Double-Crossing Delancey (2 page)

“Still,” I tried again. “You took twelve hundred dollars from this guy Yee. It’s a lot of money.”

“Fifteen hundred, with the fluid and the wicks,” Joe corrected me. “He stands to make quite a lot more than that, with the right marketing plan.”

“Marketing plan? Joe, the guy’s a waiter!”

“And looking to better himself. An ambition to be commended.”

I sighed. “Come on, Joe. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

Joe bit into his pastry. “My ancestors would spin in their graves.  Surely you, a daughter of a culture famous for venerating the honorable ancestors, can understand that. This street, you know, is named for my family.” I suspected the reverse was closer to the truth, but held my tongue. “It is peopled, now as ever, with newly-minted Americans seeking opportunity. For a Delancey, they are gift-wrapped presents, Christmas trinkets needing only to be opened.”

“You’re a rat, Joe.”

“Not so. In fact, I detect in you a deep appreciation of my subtle art.”

“You’re reading me wrong.”

“If so, why are you smiling? My glossy-haired beauty, I make my living reading people. I’m rarely wrong. It’s you who’re in the wrong profession. You have a great future elsewhere.”

“You mean, doing the kind of work you do?”

“I do. With me beside you singing in the wilderness.”

I sliced off a forkfull of cherry Danish. Joe, by contrast, had his entire pastry in his hand and was gouging half-moon bites from it. “Not my calling, Joe,” I said.

“I disagree. You have all the instincts. You could have been one of the greats — and owed it all to me. I’d have been famous, mentor to the reknown Lydia Chin.” He sighed, then brightened. “The offer’s still open.”

“I don’t like cheating people.”

A gulp of tea, a shake of the head, and the retort: “Thinning the herd, darling. I only take from beggars: people who beg me to.”

An old line of Joe’s I’d heard before. “I know, Joe. ‘You can’t catch a pigeon unless he sits still.’”

“Damn correct.”

“That doesn’t mean he wants to be caught.”

“Wrong, oh glorious one. None of the people from whom I earn my bread will ever be rich, the brains to keep away from the likes of me being the minimal criteria for financial success. I at least offer them, though for but a fleeting moment, the warm and fuzzy sense that they might someday reach that dream.”

“And you’re doing them a favor?”

“Oh, I am, I am. Deep down, they know that fleeting moment is all they’ll ever have, and they beg me to give them that. At least that. At most that. Joe, they say in their hearts — “

“Oh, stop it, Joe,” I said in my mouth. “I’ve heard it before. And what about your Punjabi princess? Wasn’t she rich?”

“You shock me, my sweet. Surely you cannot favor the grasping retention of unearned, inherited, caste-based wealth?”

“When the other choice is having it conned out of people by someone like you, I might.”

“You cut me to the quick, my gorgeous friend. It pains me to feel your lack of respect for my ecological niche. Therefore let’s cease talking about me and discuss you. How goes it with you? The detecting business treating you well?”

Joe winked and attacked his Danish. I sipped my tea. Around us bustled people making a living and people taking time out from making a living. I watched them and I watched Joe and finally I spoke. “Well, I have to admit that whoever told me this was no way to get rich was right.”

“Wasn’t that me?”

“Among others, maybe.”

“I know I did. I thought, and think, you had, and have, chosen the wrong path. But enough of that. If the detecting of crime doesn’t pay, what ecological niche do you propose to fill?”

I cut more Danish. “Oh, I’m not giving up the investigating business. But I do have to supplement it from time to time.”

“And with what?”

“This and that. Nothing fun. A friend of mine came up with an idea this morning that sounded good, but then I thought about it. I don’t know.”

“And that would be what?”

“Lychee nuts.”

“Lychee nuts? You intend to build your fortune on, excuse me, lychee nuts?”

“Well, exactly. He thinks it’s a great idea, but I’m not sure. On the one hand, the best fresh lychees are hard to find in the U.S., and very big among Chinese people. You can get them canned, but they don’t taste anything like the real thing. The fresh ones they import are third-rate. Premium fresh lychees, the best China has to offer, are very scarce and valuable.”

“Really?” Joe sounded thoughtful. “How valuable is valuable?”

“Oh, not worth your time, Joe, not in your league. People would pay a lot, but they’re expensive to import. You couldn’t sell them down here. Just uptown, in the really fancy food shops.” The waiter, to my surprise, had not only actually brought us our tea in a pot, but now replaced it with a fresh one. It’s sometimes amazing what Joe can convince people to do. I filled both our cups. “You know, all those uptown Chinese doctors and investment bankers, the ones who buy raspberries in January and asparagus in November. They’d pay a fortune, if the lychees were really good. But the import business, I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

Lifting his freshly-filled cup, Joe asked, “Is there none of this fabulous commodity on offer as we speak in New York, food capital of the world?”

“There’s only one shop, actually just down Delancey about a block, that sells the big, premium ones. Really fresh and sweet, perfumey-tasting. Go ahead, make a face. Chinese people think of this stuff like caviar.”

“Do they really? Then why not go for it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If I could get my hands on lychees from India, it might be worth it.”

“They are thought to be special, India lychees?”

“I’ve actually never had one. They don’t export them at all.”

“Why not?”

“Some government restrictions, I don’t know. But if I could sell those… On the other hand, this whole import thing probably isn’t right for me.”

I finished off my Danish, drained my tea. “You sure you won’t reconsider your marks, Joe?”

Flashing the ruby again, Joe said, “Perhaps if you, oh stunning one, reconsider my offer.”

I smiled too. “Not in this lifetime. Well, I tried. Thanks for the snack, Joe. I have to go.”

“There are Danishes yet untouched.” Joe pointed to the pile of pastries still on the plate.

“I’ve had enough,” I said. “More would be greedy. And I know what happens to greedy people when they get around you.”

Joe bowed his head, as Charlie had, to acknowledge the compliment. He stood when I did, and remained standing as I worked my way to the door, but then he sat again. As I left he was ordering more tea and reaching for a blueberry Danish. From the distant, dreamy look in his eyes I could tell he was searching for an angle on the lychee nut situation. I wondered if he’d find it.

Four days later, on the phone, I heard from Joe again.

“I must see you,” he said. “I yearn.”

“Oh, please, Joe.”

“No, in truth. Actually I can help you.”

“Do I need help?”

“You do. Let me provide it.”

“Why don’t I trust you? Oh, I remember, you’re a con man.”

“Lydia! This is your Joe! My motives in this instance are nefarious, it’s true, but not in the way you think. One: I can be with you, motive enough for any man. Two: We can both make money, motive enough for any man or woman. And three: You can see how smart your Joe is, and perhaps be moved to reconsider my previous offer. Motive enough, by itself, for Joe.”

“That one’s not likely.”

“Let me buy you a refreshing beverage and we can discuss the issue.”

It was a soggy afternoon, and I was, as we delicately say in the

detecting business, between cases. My office air conditioner thinks

if it makes enough noise I won’t notice it actually does nothing

useful, but I’d noticed. I’d finished paying my bills and had been

reduced to filing.

I gave up, locked up, and went out to meet Joe.

Joe’s meeting place of choice was a bench in Sara Roosevelt Park just north of Delancey Street. The refreshing beverage was a seltzer for me and an orange soda for him from the cart with the big beach umbrella. Joe’s Chesire Cat smile was not explained until we sat side by side and with a flourish he poured into my lap the contents of the paper bag he’d been carrying. The ruby flashed as I picked up one of a pair of the biggest, most flawless, most perfect fresh lychees I’d every seen.

“Where did these come from?” I marvelled.

“Are you pleased, oh spectacular one? Has not your Joe done grandly?”

“Where did you get them?” I asked again. They were the size of tennis balls, which for a lychee is enormous.

“Sample one, my queen,” said Joe.

“May I really?”

“They are for you, to lay at your feet. In the spirit of full disclosure I admit there were originally three. I tried one myself, and am left to conclude only that Chinese taste buds and Irish tastebuds must have been created with irreconcilable differences.”

“You didn’t like it?” I bit into the lychee. It was firm and juicy, sweet and spicy, good beyond my wildest lychee dreams. As I dabbed a trickle of juice from my chin I wondered if Charlie had ever had one like it.

“Your verdict, please,” Joe demanded. “Is this the lychee that will make us rich?”

“This is a great lychee, Joe,” I said warily. “Totally top-notch, super-duper, one of the best. Where are they from?”

Joe had been leaning forward watching me as though I were a race in which he had bet the rent on a horse. Now he leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head and stretched his legs. He grinned through the leafy canopy at the blue June sky.

“The Raj,” he said. “The star of the Empire, the jewel in the crown. These are lychees from India, oh joy of my heart.”

I stared. “You’re kidding.”

He spoke modestly, as befitted a man who had performed a miracle. “Procuring them was not a simple matter, even for your Joe. As you yourself stated so accurately, India does not as a matter of course export its lychees. But having been nearly engaged to a Punjabi princess does have its uses.”

“You’re not telling me her family still even speaks to you? They’re willing to do business with you?”

Joe shuddered. “Heavens, no. Her male relatives would long since have sliced my throat, or other even more valuable parts of my person, had not my princess retained a soft spot for old Joe in her heart of hearts. But not all Indians of my acquaintance bear my former beloved’s family good will, and the enemy of my enemy is, after all, my friend.”

This was baroque enough to be pure Joe. “So you talked some other, what, Indian of your acquaintance into smuggling these for you? As a way to get back at your princess’s family for whatever they were mad at them for?”

“Something like that. More important than those inconsequential details is the fact that there are, apparently, many more lychees where these came from.”

“Is that a fact?”