“Only hurts if I make a fist, and I can't do that with this big bandage on. I'd be in a pickle if it had been my right hand.”
“Got any plans for today?”
“Not until tonight. Joe Loosey is still laid out. I only got to see his penis, you know, so I thought I'd like to go see the rest of him at the seven o'clock viewing.”
My father was in the living room, reading his paper. “When I go, I want to be cremated,” he said. “No viewing.”
My mother turned from the stove. “Since when?”
“Since Loosey lost his Johnson. I don't want to take any chances. I want to go right from wherever I fall to the crematorium.”
My mother set a plateful of scrambled eggs in front of me. She added a side of bacon, toast, and juice.
I ate my eggs and considered my options. I could sequester myself in the house and do my protective granddaughter thing, I could drag Grandma around with me while I did my protective granddaughter thing, or I could go about my business and hope Grandma wasn't on Kenny's agenda today.
“More eggs?” my mother asked. “Another piece of toast?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're all bones. You should eat more.”
“I'm not all bones. I'm fat. I can't button the top snap on my jeans.”
“You're thirty years old. You have to expect to spread when you hit thirty. What are you doing still wearing jeans, anyway? A person your age shouldn't be dressing like a kid.” She leaned forward and studied my face. “What's wrong with your eye? It looks like it's twitching again.”
All right, eliminate option number one.
“I need to keep some people under surveillance,” I said to Grandma Mazur. “You want to tag along?”
“I guess I could do that. You think it'll get rough?”
“No. I think it'll be boring.”
“Well, if I wanted to be bored I could sit home. Who are we looking for, anyway? Are we looking for that miserable Kenny Mancuso?”
Actually, I'd intended to hang tight to Morelli. In a roundabout way I suppose it amounted to the same thing. “Yeah, we're looking for Kenny Mancuso.”
“Then I'm all for it. I have a score to settle with him.”
Half an hour later she was ready to go, wearing her jeans and ski jacket and Doc Martens.
I spotted Morelli's car a block down from Stiva's on Hamilton. Didn't look like Morelli was in the car. Probably Morelli was with Roche, swapping war stories. I parked behind Morelli, being careful not to creep too close and knock out his lights, again. I could see the front and side door to the funeral home, and the front door to Roche's building.
“I know all about how to do this stakeout stuff,” Grandma said. “They had some private eyes on television the other night, and they didn't leave out a thing.” She stuck her head into the canvas tote bag she'd hauled along. “I got everything we need in here. I got magazines to pass the time. I got sandwiches and sodas. I even got a bottle.”
“What kind of bottle?”
“Used to have olives in it.” She showed me the bottle. “It's so we can pee on the job. All the private eyes said they did this.”
“I can't pee in that bottle. Only men can pee in bottles.”
“Darn,” Grandma said. “Why didn't I think of that? I went and threw away all the olives, too.”
We read the magazine and tore out a few recipes. We ate the sandwiches and drank the sodas.
After drinking the sodas we both needed to go to the bathroom, so we went back to my parents' house for a potty break. We returned to Hamilton, slid into the same parking place behind Morelli, and continued to wait.
“You're right,” Grandma said after an hour. “This is boring.”
We played hangman and counted cars and verbally trashed Joyce Barnhardt. We'd just started twenty questions when I glanced out the window at oncoming traffic and recognized Kenny Mancuso. He was driving a two-tone Chevy Suburban that looked to be as big as a bus. We exchanged surprised stares for the longest heartbeat in history.
“Shit!” I shouted, fumbling with the ignition key, swiveling in my seat to keep him in sight.
“Get this car moving,” Grandma yelled. “Don't let that son of a skunk get away!”
I wrenched the gearshift into drive and was about to pull out when I realized Kenny had U-turned at the intersection and was closing ground between us. There were no cars parked behind me. I saw the Suburban swerve to the curb and told Grandma to brace herself.
The Suburban crashed into the back of the Buick, bouncing us forward into Morelli's car, which crashed into the car in front of him. Kenny backed the Suburban up, stepped on the gas, and rammed us again.
“Well, that takes it,” Grandma said. “I'm too old for this kind of bouncing around. I got delicate bones at my age.” She pulled a .45 long-barrel out of her tote bag, wrenched her door open, and scrambled out onto the sidewalk. “Guess this will show you something,” she said, aiming the gun at the Suburban. She pulled the trigger, fire flashed from the barrel, and the kick knocked her on her ass.
Kenny floored the Suburban in reverse all the way to the intersection and took off.
“Did I get him?” Grandma wanted to know.
“No,” I said, helping her to her feet.
“Did I come close?”
“Hard to say.”
She had her hand to her forehead. “Hit myself in the head with the dang gun. Didn't expect that much of a kick.”
We walked around the cars, surveying the damage. The Buick was virtually unscathed. A scratch in the chrome on the big back bumper. No damage that I could find in the front.
Morelli's car looked like an accordion. The hood and the trunk lid were crumpled, and all the lights were broken. The first car in line had been shoved a couple feet forward, but didn't look bashed. A small dent in the back bumper, which may or may not have been the result of this accident.
I looked up the street, expecting Morelli to come running, but Morelli didn't appear.
“Are you okay?” I asked Grandma Mazur.
“Sure,” Grandma said. “I would have got that slimeball too if it wasn't for my injury. Had to shoot with one hand.”
“Where'd you get the forty-five?”
“My friend Elsie loaned it to me,” Grandma said. “She got it at a yard sale when she lived in Washington, D.C.” She rolled her eyes up in her head. “Am I bleeding?”
“No, but you've got a notch in your forehead. Maybe we should take you home to rest.”
“That might be a good idea,” she said. “My knees feel sort of rubbery. Guess I'm not so tough as them television people. Shooting off guns never seems to take anything out of them.”
I got Grandma in the car and clicked the seat belt across her chest. I took one last look at the damage and wondered about liability for the first car in line. The damage was minimal to none, but I left my business card under the windshield wiper in case he discovered the dent and wanted an explanation.
I assumed I didn't have to do this for Morelli, since I'd be the first person who came to mind.
“Probably it'd be best if we don't mention anything about the gun when we get home,” I told Grandma. “You know how Mom is about guns.”
“That's okay by me,” Grandma said. “I'd just as leave forget the whole thing. Can't believe I missed that car. Didn't even blow out a tire.”
My mother raised her eyebrows when she saw the two of us straggle in. “Now what?” my mother asked. She squinted at Grandma. “What happened to your head?”
“Hit myself with a soda can,” Grandma said. “Freak accident.”
Half an hour later Morelli came knocking at the door. “I want to see you . . . outside,” he said, hooking his hand around my arm, jerking me forward.
“It wasn't my fault,” I told him. “Grandma and I were sitting in the Buick, minding our own business, when Kenny came up behind us and knocked us into your car.”
“You want to run that by me again?”
“He was driving a two-tone Suburban. He saw Grandma and me parked on Hamilton. He made a U-turn and rammed us from behind. Twice. Then Grandma jumped out of the car and shot at him, and he drove away.”
“That's the lamest story I've ever heard.”
“It's true!”
Grandma stuck her head out the door. “What's going on out here?”
“He thinks I made up the story about Kenny hitting us with the Suburban.”
Grandma snagged the tote bag from the hall table. She rummaged through it, came up with the .45-long barrel, and aimed it at Morelli.
“Jesus!” Morelli said, ducking out of the way, taking the gun from Grandma. “Where the hell did you get this cannon?”
“Borrowed it,” Grandma said. “And I used it on your no-good cousin, but he got away.”
Morelli studied his shoes for a beat before speaking. “I don't suppose this gun is registered?”
“What do you mean?” Grandma asked. “Registered where?”
“Get rid of it,” Morelli said to me. “Get it out of my sight.”
I shoved Grandma back inside with the gun and closed the door. “I'll take care of it,” I said to Morelli. “I'll make sure it's returned to its owner.”
“So this ridiculous story is true?”
“Where were you? Why didn't you see any of this?”
“I was relieving Roche. I was watching the funeral home. I wasn't watching my car.” He glanced over at the Buick. “No damage?”
“Scratched the rear bumper.”
“Does the army know about this car?”
I thought it was time to remind Morelli of my usefulness. “Did you run a check on Spiro's guns?”
“They all checked out. Registered nice and legal.”
So much for usefulness.
“Stephanie,” my mother called from inside. “Are you out there without a coat? You're going to catch your death.”
“Speaking of death,” Morelli said. “They found a body to go with your foot. It floated into one of the bridge supports this morning.”
“Sandeman?”
“Yeah.”
“You think Kenny is self-destructing, looking to get caught?”
“I think it's not that complicated. He's a squirrel. This started out as a clever way to make a lot of money. Something went wrong, the operation got fucked up, and Kenny couldn't handle it. Now he's wound up so tight his eyes are crossed, and he's looking for people to blame . . . Moogey, Spiro, you.”
“He's lost it, hasn't he?”
“Big time.”
“You think Spiro is as crazy as Kenny?”
“Spiro isn't crazy. Spiro is small.”
It was true. Spiro was a pimple on the burg's butt. I glanced over at Morelli's car. It didn't look drivable. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“I can manage.”
Stiva's lot was already filled at seven o'clock, and cars lined the curb for two blocks down Hamilton. I double-parked just short of the service driveway and told Grandma she should go in without me.
She'd changed into a dress and the big blue coat and looked very colorful marching up Stiva's front steps with her apricot hair. She had her black patent leather purse tucked into the crook of her arm, and her bandaged hand stood out like a white flag, proclaiming her as one of the walking wounded in the war against Kenny Mancuso.
I circled the block twice before finding a spot. I hustled to the funeral parlor, entered through the side door, and steeled myself against the claustrophobic hothouse heat and crowd murmur. When this was over I was never again going into a funeral parlor. I didn't care who died. I wasn't having any part of it. Could be my mother or my grandmother. They were going to have to manage on their own.
I sidled up to Roche at the tea table. “I see your brother's being buried tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah. Boy, I sure am going to miss this place. I'm going to miss these cheapskate, sawdust cookies. And I'm going to miss the tea. Yum, I sure do love tea.” He looked around. “Hell, I don't know what I'm complaining about. I've had worse assignments. Last year I was on a stakeout, dressed up like a bag lady, and I got mugged. Got two broken ribs.”
“Have you seen my grandmother?”
“Yeah. I saw her come in, but then I lost her in the crowd. I imagine she's trying to get a look at the guy that had his . . . um, thing, whacked off.”
I put my head down and muscled my way into the room where Joe Loosey was laid out. I elbowed to the front until I reached the casket and the widow Loosey. I'd expected Grandma to have insinuated herself into the space reserved for the immediate family, her reasoning being that she'd seen Joe's penis and was now on intimate terms.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said to Mrs. Loosey. “Have you seen Grandmother Mazur?”
She looked alarmed. “Edna is here?”
“I dropped her off about ten minutes ago. I expected she'd have come to pay her respects.”
Mrs. Loosey put a protective hand on the casket. “I haven't seen her.”
I pushed through the crowd and dropped in on Roche's fake brother. A handful of people were in the back of the room. From the level of animation I'd guess they were talking about the great penis scandal. I asked if anyone had seen Grandma Mazur. The answers were negative. I returned to the lobby. I checked the kitchen, the ladies' room, the porch to the side door. I questioned everyone in my path.
No one had seen a little old lady in a big blue coat.
Prickles of alarm had begun to dance along my spine. This was uncharacteristic of Grandma. She liked to be in the thick of things. I'd seen her walk through Stiva's front door, so I knew she was in the house . . . at least for a short time. I didn't think it likely she'd gone back outside. I hadn't seen her on the street while I was searching for a parking space. And I couldn't imagine her leaving without taking a peek at Loosey.
I walked upstairs and prowled through the second story rooms where caskets and files were stored. I cracked the door to the business office and flipped the light switch. The office was empty. The upstairs bathroom was empty. The walk-in linen closet that was filled with office supplies was empty.
I returned to the lobby and noticed Roche was no longer at the tea table. Spiro was alone at the front door, looking sour.
“I can't find Grandma Mazur,” I said to him.
“Congratulations.”
“Not funny. I'm worried about her.”
“You should be. She's nuts.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No. And it's the only decent thing that's happened to me in two days.”
“I thought maybe I should check the back rooms.”
“She's not in the back. I keep the doors locked during public hours.”
“She can be sort of ingenious when she has her mind set on something.”
“If she managed to get back there she wouldn't stay long. Fred Dagusto is on table number one, and he's not a pretty sight. Three hundred and ten pounds of ugly flesh. Fat as far as the eye can see. Gonna have to grease him up to shoehorn him into a casket.”
“I want to look at those rooms.”
Spiro glanced at his watch. “You're going to have to wait until hours are over. I can't leave these ghouls unsupervised. You get a big crowd like this, and people start walking off with souvenirs. You don't watch the door, and you could loose the shirt off your back.”
“I don't need a guide. Just give me the key.”
“Forget it. I'm liable when there's a stiff on the table. I'm not taking any chances after Loosey.”
“Where's Louie?”
“Has the day off.”
I went out onto the front porch and stared across the street. The windows in the surveillance apartment were dark. Roche was probably there, listening and looking. Maybe Morelli was there, too. I was worried about Grandma Mazur, but I wasn't ready to drag Morelli into it. Better to let him watch the exterior of the building, for now.
I stepped off the porch and made my way to the side entran
ce. I scanned the parking lot and continued on to the garages at the rear, cupping my hands to see through the tinted hearse windows, examining the bed of the open-backed flower car, knocking on the trunk lid to Spiro's Lincoln.
The door to the cellar was locked, but the service door to the kitchen was open. I let myself in and did another run-through of the house, trying the door to the work-rooms and finding it sealed tight, as promised.