McCarthy and Torrez sat at a table in front of Ferdinando’s
panelle store. It was a fixture in the neighborhood since 1904 and was known
for serving the best sandwich in Brooklyn. That sandwich was the potato-panelle
special. Three chickpea pancakes are called a panelle. Deep-fried in a vat of
oil that had not been changed since the 1950s. Two potato croquettes on top
with some fresh ricotta served in a crusty toasted roll. They were washing them
down with a couple of Manhattan Special sodas served in an iced mug with the
espresso soda poured straight from the tap. Bliss.
Torrez picked up his sandwich and took a big bite. “We seem to be
spinning our wheels here, Dummy,” he said with his mouth full of sandwich.
“Everyone we look at has an alibi of one sort or another. I am coming to the
conclusion that she didn’t know the doer.” McCarthy sipped his coffee soda. “I
hate to agree with you, but it is starting to look like you’re right. This is a
cluster fuck, man.”
“What are we gonna do? I mean, what’s our move? We can take a run
at her boyfriend again or maybe the guy she went on a date with, but I don’t
think anything will change,” Torrez said as he finished off the last of his
sandwich. When a sandwich was this good, it didn’t last on the plate very long.
“Our only move is to roust all of the neighborhood perverts and peepers to see
if they graduated.” McCarthy agreed with the thought, “Yeah, I think you’re
right. I want to take another run at those retarded flower shop assholes. We
already eliminated the UPS jerkoff. At least we will when we find out whose
wife he was banging. I want you to go through the files to see who else might
pop up. Ask Holland again to help. She can work the computer.” McCarthy was
looking at the door. “In the meantime, I
have to ask the people who know.” Torrez looked at him and said, “What the fuck
does that mean?” “Watch and learn Beaner.”
The door opened, and the old man walked in. He stopped short when he saw the two cops. He nodded at them and then proceeded to the back of the store, followed by Geno. He sat in his favorite spot under the framed, faded news clipping of the election of Mussolini. Old man Aiello sat with his back to the wall as always, with Geno in his customary side seat with a view of the kitchen and the front door. They were predictable in that, if in nothing else.