Free The German Suitcase by Greg Dinallo

Sopranos?”
    Stacey nodded. “Who doesn’t?”
    “Well, as Tony said before whacking Big Pussy, ‘Never sit on bad news. Always deliver it in person.”
    They hailed a cab that was headed south on Fifth Avenue. Tannen called Steinbach’s office and said they’d be there in ten minutes. The taxi was in a traffic snarl in front of the main branch of the New York Public Library on 42nd Street when Stacey’s cellphone rang. The word Mom was blinking in the display. She thought about it, then slipped the Blackberry back into her handbag. The news line on the taxi’s TV screen read: AHMADINEJAD REITERATES CALL FOR DESTRUCTION OF ISRAEL.
    Steinbach & Company’s offices were located on West 38th Street in what was left of Manhattan’s Garment District. The building, clad in textured brown brick, was around the corner from the Garment Center Synagogue and the two-story tall Button-And-Needle sculpture on 7th Avenue. The outsourcing of manufacturing to countries with cheap labor had been the death knell of the needle trades; and for twenty years Sol had been running his operation out of what had once been a thriving coat factory. Leather samples were stacked on tables along with spools of waxed twine and plastic boxes filled with hardware. The only high-tech equipment in sight were computer monitors that displayed inventory-control and billing data, and the $12,000 Trek Equinox TTX SS1 Giro d’Italia racing bike in Steinbach’s office. It was the same model Lance Armstrong used to win his seventh Tour De France. Sol used it to ride back and forth to work every day from his Upper East Side apartment.
    “Excuse the outfit,” Steinbach said, referring to the black polyurthene leggings and pullover slashed with bright yellow racing stripes that he was wearing. All hell broke loose soon as I got in, and I haven’t had a minute to jump in the shower.”
    “No thanks to us,” Tannen said.
    Steinbach dismissed it with a wave of his hand, and settled behind a gray Steelcase desk that dated to the seventies. “Listen, before we get to your stuff, the serial number search hit a snag. In the old days, the company was based in Leipzig which ended up in East Germany. Getting out of there in one piece let alone with records was…” he let it trail off and splayed his hands in frustration.
    “Yeah, the client database doesn’t make the punch list when you’re running for your life, does it?”
    “Exactly. Fucking Communists were taking over everything. My uncle grabbed the patterns and records with one hand and me with the other, and got the hell out of there. It was amazing how many old world craftsmen ended up here. He hired every one he could find who had worked for a European trunk maker. It wasn’t easy but—”
    “Sol? Sol?” Tannen said, interrupting. “The records? The serial number?”
    “Sorry, once I get started. Anyway, all the old records are in storage…somewhere in New Jersey. It’s going to take a while.”
    “It’s a moot point, anyway, Mr. Steinbach,” Stacey said, getting into it gently.
    Steinbach stiffened and kicked back in his chair. “Don’t sugarcoat it. He’s dead? He’s dying? What?”
    “No, we found him and he’s fine,” Stacey replied. “But we got turned down. He’s not going to sign on.”
    Steinbach’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “The good doctor said no?”
    “His son did,” Tannen replied.
    “Just like that?” Steinbach said, sounding incredulous. “Who the hell is this guy?”
    Tannen gave him the data Stacey had printed-out from Google. As Steinbach scanned the pages, Tannen briefed him on Dan Epstein’s refusal, mentioning his daughter’s wedding, and his intention to acquire the suitcase and its contents.
    “It’s on me. I blew it,” Steinbach said, shaking the pages in frustration. “This is the Jake Epstein I was on those charity boards with. Haven’t seen him for years.” He emitted a deflated sigh before his busy eyes came alive and he cocked