Anna Feola walked into the Brooklyn Loaf to start her shift
at 6 am. Just about five feet tall she was slim but shapely with dark brown
hair with auburn highlights. Anna looked like an Italian neighborhood girl even
though she came from Suffolk County. She fit right in on Court Street.
Anna was always one of the first employees at the store
because she liked the first shift. First of all, it was always busy so she was
always moving. Anna hated having to wait around with nothing to do. Best of all
she got off early at 2 o’clock so she had the rest of the day to do whatever she
wanted. She could take a class or go to an audition. Or even just help out the
nice old Italian lady that was her landlord. She was like her Mom. Or more like
the Grandmother that she had never had back home. Her family originally came
from this neighborhood even though they had moved out to Long Island back in
the sixties. Even so she felt a prosperity interest in the Italian culture that
was fading away in the face of all the hedge fund managers and Wall Street
aholes who were buying up the neighborhood. There were still a few pockets of
the old Italian American Immigrant culture left and this coffee shop was one of
them even though it was only about ten years old. It featured bagels and rolls
and prepared sandwiches with coffee and tea. Not fancy like Starbucks but not
as declassee as the Dunkin Donuts on the corner of First Place. It was sort of
in-between. Just like Anna.
She started the coffees in the giant urns and Pepe brought
up a couple of paper sacks filled with fresh hot bagels. She sorted them out
and put them in the wire bins designated for each flavor with a little ceramic
name plate attached to the front. Plain. Salt. Poppy. Sesame. Onion.
Everything. A bin for everyone and a pile of hot steaming goodness. If only
life could be like that.
People started drifting in. Moms on their way to PS 58 to
drop off their little monsters. Nannies with their over privileged charges in
super expensive strollers. A couple of in a hurry commuters who wanted to pick
up something to take on the subway. The crowd grew and the line went out the
door into the street. She poured the coffee and buttered the bagels and even
had to serve the one section of tables against the wall. They were easy as they
were usually her regulars. The same people every day.
One of them was an older Italian gentleman with hard eyes
and pure white hair. He was always elegantly dressed in an expensive leather
jacket and a silk shirt. He wore expensive custom-made shoes and had a Rolex on
his wrist that was worth more than everything that was in the whole shop. He
wore dark glasses inside and was very quiet. Occasionally someone from the
neighborhood would come and whisper something in his ear. He would nod or make
a gesture with his hand or very infrequently whisper something back. His order
was always the same. A cup of espresso and a plate of Italian biscotti. He
never varied it unless he wanted a short snort of anisette in his coffee. They
kept a bottle behind the counter just for him. He was always very kind to her
and there was always something mysterious about him. Anna didn’t know much
about him and was sort of intrigued.
What she really didn’t know was that he was the real owner
of the joint.
You see the Mob had gone into the bagel business in a big
way in the 1980’s. What’s not to like? A cash business perfect for washing
money. And you didn’t even have to lose money at it to boot. So bagel stores
went up in Bensonhurst and Kew Gardens and Staten Island and Ozone Park. There
were two in South Brooklyn that now had the Real Estate name of Carroll
Gardens. One on Smith Street was controlled by the Columbo’s and was full of
cowboys. They ran guns and drugs out of it and a bunch of them got pinched and
put away on a Ricco charge. This one was much cleaner. They kept the drugs and the
guns and gambling out of it. It was just bagels and a schmear.
At one time the cafes in the neighborhood had been part of
the fabric of their existence. People would come in and sip an espresso and
talk. It was a social thing. That’s why they were called social clubs. You knew
everyone and everyone knew you. Now it was like the rest of New York. Anonymous
and lonely. Sometimes people might know each other and nod before they became
engrossed in their phones. But most of the time they just stared at their
laptops or phones as though they could find the meaning of life.
He came in around eight this morning and sat in his usual
seat. The second table from the front with his back to the wall. Anna hurried
over with his order. “Good morning Mr. Aiello. Here is your breakfast. How are
you feeling?” she chirped as she put down the plate. “Great sweetheart” he
rasped with his heavy Brooklyn accent. “Just great. Can youse bring over the
papers when you get a chance.” “Yessir right away.” ”Thank youse.”
When he asked for the papers, he only wanted the Post and
the News. He never touched the Times or the Wall St Journal. Tabloids were all
he read. Oh well the rest were there for all the pretentious noobs who came in
and hit on her. But they wouldn’t be here for hours yet, so she was safe. Maybe
she would have time to practice that song for the audition she was going to hit
next week. She just hoped that Mrs. DiMartino would be okay with her singing
the same song over and over for hours. What was she thinking? Of course, she
would be fine with it. But she was going to bring her a bag of Italian cookies
just to make sure.
She had learned her lessons well. She was morphing into a
real neighborhood girl.
