Two for the Dough

  “He was an average white guy with an average voice and no outstanding characteristics. No one noticed eye color. The interrogation went in the general direction that the brothers were looking for guns, not a fuckin' date.”

  “We wouldn't have lost him if we'd been working together. You should have called me,” I said. “As an apprehension agent I have the right to be in on combined operations.”

  “Wrong. Being invited to participate in combined operations is a professional courtesy we can extend to you.”

  “Fine. Why wasn't it extended?”

  Morelli took a handful of popcorn. “There was no real indicator that Kenny would be driving the van.”

  “But there was a possibility.”

  “Yeah. There was a possibility.”

  “And you chose not to include me. I knew it right from the beginning. I knew you'd cut me out.”

  Morelli moved to the living room. “So what are you trying to tell me, that we're back to war?”

  “I'm trying to tell you that you're slime. And what's more, I want my popcorn back and I want you out of my apartment.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “We made a deal. Information for popcorn. You got your information, and now I'm entitled to my popcorn.”

  My first thought was of my pocketbook, lying on the hall table. I could give Morelli the Eugene Petras treatment.

  “Don't even think about it,” Morelli said. “You get anywhere near the hall table, and I'll write you up for carrying concealed.”

  “That's disgusting. That's an abuse of your power as a police officer.”

  Morelli took the Ghostbusters cartridge from the top of the TV and slid it into the VCR. “Are you going to watch this movie with me, or what?”

  I woke up feeling grumpy and not sure why. I suspected it had something to do with Morelli and the fact that I hadn't gotten to gas him or zap him or shoot him. He'd left when the movie had run its course and the popcorn bowl was empty. His parting words were that I should have faith in him.

  “Sure,” I'd said. When pigs fly.

  I got the coffee going, dialed Eddie Gazarra, and left a message for a call back. I painted my toenails while I waited, drank some coffee, and made a pan of Rice Krispies marshmallow treats. I sliced the pan into bars, ate two, and the phone rang.

  “Now what?” Gazarra asked.

  “I need the names of the four brothers that got busted on Jackson Street last night. And I want the names the van driver gave as reference.”

  “Shit. I don't have access to that stuff.”

  “You still need a baby-sitter?”

  “I always need a baby-sitter. I'll see what I can do.”

  I took a fast shower, ran my fingers through my hair, and dressed in Levi's and a flannel shirt. I removed the gun from my pocketbook and cautiously returned it to the cookie jar. I turned on the answering machine and locked up after myself.

  The air was crisp and the sky was almost blue. Frost sparkled on the Buick's windows like pixie dust. I slid behind the wheel, powered up, and turned the defroster on full blast.

  Going with the philosophy that doing anything (no matter how tedious and insignificant) is better than doing nothing, I dedicated the morning to drive-bys on Kenny's friends and relatives. While I drove I kept an eye out for my Jeep and for white trucks with black lettering. I wasn't finding anything, but the list of items to look for was getting longer, so maybe I was making progress. If the list got long enough, sooner or later I was bound to find something.

  After the third pass I gave up and headed for the office. I needed to pick up my check for bringing Petras in, and I wanted to access my answering machine. I found a space available two doors down from Vinnie, and I took a stab at parallel-parking Big Blue. In slightly less than ten minutes, I got the car pretty well angled in, with only one rear tire on the sidewalk.

  “Nice parking job,” Connie said. “I was afraid you were going to run out of gas before you berthed the QE Two.”

  I dumped my pocketbook onto the Naugahyde couch. “I'm getting better. I only hit the car behind me twice, and I missed the parking meter totally.”

  A familiar face popped up from behind Connie. “Sheee-it, that better not a been my car you hit.”

  “Lula!”

  Lula posed her 230 pounds with hand on outthrust hip. She was wearing white sweats and white sneakers. Her hair had been dyed orange and looked like it had been cut by a bush hog and straightened with wallpaper paste.

  “Hey, girl,” Lula said. “What you doing dragging your sad ass in here?”

  “Came to pick up a paycheck. What are you doing here? Trying to make bail?”

  “Hell no. I just been hired to whip this office into shape. I'm gonna file my ass off.”

  “What about your previous profession?”

  “I'm retired. I gave the corner over to Jackie. I couldn't go back to bein' a ho after I was cut so bad last summer.”

  Connie was smiling ear to ear. “I figure she can handle Vinnie.”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “He try anything with me, and I'll stomp on the little motherfucker. He mess with a big woman like me, and he be nothin' more than a smelly spot on the carpet.”

  I liked Lula a lot. We'd met a few months ago, when I was just starting out on my bounty hunter career, and I'd found myself looking for answers on her corner on Stark Street.

  “So, do you still get around? You still hear things on the street?” I asked Lula.

  “What kinda things?”

  “Four brothers tried to buy some guns last night and got busted.”

  “Hah. Everybody knows about that. That's the two Long boys, and Booger Brown and his dumber'n-cat-shit cousin, Freddie Johnson.”

  “You know who they were buying the guns from?”

  “Some white dude. Don't know more'n that.”

  “I'm trying to get a line on the white dude.”

  “Sure does feel funny being on this side of the law,” Lula said. “Think this is gonna take some getting used to.”

  I dialed my number and accessed my messages. There was another invitation from Spiro and a list of names from Eddie Gazarra. The first four were the same names Lula had given me. The last three were the gangster references given by the gun seller. I wrote them down and turned to Lula.

  “Tell me about Lionel Boone, Stinky Sanders, and Jamal Alou.”

  “Boone and Sanders deal. They go in and out of lock-up like it was a vacation condo. Life expectancy don't look good, if you know what I mean. Don't know Alou.”

  “How about you?” I asked Connie. “You know any of these losers?”

  “Not offhand, but you can check the files.”

  “Whoa,” Lula said. “That's my job. You just stand back and watch me do this.”

  While she was checking the files I called Ranger.

  “Talked to Morelli last night,” I said to Ranger. “They didn't get a lot out of the brothers in the BMW. Mostly all they got was that the driver of the van used Lionel Boone, Stinky Sanders, and Jamal Alou as references.”

  “Bunch of bad people,” Ranger said. “Alou is a craftsman. Can customize anything that goes bang.”

  “Maybe we should talk to them.”

  “Don't think you'd want to hear what they'd have to say to you, babe. Be better if I look the boys up by myself.”

  “Okay by me. I have other things to do anyway.”

  “Ain't got none of those assholes on file,” Lula called. “Guess we too highclass.”

  I got my check from Connie and moseyed out to Big Blue. Sal Fiorello had come out of the deli and was peering into Blue's side window. “Will you look at the condition of this honey,” he said to no one in particular.

  I rolled my eyes and stuck the key in the door lock. “Morning Mr. Fiorello.”

  “That's some car you got here,” he said.

  “Yep,” I replied. “Not everyone can drive a car like this.”

  “My uncle Manni h
ad a fifty-three Buick. They found him dead in it. Found him at the landfill.”

  “Gee, I'm really sorry.”

  “Ruined the upholstery,” Sal said. “Was a damn shame.”

  I drove to Stiva's and parked across the street from the mortuary. A florist's truck pulled into the service driveway and disappeared around the side of the building. There was no other activity. The building seemed eerily still. I wondered about Constantine Stiva in traction in St. Francis. I'd never known Constantine to take a vacation, and now here he was flat on his back with his business turned over to his ratty stepson. It had to be killing him. I wondered if he knew about the caskets. My guess was no. My guess was that Spiro had screwed up and was trying to keep it from Con.

  I needed to give Spiro a no-progress report and decline his dinner invitation, but I was having a hard time motivating myself to cross the street. I could manage a mortuary at seven at night when it was filled with the K of C. I wasn't crazy about tippy-toeing around at eleven in the morning, just me and Spiro and the dead people.

  I sat there a while longer, and I got to thinking how Spiro, Kenny, and Moogey had been best friends all through school. Kenny, the wise guy. Spiro, the not-too-bright kid with bad teeth and an undertaker for a stepfather. And Moogey, who as far as I could tell was a good guy. It's funny how people form alliances around the common denominator of simply needing a friend.

  Now Moogey was dead. Kenny was missing in action. And Spiro was out twenty-four cheap caskets. Life can get pretty strange. One minute you're in high school, shooting baskets and stealing little kids' lunch money, and then next thing you know you're using mortician's putty to fill in the holes in your best friend's head.

  A weird thought steamed from my brain like the Phoenix rising. What if this was all tied together? What if Kenny stole the guns and hid them in Spiro's caskets? Then what? I didn't know then what.

  Feathery clouds had stolen into the sky, and the wind had picked up since I left my apartment this morning. Leaves rattled across the street and whipped against the windshield. I thought if I sat there long enough I'd probably see Piglet soar by.

  By twelve it was clear that my feet weren't going to bypass my chicken heart. No problem. I'd go with plan number two. I'd go home to my parents, mooch lunch, and drag Grandma Mazur back with me.

  It was almost two o'clock when I pulled into Stiva's small side lot with Grandma perched beside me on the big bench seat, straining to see over the dashboard.

  “Ordinarily I don't go to afternoon viewings,” Grandma said, gathering her purse and gloves together. “Sometimes in the summer when I feel like taking a walk I might stop in, but usually I like the crowd that comes in the evening. Of course things are all different when you're bounty hunters . . . like us.”

  I helped Grandma out of the car. “I'm not here as a bounty hunter. I'm here to talk to Spiro. I'm helping him with a small problem.”

  “I bet. What's he lost? I bet he lost a body.”

  “He didn't lose a body.”

  “Too bad. I wouldn't mind looking for a body.”

  We made our way up the stairs and through the door. We stopped for a moment to study the viewing schedule.

  “Who're we supposed to be here to see?” Grandma wanted to know. “We gonna see Feinstein or Mackey?”

  “Do you have a preference?”

  “I guess I could go see Mackey. Haven't seen him in years. Not since he quit working at the A and P.”

  I left Grandma to herself and went looking for Spiro. I found him in Con's office, sitting behind the big walnut desk, phone in hand. He broke the connection and motioned me into a chair.

  “That was Con,” he said. “He calls all the time. I can't get off the phone with him. He's getting to be a real pain in the ass.”

  I thought it would be nice if Spiro made a move on me, so I could give him some volts. Maybe I could give the little jerk some anyway. If I could get him to turn around I could give it to him in the back of the neck and claim it was someone else. I could say some crazed mourner ran into the office and stuck it to Spiro and then ran off.

  “So, what's the word?” Spiro asked.

  “You're right about the caskets. They're gone.” I put the locker key on his desk. “Let's think about the key again. You only got one, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you ever make a duplicate?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever pass it on to someone else?”

  “No.”

  “How about valet parking? Was it on your key chain?”

  “No one had access to the key. I kept the key at home, in the top drawer of my dresser.”

  “What about Con?”

  “What about him.”

  “Did he ever have access to the key?”

  “Con doesn't know about the caskets. I did this on my own.”

  I wasn't surprised. “Just out of morbid curiosity, what did you expect to do with these caskets? You're not going to sell them to anyone in the burg.”

  “I was sort of a middleman. I had a buyer.”

  A buyer. Unh! Mental head slap. “Does this buyer know his coffins are history?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And you'd prefer not to ruin your credibility.”

  “Something like that.”

  I didn't think I wanted to know any more. I wasn't even sure I wanted to continue to look for the caskets.

  “Okay,” I said. “New subject. Kenny Mancuso.”

  Spiro sunk deeper into Con's chair. “We used to be friends,” Spiro said. “Me and Kenny and Moogey.”

  “I'm surprised Kenny didn't ask you for help. Maybe ask you to hide him out.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “You want to enlarge on that?”

  “He's out to get me.”

  “Kenny?”

  “He was here.”

  This brought me out of my chair. “When? Did you see him?”

  Spiro slid the middle drawer open and extracted a sheet of paper. He flipped the paper over to me. “I found this on my desk when I came in this morning.”

  The message was cryptic. “You have something that's mine, now I have something that's yours.” The message was formed from silver paste-on letters. It was signed with a silver K. I stared at the paste-on the letters and swallowed audibly. Spiro and I had a common pen pal.

  “What does this mean?” I asked Spiro.

  Spiro was still sunk into the chair. “I don't know what it means. It means he's crazy. You're going to keep looking for the caskets, aren't you?” Spiro asked. “We made a deal.”

  Here Spiro is, totally stressed over this bizarre note from Kenny, and in the next breath he's quizzing me about the caskets. Very suspicious, Dr. Watson.

  “I suppose I'll keep looking,” I told him, “but in all honesty, I'm stumped.”

  I found Grandma still in the Mackey room, manning the command post at the head of the casket with Marjorie Boyer and Mrs. Mackey. Mrs. Mackey was nicely snockered on 100-proof tea, entertaining Grandma and Marjorie with a slightly slurred version of the story of her life, concentrating on the seamier moments. She was swaying and gesturing, and every now and then a splot of whatever would slurp out of her teacup and splatter onto her shoe.

  “You have to see this,” Grandma said to me. “They gave George a dark blue satin liner on account of his lodge colors are blue and gold. Isn't that something?”

  “All the lodge brothers'll be here tonight,” Mrs. Mackey said. “They're gonna have a ceremony. And they sent a spray . . . THIS BIG!”

  “That's a pip of a ring George is wearing,” Grandma said to Mrs. Mackey.

  Mrs. Mackey chugged the rest of her tea. “It's his lodge ring, the Lord rest his soul, George wanted to be buried with his lodge ring.”

  Grandma bent down for a better look. She leaned into the casket and touched the ring. “Uh-oh.”

  We were all afraid to ask.

  Grandma straightened and turned to face us. “Well,
will you look at this,” she said, holding an object the size of a Tootsie Roll in her hand. “His finger came off.”

  Mrs. Mackey fainted crash onto the floor, and Marjorie Boyer ran screaming out of the room.

  I inched forward for a better look. “Are you sure?” I asked Grandma Mazur. “How could that happen?”