Smokin' Seventeen

  At one minute to six the food was set on the table, and my father pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the dining room. My father took early retirement from his job at the post office and now drives a cab part-time. He has a couple steady fares that he takes to the train station five days a week, and then he picks his friends up and drives them to the Sons of Italy lodge where they play cards. He’s 5?10? and stocky. He’s got a lot of forehead and beyond that a fringe of curly black hair. He doesn’t own a pair of jeans, preferring pleated slacks and collared knit shirts from the Tony Soprano collection at JCPenney. He endures my grandmother with what seems like grim resignation and selective deafness, though I suspect he harbors murderous fantasies.

  I was seated next to Dave with Grandma across from us. “Isn’t this nice,” Grandma said. “It isn’t every day we get to have a handsome young man at the table.”

  My father shoveled in food and murmured something that sounded a little like just shoot me. Hard to tell with the meatloaf rolling around in his mouth.

  “So what are you doing here in Trenton?” Grandma asked.

  “I’m working for my Uncle Harry.”

  Harry Brewer owned a moving and storage company. When I moved out of my house after the divorce, I used Brewer Movers.

  “Are you moving furniture?” Grandma asked.

  “No. I’m doing job estimating and general office work. My cousin Francie use to do it, but she had some words with my uncle, left work, and never came back. So I stepped in to help out.”

  Grandma made a sucking sound with her dentures. “Has anyone heard from her?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “Just like Lou Dugan,” Grandma said.

  I knew about Francie, and it wasn’t exactly like Lou Dugan. Francie’s boyfriend was also missing, and when Francie stormed out of the office she took almost $5,000 in petty cash with her. The theory going around is that Francie and her boyfriend were in Vegas.

  “Who wants wine?” my mother asked. “We have a nice bottle of red on the table.”

  Grandma helped herself to the wine and passed it across the table to Dave. “I bet you and Stephanie have a lot in common being that you went to school together.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nada.”

  Dave stopped his fork halfway to his mouth. “There must be something.”

  “What?” I asked him.

  “A mutual friend.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You played football, and she was a twirler,” Grandma said. “You must have been on the field together.”

  “Nope,” I said. “We were on at halftime, and they were in the locker room.”

  He turned and looked at me. “Now I remember you. You flipped your baton into the trombone section during ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “It was cold and my fingers were frozen. And if you so much as crack a smile over this I’ll stab you with my fork.”

  “She’s pretty tough,” Grandma said to Dave. “She’s a bounty hunter, and she shoots people.”

  “I don’t shoot people,” I said. “Almost never.”

  “Show him your gun,” Grandma said.

  I spooned mashed potatoes onto my plate. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to see my gun. Anyway, I don’t have it with me.”

  “She’s got just a little one,” Grandma said. “Mine’s bigger. Do you want to see my gun?”

  My mother poured herself a second glass of wine, and my father gripped his knife so hard his knuckles turned white.

  “Maybe later,” Dave said.

  “You are not supposed to have a gun,” my mother said to my grandmother.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot. Okay, I gave the gun away,” Grandma said to Dave. “But it’s a beaut.”

  “What about you?” my father asked Dave. “Do you have a gun?”

  Dave shook his head. “No. I don’t need a gun.”

  “I don’t trust a man who doesn’t own a gun,” my father said, slitty-eyed at Dave, forkful of meatloaf halfway to his mouth.

  “I don’t usually agree with my son-in-law,” Grandma said, “but he’s got a point.”

  “Do you have a gun?” Dave asked my dad.

  “I used to,” my dad said. “I had to get rid of it when Edna moved in. Too much temptation.”

  My mother drained her wineglass. “Anyone want more potatoes?” she asked.

  “I’ll have another piece of meatloaf,” Dave said.

  “The way to good meatloaf is to use lots of ketchup when you’re mixing it up,” Grandma said. “It’s our secret ingredient.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Dave said. “I like to cook. I’d like to go to culinary school, but I can’t afford it right now.”

  My father stopped chewing for a beat and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake, as if this sealed the deal on his assessment of Dave Brewer.

  “How about you?” Dave asked me. “Do you like to cook?”

  Interesting question. He didn’t ask me if I could cook. The answer to that was easy. No. I for sure couldn’t cook. Anything beyond a sandwich and I was a mess. The thing is, he asked me if I liked to cook. And that was a more complicated question. I didn’t know if I liked to cook. Someone was always cooking for me. My mom, Morelli’s mom, Ranger’s housekeeper, and a bunch of professionals at delis, pizza places, supermarkets, sandwich shops, and fast-food joints.

  “I don’t know if I like to cook,” I told him. “I’ve never had reason to try. I wasn’t married long enough to get the stickers off the bottoms of the pots.”

  “And then her apartment got firebombed and her cook-book got burned up,” Grandma said. “That was a pip of a fire.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dave said. “Cooking can be fun. And you get to eat what you make.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat anything I made.

  “We got to get a move on with this dinner,” Grandma said. “Mildred Brimmer is laid out at Stiva’s, and I don’t want to miss anything. Everyone’s going to be talking about Lou Dugan, and I’m going to be the star on account of Stephanie was right on the spot.”

  Dave turned to me. “Is that true? I heard they found him buried on the bonds office property.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The backhoe guy uncovered a hand and part of the arm. I wasn’t there when they exhumed the rest of him.”

  “I heard they recognized him by his ring,” Dave said.

  I nodded. “Morelli spotted it. I’m sure they’ll do more forensic work to be certain.”

  “That’s the good part about living in the Burg,” Grandma said. “There’s always something interesting going on.”

  We made our way through the dinner in record time, so Grandma could get to her viewing. No one spilled the wine or set the tablecloth on fire by knocking over a candlestick. The conversation was mildly embarrassing, since it was full of not-so-subtle references about Dave and me becoming a couple, but I’d been through far worse.

  “Sorry about the matchmaking,” I said to Dave as I showed him to the door after dinner was over.

  “By the end of the meal I was almost convinced we were engaged.” He stared down at my cleavage. “I was starting to warm to the idea.” He gave me a polite kiss on the cheek. “Maybe we can be friends. I can give you a cooking lesson.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Cooking would be good.”

  TEN

  FIVE MINUTES LATER I was in my own car. I had a bag of leftovers on the backseat and Grandma next to me in the passenger seat as I wound my way through the Burg to Stiva’s Funeral Home.

  “Dave wasn’t so bad,” Grandma said. “He wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the losers your mother’s dragged home for you. Remember the butcher?”

  An involuntary shiver ran down my spine at the thought.

  “And I think it’s real nice that Dave knows how to cook,” Grandma said. “It could come in handy for some lucky girl.”

  I looked sideways at Grandma.

  “W
ell you could do worse,” she said. “I don’t see you making much progress marrying what you already got on the string.”

  “I’m not sure I want to get married.”

  “Don’t be a ninny,” Grandma said. “Of course you want to get married. You want to take out your own garbage for the rest of your life? And what about babies?”

  “Babies?”

  “Sure. Don’t you want babies?”

  Truth is, I was pretty happy with a hamster. “Maybe someday,” I said.

  I dropped Grandma off at the funeral home and drove back to my apartment. I spotted Morelli’s green SUV parked in my lot, and I pulled up next to him. His truck was empty, and the lights were on in my living room. He’d let himself in. He had a key.

  I took the elevator, walked the length of the hall, and Morelli and his dog, Bob, met me at my door. Bob adopted Morelli a while back. Bob’s big and shaggy and red, and he eats everything.

  “I saw you pull into the lot,” he said. “Nice view from up here.”

  Hard to tell if he was referring to me or the bag of leftovers I was holding.

  “How did you escape from Uncle Rocco’s party this early?”

  “I faked a call from dispatch.” He took the bag, set it on the kitchen counter, and reached out to me. “You’re looking really sexy tonight. I almost fell out the window watching you walk across the parking lot.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t because I was carrying dessert? I could share my pudding with you.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and cuddled me into him. “Later.”

  “A drink?”

  He brushed a kiss across my lips. “Later.”

  “So, then what would you like to do?”

  “For starters, I’d like to peel this shirt off you. And then I want to see you shimmy out of this little skirt.”

  “And the heels?” I asked.

  “Leave the heels on.”

  Oh boy. “That’s naughty.”

  Morelli slid his hands inside my sweater. His eyes were dilated black, and his mouth was soft with just a hint of a smile. “Cupcake, I’m feeling way beyond naughty. We’re going to have to lock Bob out of the bedroom so we don’t corrupt his impressionable mind.”

  Five minutes later I was down to the heels, and Morelli was wearing even less. Morelli tends to be playful during foreplay. When the foreplay gives way to more serious action Morelli makes love with a passion not easily forgotten. I was on my back on the bed, and Morelli was finger walking up the inside of my thigh. I had a grip on the sheet, and I think my eyes might have been rolled back into my head in anticipation of what was ahead.

  “Do you like this?” he asked.

  “Yeessss,” I said, breathless, every muscle in my body clenched.

  Morelli kissed me a couple inches below my navel. “It’s about to get better.”

  ELEVEN

  IT WAS TUESDAY MORNING, and Lula was giving me her full attention. “Okay, let me figure this out,” she said. “From the goofy smile you got on your face, and the fact you’re not walkin’ all that good, I’d say you spent the night with Morelli.”

  The bail bonds bus was still parked on Hamilton, and Lula and Connie were in residence. Vinnie and Mooner were absent. I was on the couch with my hand wrapped around a monster Starbucks.

  “He’s the one,” I said. “No doubt about it.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t give no one else a chance yet. There could be something better. You’re already judging the bake off, and you haven’t tasted everyone’s cake.”

  “I don’t think I could survive anything better.”

  “I’m kind of disappointed,” Lula said. “I was looking forward to hearing about the comparisons.”

  Not that I would give her comparisons, but I understood wanting to hear them.

  “How was your date last night?” I asked her.

  “It was a big dud. We went to a movie, and he fell sound asleep, and people were yellin’ at him for snoring. And then the manager came and asked us to leave. And he wouldn’t leave without getting his money back, although I don’t see where it mattered on account of he was sleepin’ through the movie and it wasn’t like he cared about seeing the ending. So the manager called the police, and that was when I left. I don’t want to get involved with no man snores like that anyway. It was like sitting next to a freight train. And it was a pity ’cause I was all set with my boa.”

  I looked out the bus window and saw that the crime scene tape was still up and two men in khakis and CSI windbreakers were in the middle of the lot. “What’s going on out there?” I asked Connie.

  “I don’t know. They’ve marked off grids and they’re poking around. I guess they want to make sure there aren’t any more bodies. Or maybe they’re collecting evidence. Morelli was here when I came to work and then he left.”

  “Did he look happy?” I asked.

  “Not especially. He had his work face on. He was with Terry Gilman. They spent a couple minutes talking to the CSI guys, and then they left.”

  I felt like all the air got squeezed out of my lungs. Terry Gilman was blond and beautiful and from time to time I’ve suspected Morelli of straying in her direction. Terry Gilman also had mob connections, although just exactly how she was currently connected wasn’t clear.

  “I think Gilman was related to Lou Dugan,” Connie said. “Second cousin or something. And I’m pretty sure she worked for him at one time.”

  Lula had her nose pressed against the window. “I tell you, if one of those CSI guys turns up another body I’m going home, and I’m not coming back.”

  “There isn’t anything for you to file here anyway,” Connie said. “We don’t have any file cabinets, and we don’t have a lot of case files. Business is in the toilet.”

  “You’re still paying me, aren’t you? Because I got financial obligations. I got a handbag on layaway that I’m makin’ payments on.”

  Vinnie called and Connie put him on speakerphone.

  “I’m at the courthouse and I need someone to come pick up a package,” Vinnie said.

  “What kind of package?”

  “A big package. It won’t fit in my car. I need Mooner to drive the bus here.”

  “Mooner’s at an all-day Lord of the Rings movie festival.”

  “Then get someone else to drive the damn bus.”

  “Who?” Connie asked him.

  “Anyone! How hard can it be if Mooner can do it? Just get the bus down here. I haven’t got all day to waste standing around in front of the courthouse.”

  “Hell, I’ll drive the bus,” Lula said. “I always wanted to drive a bus.”

  I always wanted to fly, but that doesn’t mean I can do it without wings. “Don’t you have to take lessons and get a special license to drive a bus?”

  Lula was on her feet, moving to the driver’s seat. “To my way of thinking this here’s a recreational vehicle and you don’t need nothing special to drive it.” She got behind the wheel and looked around. “Let’s see what we got. Gas pedal. Brake. Gear shifter doohickey. And the key’s in the ignition. This is gonna be a piece of cake.”

  “Is this bus insured?” I asked Connie.

  Connie was busy ramming her laptop and a bunch of files into her tote bag. “I’m moving to the coffee shop next to the hospital. They’ve got free WiFi, it smells better, it’s not always midnight, and it doesn’t move.”

  Lula cranked the engine over. “Everybody strapped in?”

  Connie pushed past me to the door. “Do not go over ten miles an hour,” she said to Lula. “Do not hit anything. Do not call me if you do hit something.”

  I grabbed my purse and followed after Connie.

  “Hey,” Lula said to me. “Where are you going? We’re supposed to be partners. What about all those times I got your back. And now here I am on a big adventure drivin’ a bus, and how could you be thinkin’ about not sharing this with me? Where’s the sharing? This could be a bonding experience.”

  “I don’t think th
is is a good idea.”

  “Of course it’s a good idea. Just sit your skinny white hiney down. This is gonna be fun. I’m gonna be a good bus driver. I might even decide to take up bus driving professionally.”

  Lula put the bus in gear, stepped on the gas, and backed into the state CSI truck.

  “Did you hear something funny just then?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I heard the sound of you backing into the crime scene van.”

  “It was just a tap. I’ll ease forward a little.”

  She changed gears and pulled away from the curb. “This thing don’t got a lot of get-up.”

  The CSI guys were staring at us, mouths open, eyes wide. I looked in the side mirror and saw we were towing the van.

  “I just gotta give it some juice,” Lula said.

  She stomped on the gas, and the bus broke loose and jumped forward, leaving the van’s bumper in the middle of the road.

  “Maybe you should pull over,” I said.

  “No way. I’m getting the hang of it now.”

  Lula cruised down Hamilton and sideswiped a bunch of parked cars.

  “Holy cow,” I said. “You just ripped off two more bumpers and a mirror.”

  “I guess this is wider than I originally thought. No problem, I’ll just make a course correction.”

  She turned right off Hamilton, jumped the curb, and took out a mailbox.

  “Um, federal property,” I said.

  “People don’t use mail no more anyway. It’s all electronic. When was the last time you put a stamp on something? Remember when you had to lick them stamps? That was disgustin’.”

  I looked behind us for police. “We sort of left the scene of a lot of crimes.”

  “Yeah, but they weren’t big crimes. They didn’t hardly count. We could mail in those crimes, except we don’t mail anymore. But if we did mail shit that’s the way we’d take care of it.”

  Lula rolled down Perry Street and spotted Vinnie in front of the courthouse. “What the heck is that next to Vinnie? I thought he said he had a package. That’s no package. That’s a big hairy guy on a leash. Probably I’m seeing things, but I swear he looks like a bear.”

  It looked like a bear to me, too. It was big and brown, and it was wearing a red collar with a bow tie on it.