Two for the Dough

  It was close to five when I left Clara's. The more I heard about Kenny and Spiro the creepier I felt. I'd started the search thinking Kenny was a wise-ass, and now I was worried he was crazy. And Spiro didn't sound any better.

  I drove straight home with my mood darkening by the minute. I was so spooked by the time I reached my apartment I had my pepper spray in my hand when I unlocked my front door. I flashed the lights on and relaxed a little when everything seemed in order. The red light was blinking on my answering machine.

  It was Mary Lou. “So what's the deal here? You shacked up with Kevin Costner or something and don't have time to call?”

  I shrugged out of my jacket and dialed her number. “I've been busy,” I told her. “Not with Kevin Costner.”

  “Then with who?” she asked.

  “With Joe Morelli, for one.”

  “Even better.”

  “Not that way. I've been looking for Kenny Mancuso and not having any luck.”

  “You sound depressed. You should get a manicure.”

  “I got a manicure, and it didn't help.”

  “Then there's only one thing left.”

  “Shopping.”

  “Fuckin' A,” Mary Lou said. “I'll meet you at Quaker Bridge at seven. Macy's shoes.”

  Mary Lou was already deep into shoes when I showed up.

  “What do you think of these shoes?” she asked, pirouetting in black ankle-high boots with stiletto heels.

  Mary Lou is five foot three and built like a brick shithouse. She had a lot of hair, which happened to be red this week, and she favored huge hoop earrings and the wet look in lipstick. She'd been happily married for six years and had two kids. I liked her kids, but for right now I was content with a hamster. A person doesn't need a diaper pail with a hamster.

  “They look familiar,” I said about the shoes. “I think Witch Hazel was wearing shoes like that when she found Little Lulu picking beebleberries in her front yard.”

  “You don't like them?”

  “Are these special occasion shoes?”

  “New Year's Eve.”

  “What, no sequins?”

  “You should get shoes,” she said. “Something sexy.”

  “I don't need shoes. I need a night scope. You think they sell night scopes someplace here?”

  “Omigod,” Mary Lou said, holding up a pair of purple suede platform pumps. “Look at these shoes. These shoes were made for you.”

  “I don't have the money. I'm between paychecks.”

  “We could steal them.”

  “I don't do that anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since a long time. Anyway, I never stole anything big. There was just that once we took some gum from Sal's because we hated Sal.”

  “What about the jacket from Salvation Army?”

  “It was MY jacket!” When I was fourteen my mother gave my favorite denim jacket to Salvation Army, and Mary Lou and I retrieved it. I told my mother I'd bought it back, but really we'd shoplifted it.

  “You should at least try them on,” Mary Lou said. She snagged a salesman. “We want these shoes in a size seven and a half.”

  “I don't want new shoes,” I said. “I need too many other things. I need a new gun. Joyce Barnhardt has a bigger gun than me.”

  “Ah-ha! Now we're getting somewhere.”

  I sat down and unlaced my Doc Martens. “I saw her in Clara's today. It was all I could do to keep from choking her.”

  “She did you a favor. Your ex-husband was a jerk.”

  “She's evil.”

  “She works here, you know. Cosmetics. I saw her doing a makeover when I came in. Had some old lady looking like Lily Munster.”

  I took the shoes from the salesman and slid them on.

  “Are they wonderful, or what?” Mary Lou said.

  “They're pretty nice, but I can't shoot anyone with them.”

  “You never shoot anyone anyway. Well, okay, maybe once.”

  “You think Joyce Barnhardt has purple shoes?”

  “I happen to know Joyce Barnhardt has size ten feet and would look like a cow in these shoes.”

  I walked over to the mirror at the end of the shoe department and admired the shoes. Eat your heart out, Joyce Barnhardt.

  I turned to look at them from the back and slammed into Kenny Mancuso.

  He had my arms in an iron grip, and he yanked me flat to his chest. “Surprised to see me?”

  I was speechless.

  “You're a real pain in the ass,” he said. “You think I didn't see you sneaking around in the bushes at Julia's house? You think I don't know about you telling her I fucked Denise Barkolowsky?” He gave me a shake that made my teeth clack together. “And now you've got this cozy deal going with Spiro, don't you? The two of you think you're both so smart.”

  “You should let me take you back to court. If Vinnie assigns another bounty hunter he might not be gentle about bringing you in.”

  “Haven't you heard? I'm special. I don't feel pain. Probably I'm freaking immortal.”

  Oh boy.

  He flicked his hand, and a knife appeared. “I keep sending you messages, but you aren't listening,” he said. “Maybe I should cut off your ear. Would that get your attention?”

  “You don't scare me. You're a coward. You can't even face up to a judge.” I'd tried this tack before on belligerent FTAs and found it helpful.

  “Of course I scare you,” Kenny said. “I'm a scary guy.” The knife flashed out and slashed into my sleeve. “Now your ear,” Kenny said, hanging tight to my jacket.

  My pocketbook, with my bounty hunter paraphernalia, was on the seat beside Mary Lou, so I did what any intelligent, unarmed woman would do. I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs, startling Kenny enough to screw up his aim, so that I lost some hair but kept my ear.

  “Jesus,” Kenny said. “You're freaking embarrassing me.” He shoved me into a shoe display, gave a backward skip, and took off.

  I scrambled to my feet and charged after him, blasting through handbags and junior wear, operating on a surplus of adrenaline and a shortage of common sense. I could hear Mary Lou and the shoe clerk running hard behind me. I was swearing at Kenny and bitching about being in pursuit in goddamn platform heels when I slammed into an old lady at the cosmetics counter and almost knocked her on her ass.

  “Jeez,” I yelled at her. “I'm sorry!”

  “Go!” Mary Lou shouted at me from junior wear. “Catch that sonnovabitch!”

  I reeled off the old lady and barreled into two other women. One of the women was Joyce Barnhardt in her makeover smock. We all went down in a heap on the floor, grunting and thrashing.

  Mary Lou and the shoe clerk waded in to separate us, and somehow in the confusion of the moment, Mary Lou gave Joyce a good hard kick in the back of her knee. Joyce rolled away, howling in pain, and the shoe clerk quickly hoisted me to my feet.

  I looked for Kenny, but he was long gone.

  “Holy crap,” Mary Lou said. “Was that Kenny Mancuso?”

  I nodded my head yes while I struggled for air.

  “What'd he say to you?”

  “Asked me for a date. Said he liked the shoes.”

  Mary Lou snorted.

  The shoe clerk was smiling. “You'd have caught him if you'd been trying on sneakers.”

  In all honesty I wasn't sure what I would have done if I'd caught him. He had a knife, and all I had were sexy shoes.

  “I'm calling my lawyer,” Joyce said, pulling herself up. “You attacked me! I'm going to sue the shit out of you.”

  “It was an accident,” I told her. “I was chasing after Kenny, and you got in my way.”

  “This is the cosmetics department,” Joyce shouted. “You can't just go around being a lunatic, chasing people through the cosmetics department.”

  “I was not being a lunatic. I was doing my job.”

  “Of course you were being a lunatic,” Joyce said. “You're a dented can. You and your gra
ndmother are screwy tunes.”

  “Well, at least I'm not a slut.”

  Joyce's eyes got as big as golf balls. “Who are you calling a slut?”

  “You.” I leaned forward in my purple pumps. “I'm calling you a slut.”

  “If I'm a slut, then you're a tramp.”

  “You're a liar and a sneak.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Whore.”

  “So what do you think?” Mary Lou said to me. “Are you going to get these shoes, or what?”

  By the time I got home I wasn't so sure I'd done the right thing with the shoes. I shifted the box under my arm while I unlocked my door. True, they were gorgeous shoes, but they were purple. What was I going to do with purple shoes? I'd have to buy a purple dress. And what about makeup? A person couldn't wear just any old makeup with a purple dress. I'd have to buy new lipstick and eye liner.

  I flipped the light switch and closed the door behind me. I dumped my pocketbook and new shoes on the kitchen counter and jumped back with a yelp when the phone rang. Too much excitement for one day, I told myself. I was on overload.

  “How about now?” the caller said. “Are you scared now? Have I got you thinking?”

  My heart missed a beat. “Kenny?”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “What message are you talking about?”

  “I left a message for you in your jacket pocket. It's for you and your new buddy, Spiro.”

  “Where are you?”

  The disconnect clicked in my ear.

  Shit.

  I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket and started pulling stuff out . . . used Kleenex, lipstick, a quarter, a Snickers wrapper, a dead finger. “YOW!”

  I dropped everything on the floor and ran out of the room. “Shit, damn, shit!” I stumbled into the bathroom and stuck my head into the toilet to throw up. After a few minutes I decided I wasn't going to throw up (which was kind of too bad since it'd be good to get rid of the hot fudge sundae I'd had with Mary Lou).

  I washed my hands with a lot of soap and hot water and crept back to the kitchen. The finger was lying in the middle of the floor. It looked very embalmed. I snatched at the phone, staying as far away from the finger as was humanly possible, and dialed Morelli.

  “Get over here,” I said.

  “Something wrong?”

  “JUST GET OVER HERE!”

  Ten minutes later the elevator doors opened and Morelli stepped out.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, “the fact that you're waiting for me in the hall is probably not a good sign.” He looked at my apartment door. “You don't have a dead body in there, do you?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “You want to enlarge on that?”

  “I have a dead finger on my kitchen floor.”

  “Is the finger attached to anything? Like a hand or an arm?”

  “It's just a finger. I think it belongs to George Mayer.”

  “You recognized it?”

  “No. It's just that I know George is missing one. You see, Mrs. Mayer was going on about George's lodge, and how he wanted to be buried with his ring, and so Grandma had to check the ring out, and in the process broke off one of George's fingers. Turns out the finger was wax. Somehow Kenny got into the mortuary this morning, left Spiro a note, and chopped off George's finger. And then while I was at the mall tonight with Mary Lou, Kenny threatened me in the shoe department. That must have been when he put the finger in my pocket.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  I gave him a don't-be-stupid look and pointed to my kitchen.

  Morelli moved past me and stood hands on hips, staring down at the finger on the floor. “You're right. It's a finger.”

  “When I came in tonight the phone was ringing. It was Kenny, telling me he left a message in my jacket pocket.”

  “And the message was the finger.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it get on the floor?”

  “It sort of dropped there when I went to the bathroom to throw up.”

  Morelli helped himself to a paper towel and used it to pick up the finger. I gave him a plastic bag, he dropped the finger in, sealed the bag, and slipped the bag into his jacket pocket. He leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let's start from the beginning.”

  I gave him all the details except for the part about Joyce Barnhardt. I told him about the silver-lettered note I'd received, and about the silver K on my bedroom wall, and about the screwdriver, and about how it would seem they'd come from Kenny.

  He was quiet when I finished. After several seconds he asked me if I bought the shoes.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Let's see.”

  I showed him the shoes.

  “Very sexy,” he said. “I think I'm getting excited.”

  I quickly put the shoes back in the box. “You have any idea what Kenny meant when he said Spiro had something of his?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “I might.”

  Morelli opened the refrigerator and stared at the shelves. “You're out of beer.”

  “I had to choose between food and the shoes.”

  “You made the right choice.”

  “I bet this all has to do with the stolen guns. I bet Spiro was in on it. Maybe that's why Moogey got killed. Maybe Moogey found out about Spiro and Kenny stealing guns from the army. Or maybe all three of them did the job, and Moogey got cold feet.”

  “You should encourage Spiro,” Morelli said. “You know, go to the movies with him. Let him hold your hand.”

  “Oh, ugh! Gross. Yuk!”

  “I wouldn't let him see you in the shoes, though. He might go berserk. I think you should save the shoes for me. Wear something slinky with them. And a garter belt. They're definitely garter belt shoes.”

  Next time I find a finger in my pocket I'll flush it down the toilet. “It bothers me that we haven't been able to spot Kenny, but he doesn't seem to be having any trouble tailing me.”

  “How did he look? He grow a beard? Dye his hair?”

  “He looked just like himself. Didn't look like he was living in dark alleys. He was clean, fresh shaven. Didn't look hungry. Had on clean clothes. Seemed to be alone. Was a little, um, upset. Said I was a pain in the ass.”

  “No! You? A pain in the ass? I can't imagine why anyone would think that.”

  “Anyway, he's not living hand to mouth. If he's selling guns, maybe he has money. Maybe he's staying in motels out of the area. Maybe in New Brunswick or down by Burlington or Atlantic City.”

  “His picture's been circulated in Atlantic City. Nothing's turned up. To tell you the truth, his trail has been dead cold. Having him pissed off at you is the best news I've had all week. All I have to do now is follow you around and wait for him to make another move.”

  “Oh good. I love being bait for a homicidal mutilator.”

  “Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

  I didn't bother to hold back the grimace.

  “Right,” Morelli said, cop face in place. "Time out on the flirting and bullshit. We need some serious conversation here. I know what people say about the Morelli and Mancuso men . . . that we're bums and drunks and womanizers. And I'll be the first to admit that it's pretty much true. The problem with this kind of blanket judgment is that it makes it hard for the occasional good guy, like me . . .

  I roiled my eyes.

  “And it tags a guy like Kenny a congenital wise-ass when anyplace else on the planet he'd be labeled a sociopath. When Kenny was eight years old he set fire to his dog and never showed a flicker of remorse. He's a manipulative user. He's totally self-centered. He's fearless because he feels no pain. And he's not stupid.”

  “Is it true he cut off his finger?”

  “Yeah. It's true. If I'd known he was threatening you, I'd have done things differently.”

  “Like what?”