PROLOGUE
On particularly busy mornings, Silverman’s Deli sings.
Not literally, of course. The old building has its share of secrets, but Sam Adelson’s pretty sure no one’s ever come across a set of vocal cords. He’d know: it’s his aunt Deb’s place, so Sam’s been visiting since he was a kid. He’s also worked here and lived in the apartment upstairs since he was in high school, and after a decade of observation, he knows all of Silverman’s noises. They’re so familiar that they’ve become part of him: every creak of the stairs, every piece of equipment’s associated thump or hum, every hiss and sizzle of each well-loved dish off a menu unchanged since his grandmother’s time. No, the deli doesn’treallysing. Nobody but Sam could listen to the cacophony of a slammed Saturday and hear anything close to music.
Sam does, though. It might even be his favorite song.
He dances through his most chaotic days at Silverman’s on light feet, comforted and carried by the old rhythms. This Saturday is no different. Marty at the counter ordering his sixth corned beef sandwich of the week; Eileen in the back hollering at the temperamental oven; Al Fiskar knocking on the street-facing door with the 11 a.m. pickle delivery, like clockwork. When Sam picks out a wrong note in the symphony, a hiss from the deepfryer that doesn’t sound quite like it should, he calls, “Somebody forget dropping an order of fries or what?” without even turning around. He grins as Alphonse calls after him, “Ugh, me, thanks. It’s spooky how you do that, though, I swear to God!”
Sam takes over for Joey at the register so they can go on break. He cheerfully rings orders for a while, slapping together the occasional sandwich or pulling a container of potato salad out of the deli case, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Samneverfeels so good as he does on mornings like this. The pressure of the long line, the clamor of the kitchen through the serving window behind his head, has always thrummed through Sam like a metronome, keeping him steadily on beat in the present. That’s where he’s safest, and where he belongs.
But today, as Sam glances up, his eyes catch on a head of brown hair outside, disappearing past the edge of the front window. Instantly a scare chord crashes through the pleasant hum of his morning. It’s so stupid—it was just the back of someone’shead, for crying out loud! But for a second, there had been something familiar about it, and Sam had almost expected to see?—
“Sam!” Jerking back to himself, Sam realizes the speaker is Joey, back from their break, who rolls their eyes and says, “I think that one’s good, boss. Very secure.”
Looking down at the paper-wrapped sandwich in his hands, Sam realizes he’s used enough masking tape on it to seal off roughly seventy additional Reubens, and has mummified this one. He swallows and hands it over to the customer—she raises her eyebrows but thankfully doesn’t comment—and retreats to the kitchen, trying to sink back into the day’s rhythm.
Sam loves his work, his staff, this deli. He’s skilled at what he does, and it feels worth doing. He reminds himself as he hacks onions and celery apart that it’s good, this life he’s built. He has his health, his family and friends, a great place to live, a dog withso much personality that he sometimes wants to accuse her of being a Muppet. He’s happy, more or less, and Sam knows better than anyone that it’s more than he deserves.
So what if sometimes, when his guard’s down, Sam finds himself wandering the old, worn mental paths, and chasing rabbits he should have let run long ago? It’s nothing, that’s what it is. Sam’s sure it’s nothing at all.
ONE
NOW: MARCH (THREE MONTHS LATER)
Near the end of West Ninth Street, a few blocks from Lake Erie, there sits a little brick building clearly marked as Silverman’s Deli. The sign is old and out of date, a mixture of hand painting and neon signage that was probably gorgeous when it was put up in the sixties. Now the once-white plastic surface is yellowed, and the sparkling metallic silver paint of the lettering has faded to an anemic gray. It doesn’t light up anymore, either; the neon’s been badly in need of replacement since roughly the Great Blizzard of ’78. It looks out of place surrounded by the Cleveland of today—this part of downtown is mostly night clubs, boutique office buildings, and high-end restaurants. Silverman’s stands alone as the last sentinel of another time, and so it sticks out like a sore thumb.
Sam’s always liked that about it. When he was a child, he’d loved a picture book calledThe Little House, about a house that watched a whole city get built around it. Even then it had made him think of the deli, and his aunt’s warm, practical presence within. He’s glad the place can’t help but stand out. It allows Silverman’s to distinguish itself from its surroundings as something worth noticing.
Currently it’s distinguishing itself by way of the cacophony coming from the little break patio around the back of the building, but Sam doesn’t imagine that’s doing much for their marketing.
“It’s character assassination, that’s what it is. For restaurants. Restaurant assassination. Not to mentionlibel.” Alphonse, who was the Head Chef when Sam took over as General Manager, has been both the Kitchen Managerandthe Head Chef for the last few years. The man insists, very fairly, that it’s two jobs and he can’t possibly keep doing both, but is equally insistent in refusing to give either of them up. He keeps saying things like “I’ll fight any challengers to the death!” Sam thinks he’s spending too much time at work, and it’s made him a little hysterical.
Then again, he might not have any right to judge, because:
“I know! I know! And do you know what else? I’ve been througheveryticket and I’ve double checkedeveryorder andnoone, I meanno one, who dined in has ordered that combination of things in the lastyear. So how many rats, I ask you, could Mr. Norman Endicott possibly have seen? None! That’s how many! He never came in! It’s all a conspiracy!” Sam, realizing he’s beginning to sound like someone you might see on the news for bad reasons, takes a breath and tries to calm down. Alphonse, next to him, does the same, and they slump together for a moment against the brick.
They’re talking about the Kiss of Death review. How could they not be talking about the Kiss of Death review? Since it was published two months ago inHearth Magazine, and splashed across their website and social channels, it’s all anyone at Silverman’s has been talking about. Even when they try not to—even when they resolve, very firmly, to stop bringing it up—the conversation drifts inexorably back towards it. It’s as though they can’t quite resist the temptation, the way the pain ofpushing a stretch too far can feel almost good, right up until the moment you tear something.
Also, the whole topic has the added air of an unsolved mystery, due to the sheer volume of unanswered questions associated with it. Questions like:
Why wouldHearth, an incredibly famous publication that punches in the same weight class asThe New YorkerorHarper’s Bazaar, run a vicious hit piece on a deli in Cleveland, Ohio?
For that matter, why would Kiss of Death, the equally-if-not-more-famous review column thatHearthoccasionally publishes, go after Silverman’s? Sam’s been reading it foryears. He’d been a huge fan until two months ago. But he’d liked it because it always punched up, targeting high-end places in much bigger cities, restaurants that were cheating their clientele or mistreating their staff. Norman Endicott didn’t take down local mom-and-pop shops in the Midwest! His whole brand was attacking celebrity chefs who were selling people bad Camembert or moldy squash blossoms!
Speaking of Norman Endicott: Who the hell did he think he was? Had he lost his mind? The whole article was full of lies, one thing after another that Sam knew couldn’t possibly be true. That Sam has spent many, many years of his life ensuring would never be true! The man had suggested seeing both roachesandrats, although in a sneaky, tongue-in-cheek way that didn’t actually go so far as to constitute libel. Apparently. Sam had checked that one with a lawyer, who was both condescending and deeply unhelpful, and Sam was sorry he’d bothered.
