her fingers in a basin of holy water and left the building.

“That particular design… it’s not Roman,” Curtis said.

“The mosaic?”

He shook his head. “The dolphin theme predates the Roman Empire. It’s more Minoan.”

Becky glanced up briefly. Curtis’ face held that same obsessive, pinched look as when he was trying to smooth the imaginary wrinkle from the underside of his athletic sock. “Minoans flourished around fifteen hundred B.C.. They ruled a vast trading empire, stretching from Greece across the Aegean Sea to Ephesus in Asia Minor.” The blond-haired youth tossed these historical facts off as though they were common knowledge. “The Minoan rulers lived in a vast palace at Knossos on the island of Crete, where the walls were covered with colorful frescoes, watercolor paintings done on wet plaster.” He removed his glasses momentarily and massaged the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers. “The dolphin mosaic probably came from one of those original frescoes.”

A priest entered the church, lit several candles near the altar then disappeared out a side door. The air was shot through with acrid, sweet-smelling incense. “You sure are a strange one,” Becky murmured, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. “What else should a teenage girl who works in a bakery on Federal hill know about Minoan culture?”

Curtis’ cracked a dreamy, introspective smile. “Minoans were shrewd sea traders. Unlike the Romans, their success was based on trade not conquest. Their women had more rights than in most ancient civilizations.”

Without warning, Becky lifted up on her toes, snaked an arm around his shoulders and kissed the boy deeply on the lips. “Liberated females – I like that.” Curtis’ jaw sagged open like a gate on rusty hinges. His thin lips fluttered spastically but no sounds emerged. Becky cradled her head on his chest. “What else?”

Curtis’ eyes glazed over. He let all the air out of his lungs in a contented sigh. “Europa the beautiful daughter of the king of Phoenicia was gathering flowers, when she saw a bull quietly grazing with her father’s herd. The bull was actually Zeus, king of the gods, who had fallen in love with her. When Europa reached to place flowers on his horns, he suddenly bounded in the air and carried the weeping princess far off across the Mediterranean Sea to the island of Crete. Eventually Europa married the king of Crete and gave her name to a new continent.”

Curtis bent down and caressed her neck with a flurry of kisses. “But, of course, it’s just a myth,” he added as an afterthought. The exceptionally bright boy had that queer, spaced out look that emerged when his well-ordered universe was spinning out of control. Behind his wire-framed glasses, the pale blue eyes held a limpid sheen such that Becky could see straight through to the core of his being.


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Publication Date: 08-11-2011

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