Seven Up

  Vinnie and I lunged up the stairs after him, knocking into each other in the dark. We reached the top of the stairs and off to my right I saw the flash of gunfire and BLAM, DeChooch took a potshot at us. I shrieked and dropped to the ground and scuttled for cover.

  “Bond enforcement,” Vinnie yelled. “Drop the gun, DeChooch, you dumb old fuck!”

  DeChooch answered with another shot. I heard something crash and Vinnie did more swearing. And then Vinnie opened fire.

  I was behind the couch with my hands over my head. Vinnie and DeChooch were doing blind-man's buff target practice in the dark. Vinnie carried a Glock holding fourteen rounds. I don't know what DeChooch had, but between the two of them it sounded like machine-gun fire. There was a pause and then I heard Vinnie's clip fall to the floor and a new clip get shoved into place. At least I thought it was Vinnie. Hard to tell since I was still cowering behind the couch.

  The silence felt even more deafening than the gunfire. I poked my head out and squinted into the smoky blackness. “Hello?”

  “I've lost DeChooch,” Vinnie whispered.

  “Maybe you killed him.”

  “Wait a minute. What's that noise?”

  It was the automatic garage door opening.

  “Fuck!” Vinnie yelled. He ran for the stairs, slipped on the first step in the dark, and went head over ass to the landing. He scrambled to his feet, threw the front door open, and aimed. I could hear wheels squeal and Vinnie slammed the door shut. “Damn, piss, shit, fuck!” Vinnie said, stamping around the foyer, stomping upstairs. “I don't believe he got away! He slipped past me when I was reloading. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  The fucks being said with such vehemence, I was afraid he was going to pop a vein in his head.

  He flicked a light on and we both looked around. Lamps were smashed, walls and ceilings were cratered, upholstery had been torn apart by bullet holes.

  “Holy crap,” Vinnie said. “This looks like a war zone.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Police.

  “I'm out of here,” Vinnie said.

  “I don't know if it's a good idea to run from the police.”

  “I'm not running from the police,” Vinnie said, taking the stairs two at a time. “I'm running from Pinwheel Soba. I think it'd be a real good idea for us to keep this to ourselves.”

  Good point.

  We streaked across the darkest part of the yard and cut through the property behind Soba's house. Porch lights were going on up and down the block. Dogs were barking. And Vinnie and I were gasping for air, sprinting between bushes. When the car was just a front yard away we emerged from the shadows and sedately walked the distance. All activity was halfway around the block in front of Soba's house.

  “This is why you never park in front of the house you're going to hit,” Vinnie said.

  Something to remember.

  We got in the car. Vinnie calmly turned the key in the ignition, and we drove off like two respectable, responsible citizens. We got to the corner and Vinnie looked down.

  “Jesus,” he said, “I've got a boner.”

  SUNLIGHT WAS PEEKING from between my bedroom curtains and I was thinking about getting up when someone knocked on my door. It took me a minute to find my clothes, and in the meantime the knocking turned to yelling.

  “Hey Steph, are you there? It's Mooner and Dougie.”

  I opened the door to them and they reminded me of Bob, all happy-faced and filled with goofy energy.

  “We brought you doughnuts,” Dougie said, handing me a big white bag. “And we have something to tell you.”

  “Yeah,” Mooner said, “wait until you hear this. This is so cool. Dougie and me were like, talking. And we figured out what happened to the heart.”

  I put the doughnut bag on the kitchen counter and we all helped ourselves.

  “It was the dog,” Mooner said. “Mrs. Belski's dog, Spotty, ate Louie D's heart.”

  I froze with a doughnut halfway to my mouth.

  “See, DeChooch made a deal with the Dougster to take the heart to Richmond,” Mooner said. “But DeChooch didn't tell the Dougster anything except that the cooler had to be delivered to Mrs. D. So the Dougster put the cooler on the front seat of the Batmobile, figuring he'd take off first thing in the morning. Only problem was my roommate Huey and me got to wanting some Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia at about midnight and borrowed the Batmobile for our quest. Since the Batmobile only has two seats I put the cooler on the back stoop.”

  Dougie was grinning. “This is so excellent,” he said.

  “So anyway, Huey and me brought the car back super early the next morning because Huey had to be at work at Shoppers Warehouse. I dropped Huey off, and when I parked the car in Dougie's yard the cooler was tipped over and Spotty was chewing on something. I didn't think much. I mean, Spotty's always in the garbage. So I put the cooler back in the car and went home to watch some morning television. Katie Couric is like, so cute.”

  “And then I took the empty cooler to Richmond,” Dougie said.

  “Spotty ate Louie D's heart,” I said.

  “That's it,” Mooner said. He finished his doughnut and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Well, we've got to go. Things to do.”

  “Thanks for the doughnuts.”

  “Hey, no problemo.”

  I stood in the kitchen for ten minutes, trying to come to terms with this new information, wondering if it meant something in the larger scheme of things. Is this what happens when you irreparably screw up your karma? A dog eats your heart? I couldn't reach any conclusions, so I decided to take a shower and see if that helped.

  I locked the door and shuffled off to the bathroom. I got as far as the living room when there was another knock, and before I could get to the door it was opened with enough force to make the security chain kaching into place and then break loose from its moorings. This was followed by cussing, which I recognized as coming from Morelli.

  “Good morning,” I said, eyeing the chain, which was dangling uselessly.

  “Not by any stretch of the imagination is it a good morning,” Morelli said. His eyes were dark and narrowed and his mouth set tight. “You didn't go over to Pinwheel Soba's house last night, did you?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not me.”

  “Good. That's what I thought . . . because some idiot went in there and destroyed it. Shot the shit out of it. In fact, it's suspected there were two people having the gunfight of the century in there. And I knew you wouldn't be that fucking stupid.”

  “Got that right,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ, Stephanie,” he yelled, “what were you thinking? What the hell was going on over there?”

  “Wasn't me, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot. Well then, what do you suppose someone else was doing in Soba's house?”

  “I imagine they were looking for DeChooch. And then maybe they found DeChooch and an altercation arose.”

  “And DeChooch escaped?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Good thing no prints were found other than DeChooch, because otherwise whoever was fucking stupid enough to shoot up Soba's house would not only be in trouble with the police but would answer to Soba.”

  I was starting to get annoyed that he was still yelling at me. “Good thing,” I said with my PMS voice. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, there's something else. I ran into Dougie and Mooner in the parking lot. They told me you and Ranger rescued them.”

  “So?”

  “In Richmond.”

  “So?”

  “And Ranger got shot?”

  “Flesh wound.”

  Morelli pressed his lips tighter together. “Jesus.”

  “I was worried the pig heart would be discovered and revenge would be taken out on Mooner and Dougie.”

  “Very admirable, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Christ, I'm getting an ulcer. You've got me drinking bottles of Maalox. I hate this. I hate going through the day wondering wh
at harebrained scheme you're involved in, wondering who's shooting at you.”

  “That's so hypocritical. You're a cop.”

  “I never get shot at. The only time I have to worry about getting shot is when I'm with you.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I'm saying you're going to have to choose between me or the job.”

  “Well, guess what, I'm not spending the rest of my life with someone who gives me ultimatums.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  And he left, slamming the door behind him. I like to think I'm a pretty stable person, but this was too much. I cried until I was totally cried out and then I ate three doughnuts and took a shower. I toweled off and still felt overwhelmed so I decided to bleach my hair blond. Change is good, right?

  “I WANT IT blond,” I told Mr. Arnold, the only hairdresser I could find open on a Sunday. “Platinum blond. I want to look like Marilyn.”

  “Darling,” Arnold said, “with your hair you won't look like Marilyn. You'll look like Art Garfunkel.”

  “Just do it.”

  MR. MORGANSTERN WAS in the lobby when I got back. “Whoa,” he said, “you look like that singer . . . what's the name?”

  “Garfunkel?”

  “No. The one with the breasts like ice-cream cones.”

  “Madonna.”

  “Yep. That's the one.”

  I let myself into my apartment and went straight to the bathroom and looked at my hair in the mirror. I liked it. It was different. Classy in a slutty sort of way.

  I had a stack of mail on the kitchen counter that I'd been avoiding. I got a beer to celebrate my new hair, and I sorted through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. I thumbed through my checkbook. Not enough money. I needed to capture DeChooch.

  My guess was DeChooch had a money problem, too. No vig coming in anymore. No money from the cigarette fiasco. Little to no money from The Snake Pit. And now he had no car and no place to live. Correction, he didn't have the Cadillac. He drove away in something. I didn't get a good look at it.

  There were four messages on my machine. I hadn't checked them because I was afraid they were from Joe. I suspect the truth is that neither of us is ready to get married. And instead of facing the real issue we're finding ways to sabotage the relationship. We don't talk about important things like kids and jobs. We each take a stand and yell at each other.

  Maybe it's just not the right time for us to be married. I don't want to be a bounty hunter for the rest of my life, but I certainly don't want to be a housewife right now. And I really don't want to be married to someone who gives me ultimatums.

  And maybe Joe needs to examine what he wants from a wife. He was raised in a traditional Italian household with a stay-at-home mother and domineering father. If he wants a wife who will fit into that mold, I'm not for him. I might be a stay-at-home mother someday, but I'll always be trying to fly off the garage roof. That's just who I am.

  So let's see some guts, Blondie, I told myself. This is the new and improved Stephanie. Check out those messages. Be fearless.

  I pulled up the first one and it was from my mother.

  “Stephanie? This is your mother. I have a nice roast for tonight. And cupcakes for dessert. With sprinkles. The girls like cupcakes.”

  The second was another reminder from the bridal shop that my gown was in.

  The third was from Ranger with an update on Sophia and Christina. Christina had turned up at the hospital with every bone in her hand broken. Her sister had smashed it with a meat mallet to get it out of the cuff. Unable to stand the pain, Christina turned herself in, but Sophia was still at large.

  The fourth message was from Vinnie. The charges had been dropped against Melvin Baylor, and Melvin had bought himself a one-way ticket to Arizona. Apparently his ex-wife had witnessed Melvin's berserk attack on his car and had gotten frightened. If Melvin would do that to his car, there was no telling what Melvin might do next. So she had her mother drop the charges, and she made a cash settlement with Melvin. Sometimes crazy is good.

  Those were the messages. None from Morelli. Funny thing how a woman's mind works. Now I was bummed because Morelli hadn't called.

  I told my mother I'd be there for dinner. And then I told Tina I'd decided not to take the gown. I hung up from Tina and felt twenty pounds lighter. Mooner and Dougie were okay. Grandma was okay. I was a blonde and I didn't have a wedding gown. Overlooking my problems with Morelli, life couldn't get much better.

  I took a short nap before heading for my parents' house. When I woke up my hair was doing strange things so I took a shower. After washing and drying my hair I looked like Art Garfunkel. But more. It was as if my hair had exploded.

  “I don't care,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “I'm the new and improved Stephanie.” It was a lie, of course. Jersey girls care.

  I put on a pair of new black jeans, black boots, and a short-sleeved ribbed red sweater. I walked into the living room and found Benny and Ziggy sitting on the couch.

  “We heard the shower going so we didn't want to disturb you,” Benny said.

  “Yeah,” Ziggy said, “and you should get your security chain fixed. No telling who might come in.”

  “We just came back from Louie D's funeral and we heard all about how you found the fruity little guy and his friend. That was a terrible thing Sophia did.”

  “Even when Louie was alive she was crazy,” Ziggy said. “You'd never want to turn your back on her. She doesn't think right.”

  “And you should tell Ranger he has our best wishes. We hope his arm isn't too bad.”

  “Was Louie D buried with his heart?”

  “Ronald took it straight to the undertaker and they put it in and sewed him up good as new. And then Ronald followed the hearse back here to Trenton for burial today.”

  “No Sophia?”

  “There were flowers on the grave, but she didn't come to the ceremony.” He shook his head. “Lots of police in attendance. It ruined the privacy.”

  “I guess you're still looking for Choochy,” Benny said. “You should be careful of him. He's a little . . .” Benny made a circling motion against his head with his index finger to denote screw loose. “Not like Sophia, though. Chooch is an okay person at heart.”

  “It's the stroke and the stress,” Ziggy said. “Stress shouldn't be underestimated. If you need help with Choochy you should call us. Maybe we could do something.”

  Benny nodded his head. I should call them.

  “Your hair looks nice,” Ziggy said. “You got a perm, right?”

  They stood and Benny gave me a box. “I got some peanut brittle for you. Estelle brought it back from Virginia.”

  “You can't buy peanut brittle up here like they got in Virginia,” Ziggy said.

  I thanked them for the peanut brittle and closed the door behind them. I gave them five minutes to clear the building, and then I grabbed my black leather jacket and bag and locked up.

  MY MOTHER LOOKED past me when she came to the door. “Where's Joe? Where's your car?”

  “I traded my car in for the bike.”

  “That bike at the curb?”

  I nodded.

  “It looks like one of those Hell's Angels bikes.”

  “It's a Harley.”

  That's when it hit her. The hair. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open. “Your hair,” she whispered.

  “I thought I'd try something new.”

  “My God, you look like that singer . . .”

  “Madonna?”

  “Art Garfunkel.”

  I left my helmet, jacket, and bag in the hall closet and took my seat at the table.

  “You got here right in tine,” Grandma said. “Holy cats! Look at you. You look just like that singer.”

  “I know,” I snapped. “I know.”

  “Where's Joseph?” my mother said. “I thought he was coming to dinner.”

  “We've sort of . . . broken up.”

  Everyone
stopped eating, except for my father. My father used the opportunity to take more potatoes.