The Death Box(26)

“Tiki Tiki?” I said.

“It’s pronounced Ticky Tiki,” Gershwin corrected. “But only the regulars know that, and most of them have forgotten it.”

We had our choice of parking spaces, the only other vehicles a scarlet Lincoln Continental of venerable age and two six-passenger golf carts under fringed fabric sunshields. The joint was a sprawling single-story stucco and rock structure with a false thatched-straw hairdo. The requisite palms bordered the front alongside a broad, foliage-filled courtyard with stone benches where folks might sit and ponder Polynesian thoughts, a fountain spraying a parsimonious strand of water into an algae-thickened pool where foot-long goldfish swam. A sound system played “Sweet Leilani” into the hot air.

Flaming torches accompanied our walk up a pseudo gangplank into a décor seemingly from a university production of The Pirates of Penzance: weathered wood walls, ropes and hawsers strung willy-nilly from the ceiling, false windows like outsize portholes, the openings holding cheesy, over-bright paintings of imagined Polynesian scenes.

I loved the place.

“Zigs!” a voice trumpeted as the door closed behind us. “Is that my sweet boychick?”

A woman nearly as round as tall slammed into Gershwin like a bowling ball and wrapped him in a hug. Her black hair fell to where a waist should have been, and she wore a flowered muumuu that could have tented a den of Cub Scouts. Her earrings were clusters of miniature coconuts and bananas and her fingers wore a blaze of rings.

Gershwin cleared his throat and nodded toward the woman affixed to his rib cage. “This is Consuelo Amardara, Detective Ryder. An aunt.”

“The aunt,” the woman corrected. “He has more tias than Bimbo has bread, but I am the tía … tia numero uno.” She reached up and pinched his cheek. “Right, mi bubbie?”

Gershwin reddened and turned to scope out the interior. Two elderly men sat at the bar and a half-dozen women of the same generation played mah-jongg at a distant table, each with a brightly colored drink at an elbow. I figured they’d puttered over on the carts, probably from a nearby old-folks home.

Ms Amardara patted Gershwin’s belly. “Skinny as a stick! When was the last time you ate, Ignacio? How about I fix you a poquito nosh?”

I was enjoying Gershwin’s discomfort, but not as much as I was enjoying Miz Amardara, an amazing hybrid of Latina mamacita and Jewish mother, her speech the intersection of Crown Heights and Spanish Harlem. She turned an appraiser’s eye on me.

“And you could use a few pounds, also. Let me fix a plate of sandwiches.”

I shot a glance at the drinks at the ladies’ table. “Actually, I’d prefer a cocktail, Miz Amardara. What’s your best rum drink?”

“Consuelo’s Delight: three rums – light, golden, and demerara. Plus coconut milk, lime, papaya, and my special secret ingredient.”

“We’ll take two.”

Gershwin shot a look at his watch. “Aren’t we still on duty?”

“We’re detectives,” I said, moving toward a booth in a shadowy corner. “And I want to see if I can detect the secret ingredient.”

Amardara shuffled to the bar and Gershwin followed me, looking dubious. I picked a seat in a back booth dressed with an orchid and candle flickering from the top of a squat, ceramic palm, giving Gershwin a raised eyebrow as he sat across from me.

“Ignacio?” I said. “Your first name?”

He nodded. “My father was Jewish, my mother Cubano. She got to pick the first name.”

“And the middle?”

He sighed. “Ignacio Ruben Manolo Gershwin. As a kid I was nicknamed Iggy. I was kinda hyperactive, zigging and zagging all over the place. A teacher started calling me Ziggy and it stuck.”

I smiled. “If I’m to judge by your aunt’s patois, there’s a big Jewish clientele here.”

Gershwin grabbed a menu from a nearby serving cart. The first spread displayed pseudo-Polynesian offerings. I flipped to the next spread and gave Gershwin a raised eyebrow.

“Pastrami is Polynesian?”

“A lot of the surrounding community’s Jewish, has been forever. The bused-in clientele includes a lot of Jewish tour groups from New York. Auntie spent upwards of twelve hours a day here for over two decades and she’s part Jewish by osmosis. I grew up thinking chopped liver was a standard burrito filling.”

“She raised you?”

“For several years. It’s a long story.” His face didn’t invite asking for an explanation.

Miz Amardara bustled up and set two tall and frosty glasses before us. I lifted the glass to my lips and pressed them through foam and took a sip. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy at a sweet taste leavened by tangy citrus tartness, a soft kiss heightened by a transient touch of teeth. And drawing all the tastes into harmony was a dry and elusive perfume that melted away the moment it appeared.