Two for the Dough

  “I'm going to take a nap before dinner,” Grandma said. “Shopping wore me out.”

  “I could use help in the kitchen,” my mother said to me.

  This was bad news. My mother never needed help in the kitchen. The only time my mother requested help was when she had something on her mind and intended to browbeat some unfortunate soul into submission. Or when she wanted information. “Have some chocolate pudding, she'd say to me. By the way, Mrs. Herrel saw you going into the Morellis' garage with Joseph Morelli. And why are your panties on inside out?”

  I dragged after her, into her lair, where potatoes boiled on the stove, steaming the air and fogging the window over the sink. My mother opened the oven door to check on the roast, and the smell of leg of lamb washed over me. I felt my eyes glaze and my mouth fall open in a stupor of expectation.

  She moved from the oven to the refrigerator. “Some carrots would be nice with the lamb. You can peel the carrots,” she said, handing me the bag and the paring knife. “By the way, why did someone send you a penis?”

  I almost sliced off the tip of my finger. “Um . . .”

  “The return address was New York, but the postmark was local,” she said.

  “I can't tell you about the penis. It's under police investigation.”

  “Thelma Biglo's son, Richie, told Thelma that the penis belonged to Joe Loosey. And that Kenny Mancuso cut it off while Loosey was getting dressed at Stiva's.”

  “Where did Richie Biglo hear this?”

  “Richie tends bar at Pino's. Richie knows everything.”

  “I don't want to talk about the penis.”

  My mother took the paring knife out of my hand. “Look at these carrots you peeled. I can't serve these carrots. Some of the skins are left on.”

  “You shouldn't cut the skins off anyway. You should scrub them with a brush. All the vitamins are in the skin.”

  “Your father won't eat them with the skins on. You know how particular he is.”

  My father would eat cat shit if it was salted, fried, or frosted, but it took an act of Congress to get him to eat a vegetable.

  “Seems to me Kenny Mancuso has it in for you,” my mother said. “It's not a nice thing to send a penis to a woman. It's disrespectful.”

  I searched the kitchen for a new task, but I couldn't come up with anything.

  “And I know what's going on with your grandmother, too,” she said. “Kenny Mancuso is getting to you through your grandmother. That's why he attacked her at the bakery. That's why you're living here . . . so you can be close by if he attacks her again.”

  “He's crazy.”

  “Of course he's crazy. Everybody knows he's crazy. All the Mancuso men are crazy. His uncle Rocco hung himself. He liked little girls. Mrs. Ligatti caught him with her Tina. And then the next day Rocco hung himself. Good thing, too. If Al Ligatti had gotten hold of Rocco . . .” My mother shook her head. “I don't even want to think about it.” She shut the heat off under the potatoes and turned to me. “How good are you at this bounty hunter business?”

  “I'm learning.”

  “Are you good enough to catch Kenny Mancuso?”

  “Yes.” Maybe.

  She lowered her voice. “I want you to catch that son of a bitch. I want you to get him off the streets. It's not right that a man like that is free to hurt old women.”

  “I'll do the best I can.”

  “Good.” She took a can of cranberries from the pantry. “Now that we have things straight, you can set the table.”

  Morelli showed up at one minute to six.

  I answered his knock and stood blocking the doorway, preventing him from slipping into the front hall. “What is it?”

  Morelli leaned into me, forcing me to take a step back.

  “I was driving by, doing a security check,” Morelli said, “and I smelled leg of lamb.”

  “Who is it?” my mother called.

  “It's Morelli. He was driving by, and he smelled the lamb. And he's leaving. RIGHT NOW!”

  “She has no manners,” my mother said to Morelli. “I don't know what happened. I didn't raise her like that. Stephanie, lay out an extra plate.”

  Morelli and I left the house at seven-thirty. He trailed after me in a tan panel van and parked in Stiva's lot when I pulled into the driveway.

  I locked the Buick and walked over to Morelli. “You have anything to tell me?”

  “I went through invoices from the garage. The truck was in for an oil change at the end of the month. Bucky brought it in around seven in the morning and picked it up the next day.”

  “Let me guess. Cubby Delio was gone that day. Moogey and Sandeman were working.”

  “Yeah. Sandeman signed off on the job. His name was on the invoice.”

  “Have you talked to Sandeman?”

  “No. I got to the garage right after he left for the night. I checked his room and some bars, but I couldn't find him. Thought I'd make the rounds again later.”

  “Did you find anything interesting in his room?”

  “His door was locked.”

  “You didn't look in through the window?”

  “Thought I'd save that little adventure for you. I know how much you like to do that sort of thing.”

  In other words, Morelli didn't want to get caught on the fire escape. “You going to be here when I close up with Spiro?”

  “Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

  I crossed the lot and entered the funeral home through the side door. Word of Kenny Mancuso's bizarre behavior was obviously spreading because Joe Loosey, minus his penis, was laid out in the V.I.P. room and the crowd packed into the room rivaled the record-breaking viewing held for Silvestor Bergen, who died in the middle of his term as grand poo-bah of the VFW.

  Spiro was holding court on the far side of the lobby, cradling the arm injured in the line of duty, making the most of his role as undertaker célèbre. People were clustered around him, listening intently as he told them God knows what.

  A few people looked in my direction and whispered behind their memorial programs.

  Spiro bowed out on his audience and signaled me to follow him into the kitchen. He grabbed the big silver cookie plate on his way, ignoring Roche, who was once again positioned at the tea table.

  “Do you believe this bunch of losers?” Spiro said, emptying a bag of bulk-bought supermarket cookies onto the plate. “They're eating me out of house and home. I should be charging after-hours admission to see Loosey's Stump.”

  “Anything new from Kenny?”

  “Nothing. I think he's shot his wad. Which brings me to business at hand. I don't need you anymore.”

  “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “Things have quieted down.”

  “That's it?”

  “Yeah. That's it.” He swung out the kitchen door with the cookies and slapped them down on the table. “How're you doing?” he asked Roche. “I see your brother's getting some overflow from Loosey. Probably a bunch of people going in there wondering about your brother's state of affairs, if you know what I mean. You notice I gave him a half-casket viewing tonight so no one could try copping a feel.”

  Roche looked like he might choke. “Thanks,” he said. “Glad you're thinking ahead.”

  I went back to Morelli and gave him the news.

  Morelli was lost in the shadows of the dark van. “Sudden.”

  “I think Kenny's got the guns. I think we gave Spiro a place to start looking, he passed it on to Kenny, and Kenny lucked out. And now the heat's off Spiro.”

  “It's possible.”

  I had my car keys in hand. “I'm going to check on Sandeman. See if he's come home yet.”

  I parked half a block from Sandeman's rooming house, on the opposite side of the street. Morelli parked directly behind me. We stood for a moment on the sidewalk, taking in the bulky house, black against blue night sky. Harsh light poured from a shadeless downstairs window. Upstairs two orange rectangles gave muted testimony to li
fe within the front rooms.

  “What kind of car does he drive?” I asked Morelli.

  “He's got a hog and a Ford pickup.”

  We didn't see either on the street. We followed the driveway to the back of the house and found the Harley. No windows were lit in any of the rear rooms. No light in Sandeman's upstairs window. No one sat on the stoop. The back door was unlocked. The hall leading from the back door was dim, lit by a bare 40-watt bulb hanging from an overhead fixture in the front foyer. Television sounds escaped from one of the upstairs rooms.

  Morelli stopped in the foyer for a moment, listening to the house, before continuing on to the second floor and then the third floor. The third floor was dark and quiet. Morelli listened at Sandeman's door. He shook his head no. No noise coming from Sandeman's room.

  He went to the window, opened it, and looked out. “It would be unethical for me to break into his apartment,” Morelli said.

  As opposed to downright illegal for me.

  Morelli glanced at the heavy-duty flashlight I held in my hand. “Of course a bounty hunter would have the authority to go in after her man.”

  “Only if she was convinced her man was in there.”

  Morelli looked at me expectantly.

  I peeked out at the fire escape. “It's really rickety,” I told him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed that. It might not hold me.” He put a finger under my chin and gazed into my eyes. “I bet it would hold a dainty little thing like you.”

  I am many things. Dainty isn't one of them. I took a deep breath and angled myself out onto the fire escape. Iron joints groaned, and rusted metal shards flaked off underfoot and fell to the ground. I whispered an oath and inched toward Sandeman's window.

  I cupped my hands to the glass and looked inside. The interior was blacker than black. I tried the window. It was unlocked. I gave the bottom window a shove, and it rose halfway and stuck.

  “Can you get in?” Morelli whispered.

  “No. The window's stuck.” I squatted down, peered through the opening and worked the flashlight around the room. So far as I could see, nothing had changed. There was the same clutter, the same squalor, the stink of unwashed clothes and overflow ashtrays. I saw no signs of struggle, flight, or affluence.

  I thought I'd give one more try with the window. I braced my feet and pushed hard against the old wood frame. Masonry bolts tore loose from crumbling brick, and the slatted floor of the fire escape tipped to a 45-degree angle. Stairs slid out of place, railings ripped from their moorings, angle irons wrenched free, and I skidded feet first, ass second off into space. My hand connected with a crossbar, and in an act of blind panic and reflexive action, I held fast . . . for ten seconds. At the end of those ten seconds, the entire third-floor gridwork crashed onto the second-floor fire escape. There was a momentary pause. Long enough for me to whisper, oh shit.

  Above me, Morelli leaned out the window. “Don't move!”

  CHAAANG! The second-floor fire escape separated from the building and crumbled to the ground, carrying me with it. I landed flat on my back with a solid whump that knocked the air out of my lungs.

  I lay there stunned until Morelli's face once again loomed over me, just inches away.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “Jesus, Stephanie, say something!”

  I stared straight ahead, unable to talk, not yet able to breathe.

  He felt for the pulse in my neck. Then his hands were on my feet, moving up my legs. “Can you move your toes?”

  Not when his hand was feeling up the inside of my thigh like this. My skin felt scorched under his palm, and my toes were curled into a cramp. I heard myself make a sucking sound. “Your fingers go any higher up my leg, and I'm filing for sexual harassment.”

  Morelli rocked back on his heels and passed a hand over his eyes. “You just scared the hell out of me.”

  “What's going on out there?” A loud voice from one of the windows. “I'm calling the police. I'm not putting up with this shit. We got noise ordinances in this neighborhood.”

  I propped myself up on my elbow. “Get me out of here.”

  Morelli gently hoisted me to my feet. “You sure you're okay?”

  “Nothing seems broken.” I wrinkled my nose. “What is that smell? Oh God, I didn't mess myself, did I?”

  Morelli turned me around. “Whoa!” he said. “Someone in this building has a big dog. A big, sick dog. And it looks like you hit ground zero.”

  I shrugged out of the jacket, and held it at arm's length. “Am I okay now?”

  “Some of it's splattered down the back of your jeans.”

  “Anyplace else?”

  “Your hair.”

  This sent me into instant hysteria. “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!”

  Morelli clapped a hand over my mouth. “Quiet!”

  “Get it out of my hair!”

  “I can't get it out of your hair. You're going to have to wash it out.” He pulled me toward the street. “Can you walk?”

  I staggered forward.

  “That's good,” Morelli said. “Keep doing that. Before you know it you'll be to the van. And then we'll get you to a shower. After an hour or two of scrubbing you'll be good as new.”

  “Good as new.” My ears were ringing, and my voice sounded far away . . . like a voice in a jar. “Good as new,” I repeated.

  When we got to the van Morelli opened the rear door. “You don't mind riding in back, do you?”

  I stared at him blank-minded.

  Morelli shone my flashlight in my eyes. “You sure you're okay?”

  “What kind of dog do you think it was?”

  “A big dog.”

  “What kind?”

  “Rottweiler. Male. Old and overweight. Bad teeth. Ate a lot of tuna fish.”

  I started to cry.

  “Oh jeez,” Morelli said. “Don't cry. I hate when you cry.”

  “I've got rottweiler shit in my hair.”

  He used his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “It's okay, honey. It's really not so bad. I was kidding about the tuna.” He gave me a boost into the van. “Hold tight back here. I'll have you home before you know it.”

  He brought me to my apartment.

  “I thought this was best,” he said. “Didn't think you'd want your mother to see you in this condition.” He searched through my pocketbook for the key and opened the door.

  The apartment felt cool and neglected. Too quiet. No Rex spinning in his wheel. No light left burning to welcome me home.

  The kitchen beckoned to my left. “I need a beer,” I said to Morelli. I was in no rush for the shower. I'd lost my ability to smell. I'd accepted the condition of my hair.

  I shuffled into the kitchen and tugged at the refrigerator door. The door swung wide, the fridge light went on, and I stared in dumb silence at a foot . . . a large, filthy, bloody foot, separated from the leg just above the ankle, placed next to a tub of margarine and a three-quarters-filled bottle of cranberry cocktail.

  “There's a foot in my refrigerator,” I said to Morelli. Bells clanged, lights flashed, my mouth went numb, and I crashed to the floor.

  I struggled up from unconscious muck and opened my eyes. “Mom?”

  “Not exactly,” Morelli said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You fainted.”

  “It was just too much,” I said to Morelli. “The dog shit, the foot . . .”

  “I understand,” Morelli said.

  I pushed myself up onto shaky legs.

  “Why don't you go stand in the shower while I take care of things here?” Morelli said. He handed me a beer. “You can take your beer with you.”

  I looked at the beer. “Did this come from my refrigerator?”

  “No,” Morelli said. “It came from someplace else.”

  “Good. I couldn't drink it if it came from the refrigerator.”

  “I know,” Morelli said, maneuvering me toward the bathroom. “Just go take a shower and drink your beer.”
/>
  Two uniforms, a crime lab guy, and two guys in suits were in my kitchen when I got out of the shower.

  “I've got an idea on the identity of that foot,” I said to Morelli.

  He was writing on a clipboard. “I've got the same idea.” He turned the clipboard over to me. “'Sign at the dotted line.”