The Errant Heiress

Chapter Five - Midnight Pantry Raid

Chapter Five - Midnight Pantry Raid

“Come on, Vic! The band’s all set up already!”

We exchanged a look of shared relief. The gun suddenly felt too cold to touch. I jumped down from the dresser – it groaned – and disarranged my hair a little.

“Just a minute!” Vic shouted, without a hint of the jitters in his voice. He threw his jacket over his shoulder and ushered me out.

Deciding I got what I could from Vic, I made my way out of the Plaza. I lit a cigarette and smoked a while, pondering what to do next, but I was careful not to ponder for too long. A gal likes some attention, but a gal standing on the boardwalk by her lonesome might attract the wrong kind of attention, if you catch my drift. And there’s only so many citations for loitering a gal’s reputation can handle.

I hailed a cab and had the leering lout that drove it drop me off on the corner of Liberty and Fourth, a block away from Sal’s Restaurant.

The place was sorta big for a noodle joint, but then again, Sal was sorta big for a restauranteur. In the metaphorical sense, given his clout with the Italian community. Also in the physical sense, but that’s not the point.

Sal’s occupied most of the ground floor of one of the old brick buildings on lower Liberty. Both the front windows and the doors were still x-ed across with police tape, but I suspected there was a kitchen entrance round the back.

Of course, I was right. A filthy alley strewn with rubbish led into a small courtyard, enclosed by filthy, run-down tenements. Fire escapes snaked down crumbling brick walls, corroded and rickety, good for nothing save to hold laundry lines. And that was a stretch. Songs, curses, speeches, ramblings and arguments in a dozen languages spilled out of open windows and filtered through the ratty laundry into a cloud of white noise.

I started as I passed a dumpster, its innards rustling with movement. Several sets of tiny eyes flashed in the dark, gazing back at me. I found the supply door, crooked and not quite closed, hanging on rusted hinges. I gave it a tug and it fell off, crashing on the ground. A flurry of dark, lean bodies leapt out of the dumpster, swept past my feet and into a grating. I’d never felt more like I needed a hot bath. Well, there was that one time at the County Fair, but that was a long time ago.

The corridor behind it was cold and dank and cluttered with crates. The food rotting in them smelled sickly and sweet, and I made my way trying desperately not to touch anything. Finding the kitchen was easy enough. The light, a sole amber bulb, was left on. It was just as well: all the surfaces were covered with a coating of grease, sugar, and dead ants.

Someone had obviously gone through it: all the cupboards were open, their contents thrown here and there. The pots and pans were dumped in heaps all over, and a turned-over saucepan lay in a puddle of red sauce. A forlorn meatball sat in a skillet on stovetop, topped with lavender fuzz. To my shame, my stomach rumbled. I barely had anything since breakfast, and that was mostly cigarettes. Still, the place was a lot cleaner than I expected. And I’ve seen the kitchens at the Ritz (that reminds me: even at a fancy restaurant, never order anything called ‘- Surprise’, no matter how strapped for cash you are).

I jumped at the sound of ringing metal and a muttered oath. Someone had found the alley, too! Hearing footsteps in the corridor, I made a run for the nearest door, and shut it behind me. I found myself in some kind of small storage room, filled with what looked liked sacks of flour, and not a moment too soon: I could tell by the crunch of a dead beetle that whoever followed me had found his way to the kitchen, too.