One
MERCER STREET
Goldie Maraschino’s stilettos clicked through the Delta terminal of JFK International Airport until she stepped onto the escalator that would take her down to baggage claim. Her four-inch heels allowed her to stand at five feet eight. Perhaps they were impractical for the airport, but she cared more about appearance than comfort. As she descended to the lower level, she chewed her gum with an open mouth and watched through Ray Ban sunglasses while a young mother just ahead of her struggled to wrangle two young children. The kids were tired and whining. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and it seemed like everyone in America was traveling.
On the opposite side of the escalator, she saw a police officer ascending who was giving her the once-over. The cop wasn’t looking at her in a suspicious way, but rather in a “Whoa! Very nice!” kind of way.
That’s right, Law & Order. Dare to dream,she thought, pretending to examine a bright red fingernail. She didn’t like cops, and she had good reason; her boyfriend was one of New York City’s rising crime bosses. But then she was distracted by the weary mother, who was trying to soothe her whiny kids, and cracked her gum.
Coming off the escalator, she clicked-clacked her way toward baggage carousel 7. As she walked, she could feel the eyes of other men watching. She was used to this and, in fact, liked it. She was a blonde-haired, green-eyed, twenty-five-year-old in a minidress with a fur-collar leather jacket and a wiggle in her butt that could make a bowl of red Jell-O turn green with envy. Goldie was a babe, and she knew it.
The fur on the collar of her jacket wasn’t real. Neither was her blonde hair. Even the name “Goldie” wasn’t real. But the gold bracelets that jingled on her slender wrists came from Tiffany’s, her shoes were Jimmy Choo’s, and the Louis Vuitton tote slung over her shoulder all said to the world that here was a woman with money. Even if that money came from drugs, stolen merchandise, hookers, and payoffs from merchants who sought extra protection for their businesses. Goldie wasn’t directly involved in any of her boyfriend’s business dealings, but she wasn’t ignorant of them, either.
Coming to the baggage carousel as the first pieces of luggage were sliding off the conveyor belt, she glanced around and spied a Skycap with an empty luggage cart. She raised her chin, and the Skycap wheeled his cart over to her.
“You need help with your bags, ma’am?” he asked. He was an elderly man with silver hair.
“Not me,” Goldie said, dipping a hand into her tote and then her wallet. “See Mother Goose over my shoulder with the two kids?”
The man eyed the woman and her children.
“Yeah?”
She pulled out a fifty and handed it to him. “Help her get to wherever. Just say Santa came early this year.Don’tpoint me out. Understand?”
The Skycap looked over at the woman, then at Goldie, and smiled. “You’re a good Christian woman.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied, cracking her gum and speaking with a very pronounced Bronx accent. “But maybe Jesus ain’t above a bribe.”
As the Skycap stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket, she spotted a large Vuitton bag that matched her tote and hurried over to it. Plucking it off the carousel, she pulled up the handle and started to roll it away as she heard the woman with kids ask the Skycap: “Which one? Who hired you for me?” She was pleased but, at the same time, slightly mystified by the random act of kindness.
Stepping outside where she thought the taxis would be lined up, Goldie realized she had misjudged and was about fifty yards away from the correct exit. Spotting a waiting cab, she gave a loud whistle like a foreman on a loading dock. The cab driver turned on his overhead light and rolled toward her.
Her given name was Karen. But everybody called her Goldie because of her love for gold jewelry. She wasn’t formally educated and could have a quick temper, but she was street-smart. She dropped out of high school in the eleventh grade because her then and current boyfriend, Markie Santina, had gotten her pregnant. At the time, Markie was a wise guy in training for the Lombardo family. Being Catholic, Goldie decided to have the baby. One night, when she was seven months pregnant, Markie found himself backed into a corner by three members of a rival family in the parking lot of Rozano’s Restaurant just off Mulberry Street in Little Italy. It was a minor skirmish, nothing the family heads would’ve paid any attention to. Those involved were just teenagers with hormones that needed to establish turf. But when the three guys started to beat Markie up, Goldie, who had just gotten into the car, hopped back out and went after his attackers. She plowed into them, swinging her purse back and forth like a broadsword. The effort helped Markie and caused two of the attackers to back off, but not before the third one kicked her squarely in the stomach. Other departing restaurant patrons helped to break up the fight, but later that night, Goldie had to be rushed to the hospital, where she lost the baby and nearly her life.
Suddenly, the “minor” skirmish at Rozano’s wasn’t minor anymore. Within six months, all three of the young men who had attacked Markie mysteriously disappeared without a trace, beginning with the one who kicked Goldie. Usually, this would’ve caused a war between families. But since the bodies were never found and Markie’s alibis were so strong, nothing could be pinned on him. This actually elevated his stature in the Lombardo family, where he continued to climb the ranks. It also cemented his relationship with Goldie. They didn’t marry or have other children, but Markie promised to take care of her. Being in love and from a family of modest means, Goldie let him. For the past month, she’d been in Las Vegas, which was the longest time she’d ever been away from Markie. Her Uncle Luke, her mother’s oldest brother, had died after a long bout with cancer. When the funeral was over and the out-of-town family members departed, Goldie stayed behind to help her Aunt Sophie settle Luke’s affairs since they had no children of their own. She was the logical choice for this since she had no job to get back to and knew how to get things done. Back in New York, she was Markie’s second set of eyes. She wasn’t his accountant, but she had a natural head for numbers and would occasionally double-check the books. She wasn’t his head of security, but she was the one who suggested he buy another condo in the same building where they lived under the name of a dummy corporation so he could keep records, cash, and extra weapons close by but off premises in case their home ever got searched. She wasn’t his secretary, but she kept diaries that included names and dates of things he sometimes shared with her. She wasn’t an active player, but she loved and supported her man.
It was a forty-five-minute ride from JFK to Greenwich Village, where Markie and Goldie had a three-bedroom condo on Mercer Street. It was in an older but completely renovated building, and their place had a value of around three million dollars. For New York real estate, it was comfortable but not overly luxurious. Winter had come early to Manhattan, and a mixture of snow and rain began to fall as the cab passed through Queens. Finally arriving in the Village, she smiled to herself that she was almost home. She and Markie had phoned and texted daily and had even done a few FaceTime calls where all she had worn were a pair of Egyptian earrings, but she was still missing him.
She paid the driver generously, and he retrieved her larger bag from the trunk; then Goldie entered the lobby of their building with her tote slung over her shoulder and her other bag rolling behind. The door was held open for her by a man in a jacket and tie named Larry, who worked the front door and reception counter in the lobby. Goldie greeted him as she came in. He was an employee of the building but was also on Markie’s payroll and carried a Smith & Wesson .38 clipped to his belt under his jacket. There was also another beefier man sitting on a sofa in the reception area. He was more casually dressed, and his name was Bruno Carmichael. He was one of Markie’s oldest friends and fiercest enforcers. He had a thick neck, curly black hair cut close to his large head, and had a notorious tough-guy reputation. Someone once threw a brick at Bruno’s chest to slow down an impending attack, and he hardly flinched as it bounced off. He was reading the sports section of theNew YorkTimeswhen Goldie came into the building. Both men were visibly surprised to see her.
“Goldie,” Bruno said, setting his paper down and rising.
“Ay, Bruno, how ya doin’?” she asked, setting her bag down momentarily. “Where’d all this cold weather come from? My freakin’ ovaries just retreated to my ribs.”
“You’re back early,” he said. “We weren’t expectin’ you till tomorrow.”
“Changed my ticket and came home early,” she explained. She walked over to the wastepaper basket behind Larry’s counter and, without bending over or picking up the receptacle, spit her gum into it with perfect aim.
“If we’d known you were coming in, we would’ve sent a car for you,” Larry offered.
“A cab was fine,” she replied. “Travelin’ is already stupid, and it’s gonna get even crazier tomorrow, the day before Thanksgivin’, so I decided to surprise Markie.”
“Sure,” Larry said, a little concerned.
“Oh, he’ll be surprised,” Bruno agreed.
She sensed the hesitancy in both men and looked them over.
