The man behind the counter was bald, forty or thereabouts, and could have stood to lose fifteen pounds. The fringe of hair that he had left was as black as tar, and he wore it long and had combed some of it over his shining pate. He had a well-fed face that was in the beginning stages of acquiring a second chin. A bristly mustache monopolized the space between his flat upper lip and fleshy nose. He had on a buttoned white shirt with suspenders that were drawn too tight atop his shoulders. A brown coat hung from a nail on the wall behind him. He had been filling a fountain pen when I walked in, and now he set it aside and gave me a welcoming smile.
“Good day,” he said. “Foul weather, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” I said. “Washes the dust off the streets.”
He nodded a couple of times as if I had voiced a profound wisdom. “Got a point there, I’ll give you that.”
I got the impression that he would have agreed with almost anything I said. He likely thought it was good for business to make the customer feel that they were of the same mind, regardless of what that mind happened to be.
“If you’re looking for notebooks for the kids, I got some new ones on that shelf there. Eighty pages each.”
I felt the old familiar pang that came whenever someone mentioned children. My daughters would never go to school. My daughters would never do anything again. I kept the pain from showing on my face. Doing so used to be hard, but after almost seven years of practice, it was becoming second nature.
“I don’t have children,” I said, grabbing a pocket notebook and a couple of pencils. I laid them on the counter. “Just these. And I understand you may have some sugar as well.”
His eyebrows drew closer together as he eyed me with suspicion. He had small eyes the color of pine and he blinked rather rapidly as he took my measure.
“I can spare a spoonful or two, I suppose,” he said cautiously.
“According to what I heard, you may be willing to part with a bit more.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Does it matter?”
“It may. It may, indeed.”
“Tova Wasserman,” I said.
His face relaxed and he let out a chuckle. “I’ve known the old battle-ax for nearly two years and you’re the first person she ever referred to me.” He offered his hand. “Zalman Alphon.”
I shook it. “Adam Lapid.”
“How much sugar do you need, Adam?”
“What’s the going rate for a pound?”
He shook his head with grave sadness. “Alas, sugar is hard to come by these days. I’m almost ashamed to say how much I have to charge just to make it worth my while.”
I almost smiled. The crafty bastard could have done with acting lessons. The words were right, but they were as transparent as a windowpane. He knew his asking price would likely prove painful and was aiming to make it seem like he shared some of the hurt.
“Times are hard for everyone,” I said. “We all have to make sacrifices. I’m sure your prices are fair.”
Alphon nodded solemnly and named a price. It was actually not too bad. High, of course, but not over the top. We haggled a bit, and he brought it down a notch. “I doubt I’m even making a profit at this price, but since this is our first business transaction…” He told me it would take a minute and instructed me to give him a shout if anyone happened to walk in the store while he was in the back. Then he opened the door behind the counter and disappeared.
No one came in while he was gone. He reappeared with a small cloth bag in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. He dipped the spoon in the bag and held it out to me. “Want a taste?”
I took the spoon and put it in my mouth. It was sugar all right.
“Very good,” I said.
He smiled. “My stuff’s the best. All my customers say so. That’s why they keep coming back.”
He looped a rubber band around the neck of the bag and gestured expansively at the notebook and pencils on the counter. “No charge for these. Call it a nice-to-get-to-know-you present.”
I told him he was a very generous man. He beamed.
“Anything else? I got some coffee I could make you a good price on. It’s the real stuff, not the chicory crap the government rations out. You drink coffee?”
“Maybe another time. What I would like is some information.”
He raised both eyebrows but said nothing.
“I’m looking for Nathan Frankel. I understand you know him.”
The eyebrows came down and his eyes filled with apprehension. “You’re not a cop, are you? Tell me you’re not a cop.”
“No,” I said.
“Because you sort of look like one, anyone ever tell you that? I thought so the minute you walked in. But Tova Wasserman would not have given my name to a cop. No matter how much they squeezed her.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Then what do you want with Nathan?”
“To talk to him.”
“What about?” Alphon said, but then he held up a hand and added, “Forget it. I don’t want to know.” He looked away and then back at me. He was blinking rapidly again. “Listen, I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. I mean, what business is it of mine what goes on between you and Nathan? I barely know him, and you I met for the first time today.”
“You know him well enough to have given him Tova Wasserman’s name.”
“Is that what this is about? Did he do something to ruffle the old bird’s feathers?”
“I thought you didn’t want to know.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” He nibbled on his mustache for a few seconds. “Listen, I know Nathan because he buys from me occasionally, and I like him well enough. He’s a really nice guy. So when one day he tells me he’s got some dollars and asks me if I know anyone who can exchange them, I tell him to go see Tova Wasserman.”
“This was when?”
Alphon scratched his naked scalp, flaking off tiny bits of dead skin. “Two, three weeks ago. I don’t remember exactly when. What I do remember is once I tell him about Mrs. Wasserman, he starts blasting me with questions: How old is she? Where is she from? What is she like? Etcetera, etcetera. Finally I ask him why the hell he wants to know all this, and he just smiles and says he’s a curious guy. I gotta admit I thought it was a bit strange, him asking me all those questions, but I soon forgot about it. With all I got on my mind, it’s not surprising.”
“Did he say where he got the dollars?”
“An uncle or cousin sent it to him from New York or some place. Not that I asked, he just came out and told me.”
“How long have you known him?”
“He first came in…four, five months ago, something like that. Bought some coffee and butter.”
“How often does he come in?”
“Every once in a while. Nothing you can set your watch by.”
“Know where he lives?”
Alphon thought for a moment, then said he didn’t think Frankel had ever mentioned an address.
“How about where he works?”
He hesitated, looking away and rubbing his mustache with a forefinger.
“What is it, Zalman?”