Seven Up

  I mean, what if I spent the night with Ranger? What then? Suppose he was so amazing I got ruined for all other men. Suppose he was better in the sack than Joe. Not that Joe was a slouch in bed. It was just that Joe was mortal, and I wasn't sure about Ranger.

  And what about my future? Was I going to marry Ranger? No. Ranger wasn't marriage material. Hell, Joe was barely marriage material.

  And then there was the other side of it. Suppose I didn't measure up. I involuntarily squinched my eyes closed. Argh! It would be awful. Beyond embarrassing.

  Suppose he didn't measure up! The fantasy would be ruined. What would I think about when it was just me and the shower massage?

  I shook my head to clear my brain. I didn't want to contemplate a night with Ranger. It was too complicated.

  IT WAS DINNERTIME when I got back to my parents'. Valerie was out of bed and at the table, wearing dark glasses. Angie and Mooner were eating peanut butter sandwiches in front of the television. Mary Alice was galloping around the house, pawing at the carpet and snorting. Grandma was dressed for the viewing. My father had his head down over his meat loaf. And my mother was at the head of the table, having a full-blown hot flash. Her face was flushed, her hair was damp on her forehead, and her eves darted feverishly around the room, daring anyone to imply she was in the throes of the change.

  Grandma ignored my mother and passed me the applesauce. “I was hoping you'd show up for dinner. I could use a ride to the viewing.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I was going, anyway.”

  My mother gave me a pained expression.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “It's your clothes. You go to the Ricci viewing dressed like that, and I'll be getting phone calls for a week. What will I say to people? They'll think you can't afford decent clothes.”

  I looked down at my jeans and boots. They looked decent to me, but I wasn't about to argue with a menopausal woman.

  “I have clothes you can wear,” Valerie said. “In fact, I'll go with you and Grandma. It'll be fun! Does Stiva still serve cookies?”

  There must have been a mix-up at the hospital. Surely I don't have a sister who thinks funeral parlors are fun.

  Valerie popped up out of her chair and pulled me upstairs by the hand. “I know just the outfit for you!”

  There's nothing worse than wearing someone else's clothes. Well, maybe world famine or a typhoid epidemic, but aside from that, borrowed clothes never feel right. Valerie is an inch shorter than me and five pounds lighter. Our shoe sizes are identical, and our taste in clothes couldn't be more different. Wearing Valerie's clothes to the Ricci viewing equates to Halloween in hell.

  Valerie whisked a skirt out of her closet. “Ta-dah!” she sang. “Isn't this wonderful? It's perfect. And I have the perfect top for it, too. And I have the perfect shoes. They're all coordinated.”

  Valerie has always been coordinated. Her shoes and her handbags always match. Her skirts and shirts match, too. And Valerie can actually wear a scarf without looking like an idiot.

  Five minutes later, Valerie had me completely outfitted. The skirt was mauve and lime green, patterned with pink and yellow lilies. The material was diaphanous and the hemline hit midcalf. Probably looked great on my sister in L.A., but I felt like a seventies shower curtain. The top was a stretchy little white cotton shirt with cap sleeves and lace around the neck. The shoes were pink strappy sandals with three-inch heels.

  Never in my life had I ever considered wearing pink shoes.

  I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and tried not to grimace.

  “LOOK AT THIS,” Grandma said when we got to Stiva's. “It's a packed house. We should have gotten here sooner. All the good seats up front by the casket are going to be gone.”

  We were in the foyer, barely able to push our way through the mourners who were spilling in and out of the viewing rooms. It was precisely seven o'clock, and if we'd gotten to Stiva's any sooner we would have had to line up outside like fans at a rock concert.

  “I can't breathe,” Valerie said. “I'm going to be squashed like a bug. My girls will be orphans.”

  “You have to step on people's feet and kick them in the back of the leg,” Grandma said, “then they move away from you.”

  Benny and Ziggy were standing just inside the door to room one. If Eddie came through the door they had him. Tom Bell, the primary on the Ricci case, was also here. Plus half the population of the Burg.

  I felt a hand cup my ass and I whirled around to catch Ronald DeChooch leering down at me. “Hey, chicky,” he said, “I like the flimsy skirt. I bet you're not wearing any panties.”

  “Listen, you dickless sack of shit,” I said to Ronald DeChooch, “you touch my ass again and I'll get someone to shoot you.”

  “Spunky,” Ronald said. “I like that.”

  Meanwhile, Valerie had disappeared, swept away with the crowd surging forward. And Grandma was worming her way up to the casket ahead of me. A closed casket is a dangerous situation, since lids have been known to mysteriously spring open in Grandma's presence. Best to stay close to Grandma and keep watch that she doesn't get her nail file out to work at the latch.

  Constantine Stiva, the Burg's favorite undertaker, spotted Grandma and rushed to stand guard, beating Grandma to the deceased.

  “Edna,” he said, nodding and smiling his understanding undertaker smile, “so nice to see you again.”

  Once a week Grandma caused chaos at Stiva's, but Stiva wasn't about to alienate a future customer who was no spring chicken and had her eye on a top-of-the-line mahogany, hand-carved eternal resting box.

  “I thought it only right that I pay my respects,” Grandma said. “Loretta was in my seniors group.”

  Stiva had himself wedged between Grandma and Loretta. “Of course,” he said. “Very kind of you.”

  “I see it's another one of them closed-coffin things,” Grandma said.

  “The family's preference,” Stiva said, his voice as smooth as custard, his expression benign.

  “I guess it's best, being that she was shot and then all carved up in the autopsy.”

  Stiva showed a flicker of nervousness.

  “Shame they had to do the autopsy,” Grandma said. “Loretta was shot in the chest and she could have had an open casket except I guess when they do the autopsy they take your brain out and I suppose that makes it hard to get a good hairdo.”

  Three people who had been standing nearby sucked in air and speed-walked to the door.

  “So what did she look like?” Grandma asked Stiva. “Would you have been able to do anything with her if it wasn't for the brain thing?”

  Stiva had Grandma by the elbow. “Why don't we go into the lobby where it's not so crowded and we can have some cookies.”

  “That's a good idea,” Grandma said. “I could use a cookie. Nothing interesting to see here, anyway.”

  I followed them out and on the way stopped to talk to Ziggy and Benny.

  “He's not going to show up here,” I said. “He's not that crazy.”

  Ziggy and Benny shrugged in unison.

  “Just in case,” Ziggy said.

  “What was the deal with Mooner yesterday?”

  “He wanted to see the club,” Ziggy said. “He came out of your apartment building to get some air and we got to talking and one thing led to another.”

  “Yeah, we didn't mean to kidnap the little guy,” Benny said. “And we don't want old lady Morelli putting the eye on us. We don't believe in any of that Old World stuff, but why take a chance.”

  “We heard she put the eye on Carmine Scallari, and he couldn't, uh, perform after that,” Ziggy said.

  “The story goes he even tried that new medicine but nothing helped,” Benny said.

  Benny and Ziggy both gave an involuntary shiver. They didn't want to be in the same predicament as Carmine Scallari.

  I looked past Benny and Ziggy into the lobby and spotted Morelli. He w
as standing to one side, against the wall, surveying the crowd. He was wearing jeans and black crosstrainers and a black T-shirt under a tweed sportcoat. He looked lean and predatory. Men approached him to talk sports and then move on. Women watched from a distance, wondering if Morelli was as dangerous as he looked, if he was as bad as his reputation.

  He caught my eye from across the room and crooked his finger at me, doing the universal come here gesture. He draped a proprietary arm around me when I reached him and kissed me on my neck, just below my ear. “Where's Mooner?”

  “Watching television with Valerie's kids. Are you here because you're hoping to catch Eddie?”

  “No. I'm here hoping to catch you. I think you should let Mooner overnight with your parents, and you should come home with me.”

  “Tempting, but I'm with Grandma and Valerie.”

  “I just got here,” Morelli said. “Did Grandma manage to get the lid up?”

  “Stiva intercepted her.”

  Morelli ran his finger along the lace edging on the shirt. “I like the lace.”

  “What about the skirt?”

  “The skirt looks like a shower curtain. Sort of erotic. Makes me wonder if you're wearing underwear.”

  Omigod! “That's the same thing Ronald DeChooch said to me.”

  Morelli looked around. “I didn't see him when I came in. I didn't know Ronald and Loretta Ricci moved in the same circles.”

  “Maybe Ronald is here for the same reason Ziggy and Benny and Tom Bell are here.”

  Mrs. Dugan came over to us, all smiles. “Congratulations,” she said. “I heard about the wedding. I'm so thrilled for you. And you are so lucky to have gotten the PNA Hall for your reception. Your grandmother must have pulled some strings on that one.”

  PNA Hall? I looked up at Morelli and rolled my eyes and Morelli gave me the silent head-shake.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Mrs. Dugan, “I have to find Grandma Mazur.”

  I put my head down and plowed through the crowd to Grandma. “Mrs. Dugan just told me we have the PNA Hall rented for my reception,” I stage-whispered to her. “Is that true?”

  “Lucille Stiller had it reserved for her parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary and her mother died just last night. As soon as we heard we snapped the hall right up. Things like this don't happen every day!”

  “I don't want a reception in the PNA Hall.”

  “Everyone wants a reception in the PNA,” Grandma said. “It's the best place in the Burg.”

  “I don't want a big reception. I want to have the reception in the backyard.” Or not at all. I'm not even sure if I'm having a wedding!

  “What if it rains? Where will we put all the people?”

  “I don't want a lot of people.”

  “There's gotta be a hundred people in Joe's family alone,” Grandma said.

  Joe was standing behind me. “I'm having a panic attack,” I said to him. “I can't breathe. My tongue is swelling. I'm going to choke.”

  “Choking might be the best thing,” Joe said.

  I looked at my watch. The viewing wasn't over for an hour and a half. My luck, I'd leave and Eddie would waltz in. “I need some air,” I said. “I'm going outside for a couple minutes.”

  “There's people I haven't talked to yet,” Grandma said. “I'll meet up with you later.”

  Joe followed me out and we stood on the porch, breathing in street air, happy to get away from the carnations, enjoying the car fumes. Lights were on and there was a steady stream of traffic on the street. The funeral home sounded festive behind us. No rock music, but plenty of talking and laughing. We sat on a step and watched the traffic in companionable silence. We were sitting there relaxing when the white Cadillac rolled by.

  “Was that Eddie DeChooch?” I asked Joe.

  “Looked like him to me,” Joe said.

  Neither of us moved. Not much we could do about DeChooch driving by. Our cars were parked two blocks away.

  “We should do something to apprehend him,” I said to Joe.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, it's too late now, but you should have shot out a tire.”

  “I'll have to remember that for next time.”

  Five minutes later we were still sitting there, and DeChooch rolled by again.

  “Jesus,” Joe said. “What's with this guy?”

  “Maybe he's looking for a parking place.”

  Morelli was on his feet. “I'm getting my truck. You go inside and tell Tom Bell.”

  Morelli took off and I went to get Bell. I passed Myron Birnbaum on the stairs. Hold on. Myron Birnbaum was leaving. He was giving up his parking place and DeChooch was looking for a parking place. And knowing Myron Birnbaum, I was betting he'd parked close by. All I had to do was keep Birnbaum's space open until DeChooch came along. DeChooch would park and I'd have him trapped. Goddamn, I was so clever.

  I followed Birnbaum, and just as I'd expected he was parked at the corner, three cars down from Stiva's, nicely sandwiched between a Toyota and a Ford SUV. I waited for him to pull out, and then I jumped into the empty space and started waving people away. Eddie DeChooch could barely see past the front bumper of his car, so I didn't have to worry about him spotting me from a distance. My plan was to save the space for him and then hide behind the SUV when the Cadillac came into view.

  I heard heels clacking on the sidewalk and turned to see Valerie clippity-clopping over to me.

  “What's going on?” Valerie said. “Are you holding a parking place for someone? Do you want me to help?”

  An old lady in a ten-year-old Oldsmobile stopped short of the parking space and put her right turn signal on.

  “Sorry,” I said, motioning for her to move on. “This spot is taken.”

  The old lady responded by gesturing for me to get out of the way.

  I shook my head no. “Try the parking lot.”

  Valerie was standing to my side, waving her arms, pointing to the lot, looking like one of those guys who direct planes onto the runway. She was dressed almost exactly like me with the exception of a slightly different color scheme. Valerie's shoes were lavender.

  The old lady beeped her horn at me and started creeping forward into the space. Valerie jumped back but I put my hands on my hips and glared at the woman and refused to budge.

  There was another old lady in the passenger seat. She rolled her window down and stuck her head out. “This is our parking place.”

  “This is a police operation,” I said. “You're going to have to park someplace else.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “I'm bail enforcement.”

  “That's right,” Valerie said. “This is my sister and she's a bail bonds enforcement person.”

  “Bail bonds is different from police,” the woman said.

  “The police are on their way,” I told her.

  “I think you're a big fibber. I think you're saving this spot for your boyfriend. Nobody in police work would dress like you.”

  The Oldsmobile was about a third into the parking space with the rear of the car blocking off half of Hamilton. From the corner of my eye I caught a flash of white and before I had a chance to react, DeChooch smashed into the Oldsmobile. The Oldsmobile bounced forward and smashed into the back of the SUV, missing me by half an inch. The Cadillac careened off the left rear quarter panel of the Oldsmobile, and I could see DeChooch struggling to get control. He turned and looked directly at me, for a moment we all seemed suspended in time, and then he took off.

  Damn!

  The two old ladies wrenched open the doors to the Oldsmobile and struggled out.

  “Look at my car!” the driver said. “It's a wreck!” She whirled around at me. “It's all your fault. You did this. I hate you.” And she hit me in the shoulder with her purse.

  “Yow,” I said, “that hurts.”

  She was a couple inches shorter than me but had me by a few pounds. Her hair was cut short and was newly permed. She looked to be in her
sixties. She was wearing bright red lipstick, had crayoned dark brown eyebrows onto herself, and her cheeks were decorated with spots of rose-toned rouge. Definitely not from the Burg. Probably Hamilton Township.

  “I should have run you over when I had the chance,” she said.