Her breath reverberated off the pocked door and walls before she dipped into the messenger bag, fingers closing around the bottom of the paper sack to transfer it to her lap.
“Oh my gawd!” That was the first outburst of horror from outside the contaminated stall, and it wouldn’t be the last—voiced or not. Varda imagined the women on the other side of the door, disgust becoming more pronounced while making a stab at which stall contained the chick with the bad gastrointestinal problem. Picturing them brought a welcome distraction from the package under her nose, now exposed to the yellow overhead lights.
She took shallow breaths, gulping small puffs of air through her mouth. The paper and cloth under her fingers moved, she was sure of it. Oh, God, what if the maggots were escaping? Hell, they'd had a lot of time to plot their desertion. They could be mobilizing, ready to out her to the authorities by timing a prison break right in the middle of Customs.
It’s nothing, it’s nothing.
Varda redressed the cheese in fresh wrapping, avoiding the removal of the last layer of cheesecloth so she would have to actually see the cheese again. It took only a few panic-filled minutes, and the new barriers and layers over the rind cut down on the aroma. Not enough, though, and she'd never get the odor out of her hands.
The suspicious glances after attempting a nonchalant exit from the stall were nothing compared to those in the Customs queue. The graying man in front of her in line crab-stepped away, side-eyeing her. The woman standing behind her wrinkled her pug-like nose and glared as though Varda had suddenly declared her love of eating kittens for breakfast .
"Damn foreigners," the stranger muttered. "Take a bath."
An insult tickled at the tip of Varda’s tongue. Under normal circumstances she would have invited the woman to kiss her pale ass. No need to draw any more attention, though. She smiled and concentrated on looking innocent.
The line moved fast. Arriving in Philadelphia from Italy (or any other country, for that matter) on the Thursday morning before Labor Day wasn’t the most popular of options for no reason she could guess.
It might have been a better choice when crowds pushed and jostled; she could get lost among all those impatient people, hurrying to declare their foreign-bought soap and wine, rather than standing out as the hygienically challenged girl.
On a busy day the Customs agents would be harried and harassed instead of requesting Customs Declaration forms and passports without any sort of urgency at all and exchanging pleasantries before welcoming travelers to the States.
She was screwed. She’d had close calls before, like that time a bottle of mouse fetus wine had shattered in the middle of the airport and left a trail of glass shards and rice-based moonshine across an entire terminal (not to mention a pile of dead rodents polluting her bag like a vermin genocide mass grave). It was a minor miracle these guys didn’t have her name on a watch list by now.
Gino—they’d been dating for five years, so he’d know to start calling state and local penitentiaries if she didn’t come home —would have to visit her in smugglers’ prison, if there was such a thing.
Varda imagined shuffling into a drab visitor’s room, her bright orange jumpsuit blinding and unflattering. He would shield his eyes from the glare and inch closer to sneak a kiss and ask how she’d survived the latest jail house rumble —she was a small girl, after all. Television shows always showed that giant inmates with thick, tattooed necks and names like “Large Marge” routinely picked tiny, pretty girls with no muscle tone as their girlfriends. She didn’t want to be anyone’s bitch. But maybe she was too old for that —at the age of thirty, Varda wasn’t exactly over the hill, but perhaps the lifers would scoop up the super young new criminals first.
Gino would smile, his brown eyes soft with pity, and she would shuffle forward, attempting to be as sexy as an ugly prison outfit would allow. He’d laugh (because he always said her sexy face reminded him of bad porn) and slip her a wheel of aged Gouda with a file wedged into it.
The customs agent, a gentleman with a severe, red crew cut and droopy eyelids, accepted her passport and Customs form. “Welcome to Philadelphia, miss. How’re you doing today?”
She forced a smile. “Good, good. And you?”
“I’m just fine. You’re coming into some great weather.”
Screw the chit chat. Her feet itched with wanting to sprint.
“How long have you been gone?”
Two uniformed officers emerged from a doorway across the terminal, visible just over the agent’s shoulder.
The agent sniffed twice as though sucking up all the clues to Varda’s obvious guilt and let his eyes wander over her; she concentrated on relaxing, trying to gain control over jangling nerves. Maybe he’d chalk up her appearance and malodorous clothes to jet lag. Her Mom would have called her a schlump.
Varda’s lips pulled down. “Four days.”
Whether intent on busting her or simply finding the nearest coffee vending machine, the officers now strode across the terminal, heading in her direction. Crap, crap, crap .
“And did you visit a farm or come in contact with any animals in Italy?”
“No.”
“Did you bring back any food items?”
Her lungs gave up, refusing to function with any semblance of grace.
“Well, I did buy candy at the Rome airport.” She reached into the pocket of her pants and produced a half-eaten chocolate bar, presenting it as though it were gold bullion. “Does that count?”
The approaching officers paused to say a few words to a female agent, one of them gesturing wildly.
“Thank you, miss.” He returned her passport with nary another glance, his fingers already motioning to the next person in the queue.
The thin-lipped but polite smile froze on her face when a third officer rounded the far corner, a black and beige German shepherd padding along beside him. Varda lunged toward the sign for baggage claim —not that she had any luggage except what hung over her shoulder —as fast as her legs would carry her, surprisingly speedy for a woman of her stature: five feet, two.
The phantom sensation of biscuit breath and slobber licked at her calves. She was sure the dog had caught wind of her or the cheese and now raced toward her in a slow-motion, dairy-induced frenzy. She pictured her limbs, mired in quicksand, the dog gaining speed until the canine pounced, tearing the contraband from her bag.
Her rasping breath turned to a squeak of quasi-relief the second she vaulted off the last set of stairs, thigh muscles burning with the effort to reach the finish line.
Each step brought a deeper breath, and when the sliding glass door to freedom sliced shut behind her, she gulped down air scented with jet fuel.
Nothing had ever smelled so amazing.
NO MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES AFTER she’d retrieved her car, Varda spotted Anthony Carluccio's monstrosity of a vehicle —a hint of mint green paint among the rusted body of a Buick Centurion —in her rearview mirror. The high-pitched humming of I-95 under tires grew louder as she passed over the double-decker bridge. She maneuvered toward the meeting place : a quiet enclave amid the gray, industrial buildings off the Broad Street exit perfect for clandestine business meetings and body drops.
Anthony took the whole “Philly mob” thing to extremes, especially since she knew damn well none of his family was, well, connected .
And really, what possible reason could a union plumber have to carry a gun on the job anyway? Unruly clogs dead set on assassinating him mid-plunge? Or, for that matter, why would the organizer of the Whisk and Spatula Dinner Club need a weapon?
Sure, they served all manner of illegal food, but did he really think he would have a shoot out with the local cops over ill-gotten ackee fruit? The competing club was run by one of the sweetest guys she’d e ve r met —this was not Gangs of New York , by any means. It wasn’t even My Cousin Vinny .
She veered off toward the exit. Even though his tail from the airport pissed her off, getting rid of the package wou
ld be a relief. She pulled over and levered down the window, humidity too high and the stench of exhaust almost as overwhelming as the cheese in her backseat.
The Centurion’s broad door swung open, and the car lifted, shocks screaming in protest. Anthony wedged himself out of the driver's seat. His slicked, black hair made his face wider, his jowls . . . jowl-ier. He grunted with his first step forward, hitching his high-waisted pants with both hands, one eye twitching out of control.
“You got the package?” He addressed her breasts, his accent doing unpleasant things to the vowels rolling out of his squashed mouth.
“Do you have the cabbage?” She coaxed her facial muscles to stand guard lest some semblance of actual irritation poke through.
Anthony insisted on stupid cloak and dagger language in case of furtive cops lurking under manhole covers. In the grand scheme of Philadelphia crime, this was not exactly on the level of murder or roving bands of thugs. Smuggling, sure. Feeding the city’s hoity toity gross foods, not so much.
He passed her a paper sack with the words “Angie’s Angels” emblazoned across the front in glittery purple cursive, flanked by buxom silhouettes.
“You’re giving me a bag from a strip club? What the hell do you buy at a stripper bar—souvenir nipple pasties?” With his eyes on her chest like that, her brain had gone in the same direction.
“Hey,” he said, no heat behind his words. “Mind ya business. It was all I had in the house. You got your cabbage, so hand it over.”
“Gladly.” Varda clicked open the car door and rooted through the canyon of her messenger bag to retrieve the bundle. She placed it in his waiting hands, doing her best to contemplate more pleasant things: a buttery cheddar, Gino’s firm and delectable ass, a good and chewy dark beer . . . anything but the wriggling maggots.
“Cargo still live?”
“Check it yourself.”
He narrowed his winking eye, the other following suite. “If it ain’t, you better give the bag back.”
“Oh, just inspect the cheese already. I have places to be, and I need to take a shower.”
“Yeah, you look like shit. Don’t smell so good neither. Not your normal, hot self.”
“You should talk about looking like crap,” she muttered, watching him peel back the fragrant wrapping on the casu marzu.
“Watcha mouth, missy. You serve a purpose, but don’ forget I —”
“Uh huh, yeah, I know. Cement shoes and all that. So, are you satisfied with the product?”
A weak dry heave threatened when he sliced into the rind using a small (and probably dirty) knife from his key ring and dipped a finger into the maggoty Pecorino before lifting it to his mouth. “This is fucking perfect. They’re gonna love it.” He grinned. “We have a, uh, board meeting planned for tonight.” His smile —mossy teeth, gingivitis, and all —was his not-so-subtle code to let her know the Whisk and Spatulas would be chowing down later.
“Great,” she said, a headache forming behind her eyeballs. “See you around.”
He cleared his throat. “So, uh, whaddya know about escamoles?”
“Really?”
Oh God, more larvae. Mexican ant larvae, at that. At least they’d be dead this time. Probably. Maybe she could convince Gino to come with her if he could get time off from the construction company; they could have a little vacation. He may not have approved of her career, but sometimes it wasn’t so bad. “Well, yeah, I know a guy. How soon?”
“Next month. I’ll give you a date this weekend after I talk to my people.”
“Yeah, all right. Let me check my schedule . . . do you care if they’re fresh or frozen?”
Oh God, please say frozen.
He shook his head and stepped backward. “Nah, not really. Later.”
She watched him drive off, her shoulders sagging. Another job over, another wad of cash ready for her savings account. She could almost smell the fresh air of the suburbs underlying the humid soup eddying around her.
Before she could start her car, a blue Corolla zipped into Anthony’s abandoned space. Seamus O’Hannahan popped out of the driver’s side door and loped to her window —as much as a short man could anyway. She swore under her breath and attempted to arrest the scowl that threatened her face.
“Seamus.”
“Heya, Varda.” His gray hair wisped around in the breeze, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile.
He took his position as the organizer of the Two Street Munchers seriously but with far less idiocy and theatrics than Anthony. As Anthony’s competition in the underground eating club arena, they were Varda’s best customers.
Seamus’ slight stature emphasized his thin body and quiet nature. The paleness of his skin showed a blue vein at his temple, next to the lines at the corner of his left eye.
He usually called when he wanted to place an order—like a normal person—which made the intrusion all the more surprising. “So, how’s everything going?”
“Well, fine, thanks. But I’m in desperate need of some freshening up.”
His lips lurched, but he refrained from allowing them to break into his normal hearty chuckle. “Yeah, so it would seem. Fresh off a plane from Sardinia, from what I hear.”
Varda tossed up her hands. “Is my itinerary printed up somewhere—posted online maybe? Is Anthony trying to get me arrested?”
This time he did laugh. “Nothing quite so crazy, I’m afraid. My son got it from your boyfriend’s brother—and I know this is Anthony’s hand-off spot. That guy really has to start changing up his routine. The authorities are going to catch wind, and then he’ll be up shit’s crick.”
She said nothing. It would seem another talk with Tommy about the legalities of her work was in order. South Philadelphia was too small to share news of her exploits with anyone, and he had a big mouth.
“Sorry about all this, by the way.” He gestured toward the car. “I’m in a bit of a time crunch, and there’s this thing.” He paused. “Something my club would like for the Labor Day weekend dinner —it’s Sunday night. Know anyone who can get their hands on a few pounds of the Death’s Head Amerino mushroom on the fly?”
“You know they’re poisonous, right?” Not that she’d never delivered potentially fatal foods before, but it was always worth a warning, especially with the way her adopted parents had passed. The last thing she wanted to do was add homicide to her pretend rap sheet on top of the ever-present guilt over the way she made her money.
The Large Marges of the world loved a girl in the pokey for manslaughter.
Seamus’ fingers stroked his bare chin as though petting an imaginary beard. “Not if you cook them correctly.”
“Well, I do know a guy. I’ll look into it. Can I go now?”
“So testy! Yeah, go. Give me a holler about pricing and quantity when you have an estimate.”
She nodded and backed the car onto the main street. Just let someone else come between her and the siren call of soap and water.
Gino waited until she was in the shower to chat. He’d taken one look at her when she stomped into their apartment and offered a tentative hello. She’d stopped long enough to run her fingertips across her parents’ wedding mezuzah hung just inside the door, drop her bags, and allow a brief kiss to Gino’s mouth. Then she sprinted across the living room and up the spiral stairs to the bathroom, shedding clothes as she went.
With Gino’s lips fresh in her mind, she rethought her original plan to shower immediately, but she didn’t want to gross him out. The stink lines likely radiating from her skin could repel anyone . Now that Varda stood under the steaming water, her skin scrubbed raw —her own personal Silkwood shower —she felt far less disgusting.
“So welcome home, shorty. I missed you.”
She pulled back the blue shower curtain enough to glimpse Gino leaning against the bathroom counter and watched him for a moment, finally able to concentrate on something other than maggots.
She reached through the space to yank him by the
shirt until she could reach his mouth without dripping water all over the place.
Gino’s warm hand grasped her bare hip, leaning into the kiss. That was what she’d been waiting for. His fingertips drifted up to the underside of her breast and followed the curve for a quick grope.
“Missed you, too,” she said, grinning, when they broke apart. Gino returned her smile, but his hand abandoned her skin and pulled the curtain closed.
She must have smelled worse than she thought—he wasn’t the type to pass up an opportunity. “Did anything exciting happen while I was gone?”
“Nope. I mostly just worked—that new job I told you about over in Queens Village. We’re about halfway done building the closet. How about you? Any problems?”
“Uh uh. I mean, it was the usual. Nice scenery. Creepy locals. Maggots. Just saw Anthony—he was charming as ever, but he paid me, and that’s what counts. Oh, and I ran into Seamus.”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing major. Just a few more jobs. But then I’m done. Absolutely out of the smuggling business.”
“A few more, huh? I’ve heard that before, homeslice.” He sniggered.
“Homeslice?” She stuck her head out of the shower, one eyebrow raised.
Gino rolled his shoulders up and down. She jerked the curtain closed again, enclosing her in the warmth of the white tile shower.
Why couldn’t he just stick with sweetheart? His street thug vocabulary ph ase was getting tired.
“This time it’s true. Anthony’s job will take me to Mexico, but the Seamus job is local. Either way, I should have the money to buy the dairy space outright by the end of next month.” She washed her hair and daydreamed about the feel of curd under her fingers, a benefit of being a full-time cheese maker. All curd, all the time.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You okay with that?”
“With what?”
“Well, it would mean moving out of the city. We really haven’t talked about that. I guess we wouldn’t have to, but it’d be cheaper.” The rich scent of her buttercream shower gel had completely replaced the stink of rot, and she sighed.
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