Takedown Twenty

  “No,” she replied. “Was I supposed to?”

  “We think we might have seen one,” Lula said.

  Connie raised an eyebrow.

  “At least it seemed like it was a giraffe last night,” Lula said. “But then when I woke up this morning I had doubts.”

  I chugged down my coffee, wolfed my donut, and turned to Lula. “I’m going back to Uncle Sunny’s apartment building to talk to his neighbors. Are you riding along?”

  “Only if I get to drive. Your radio is busted, and I need tunes.”

  THREE

  UNCLE SUNNY LIVED on the second floor of a four-story brownstone walk-up on the corner of Fifteenth and Morgan. Mindy’s Nail Salon occupied the first floor and served as a front for a variety of semi-illegal activities, such as loan sharking, flesh peddling, and bookmaking—at least in Trenton they were semi-illegal. When Uncle Sunny was in residence this laundry list of illicit activities expanded to include whacking and property owner’s insurance enforcement. On the surface it might seem like Sunny lived in modest surroundings, but the truth was, he owned the building. In fact, Sunny owned the entire block. And his real estate holdings didn’t stop there.

  “I don’t get it,” Lula said, parking at the curb. “What’s so special about this guy? Why’s everybody love him?”

  “He’s charming,” I said. “He’s sixty-two years old, five-foot-six, and he sings Sinatra songs at weddings. He flirts with old ladies. He wears a red bow tie to funerals. On Thanksgiving and Christmas he helps out in the St. Ralph’s soup kitchen. He’s very generous with tips. And he’s a member of the Sunucchi–Morelli family, which makes up half the Burg and sticks together no matter how much they hate one another.”

  And I’m pretty sure he also occasionally kills people, sets fire to businesses, and fornicates with other men’s wives. None of this is especially noteworthy in Trenton, however, and it for sure can’t compete with a red bow tie or the ability to croon Sinatra.

  Sinatra is still big in the Burg, a working-class neighborhood in Trenton. I grew up in the Burg, and my parents, my sister and her family, and my grandmother still live there. The bonds office is just outside the Burg. St. Francis Hospital is located in the Burg. Plus there are four bakeries, twelve restaurants, five pizza parlors, a funeral home, three Italian social clubs, and there’s a bar on every corner.

  We stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the second-floor windows.

  “I don’t see nothing happening up there,” Lula said.

  Meantime, a balding, overweight, fiftyish man went into the nail salon and was shown into the back room.

  “I bet he’s gonna get the special,” Lula said. “You come in before noon and you get a pedicure and a BJ for half price. Mindy wanted me to work for her back when I was a ’ho, but I declined. I didn’t want to have to deal with the whole pedicure thing. I don’t do feet. A girl’s gotta draw a line somewhere, you see what I’m saying?”

  I punched Sunny’s number into my cellphone and listened to it ring. No answer. I marched into the building with Lula a step behind me. We took the stairs to the second floor and found Sunny’s apartment. Easy to do since there were only two apartments on the floor. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked again.

  “Maybe he’s dead,” Lula said. “He could be stretched out on the floor toes up. Probably we should go in and see.”

  I tried the door. Locked.

  “I’d bust it in, but I got heels on,” Lula said. “It wouldn’t be ladylike.”

  I went across the hall and rang the bell. “Go away,” someone yelled from inside the apartment.

  “I want to talk to you,” I yelled back.

  The door was wrenched open, and a woman glared out at me. “What?”

  “I’m looking for Uncle Sunny,” I said.

  “And?”

  “I thought you might know where he is.”

  “What do I look like, his mother? Do I look like I keep track of Uncle Sunny? And anyways, what do you want with him? Are you the police?”

  “Bond enforcement,” I told her.

  “Hey, Jake!” the woman yelled.

  A big, slobbering black dog padded into view and stood behind the woman.

  “Kill!” the woman said.

  The dog lunged at us, Lula and I jumped back, and the dog clamped onto Lula’s purse and ripped it from her shoulder.

  “That’s my new bag!” Lula said. “It’s almost a Brahmin.”

  The dog shook the bag until it was dead, then he eyed Lula.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I’d shoot him, but he got my gun.” She cut her eyes to me. “You got a gun?”

  I was slowly inching my way toward the stairs. “No,” I whispered. “No gun.” Not that it mattered, because I couldn’t shoot a dog even if its eyes were glowing red and its head was rotating.

  The dog made a move toward us, and Lula and I turned tail and ran. Lula missed a step, crashed into me, and we rolled ass over teakettle down the stairs, landing in a heap on the foyer floor.

  “Lucky I ended on top of you, or I might have hurt myself,” Lula said.

  I hauled myself up and limped out the door. This wasn’t the first time Lula and I had crash-landed at the bottom of a flight of stairs. A window opened on the second floor, Lula’s purse sailed out, and the window slammed shut.

  Lula retrieved the mangled bag. “At least I got my gun back,” she said. “Now what are we going to do? You want to go for breakfast? I wouldn’t mind having one of them breakfast sandwiches.”

  “Vinnie’s going to hound me until I find Uncle Sunny.”

  “Yeah, but this looking for Uncle Sunny is making us unpopular, and I think I got a bruise from landing on you. I hear bacon is real good for healing a bruise.”

  I thumbed through Sunny’s file. He’d been charged with second-degree murder for running over Stanley Dugan… twice. I suspected he’d done a lot worse to a lot of people over the years, but this time he’d been caught on video by a kid with an iPhone who’d posted it to YouTube. Since everyone who knew Stanley Dugan (including his ninety-year-old mother) hated him, the video only served to enhance Sunny’s popularity.

  Two men in their mid-fifties ambled out of the nail salon. They were balding, paunchy, wearing bowling shirts, pleated slacks, and pinky rings. One of the men had “Shorty” embroidered on his shirt above the breast pocket.

  “Hey,” Shorty said, eyeballing me. “We hear you been asking about Sunny.”

  “I work for his bail bonds agent,” I told him. “Sunny is in violation of his bail agreement. He needs to reschedule a court date.”

  “Maybe he don’t want to do that,” Shorty said. “Maybe he got better things to do with his time.”

  “If he doesn’t reschedule, he’s considered a felon.”

  Shorty snickered. “Of course he’s a fella. Everybody knows he’s a fella. What are you, stupid or something?”

  “Felon. Not fella. Felon. A fugitive from the law.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Shorty said. “You don’t go around calling good people like Sunny names that could tarnish his reputation. He could sue you for slandering him.”

  “So do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “Sure. He’s where he always is at this time of the day.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “I’m not telling you. And you better back off, girlie, or I might have to get rough. I might have to shoot you or something.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Lula said. “You and who else gonna do that, Shorty?”

  “Me and him,” Shorty said, gesturing to the guy next to him. “Me and Moe. Isn’t that right, Moe?”

  “Yeah,” Moe said. “We don’t like people trash-talking Sunny.”

  “And furthermore I don’t like the way you said my name,” Shorty said to Lula. “It was like you were implying I was short.”

  “You are short,” Lula said. “You’re short. You’re going bald. And unle
ss you just come from a bowling alley, you got no taste in clothes.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you should talk,” Shorty said. “You’re fat.”

  Lula narrowed her eyes, rammed her fists onto her hips, and leaned forward so that she was almost nose to nose with Shorty. “Say what? Did I just hear that you think I’m fat? ’Cause that better not be the case on account of then I’d have to pound you into something looks like a hamburger pattie.”

  I glanced left and saw the giraffe gallop across the street a couple blocks away. “Holy cow,” I said. “It’s the giraffe.”

  Lula whipped her head around. “Where’d he go? I don’t see no giraffe.”

  “He galloped across the street at Eighteenth.”

  “Gotta go,” Lula said to Shorty. “Things to do.”

  We jumped into Lula’s car, took off down the street, turned the corner at Eighteenth and cruised around, but we didn’t see the giraffe.

  “This is perplexing,” Lula said. “It’s not like he could get himself in a Subaru and drive away. I bet you couldn’t even get him in a Escalade. He’s a big sucker.”

  Morelli called on my cellphone. “Hey, Cupcake,” he said. “What’s doing?”

  “Nothing’s doing,” I told him. “My boyfriend is a workaholic.”

  “I’ve got fifteen minutes free. Do you want to… you know?”

  “Wow, fifteen whole minutes.”

  “Yeah, that’s a minute for me and fourteen for you.”

  “Tempting, but I’m going to hold out for at least a half hour.”

  “I could throw lunch into the deal if you’re up to multitasking.”

  “I’ll meet you at Pino’s for lunch, but you’re going to have to take a rain check on the… you know.”

  “Better than nothing,” Morelli said. “High noon.”

  Morelli was already at Pino’s when I walked in. He had a corner booth, and he was working his way through a bread basket. He was wearing jeans and an untucked black T-shirt that partially hid the Glock at his hip. His dark hair waved over his ears, and his brown eyes were sharp and assessing.

  I slid into the booth across from him. “You have cop eyes,” I said.

  He pushed the bread basket my way. “That could change if you wanted to have lunch in the parking lot. Between the gunshot and the double shift I’m missing you… a lot.”

  “I miss you too.”

  I took a piece of bread and studied him. I’ve known Morelli for most of my life, and I was pretty good at reading his moods.

  “There’s more,” I said.

  Morelli nodded. “There’s Ralph Rogers.”

  “The guy with the dart stuck in his butt. What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He was alive last time I saw him.”

  “He went into cardiac arrest at the hospital and they couldn’t revive him. Apparently the dart contained some exotic kind of poison. And it contained a lot of it.”

  “Enough to take down a giraffe?”

  “The toxicology report didn’t cover that.”

  “Shocking.”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking, but why the interest in giraffes?”

  “Lula and I were following a giraffe when we found Rogers lying in the road.”

  “This isn’t a substance abuse issue, is it?”

  “No. We really saw a giraffe. Lula was conducting some business with Jimmy Spit, and we saw a giraffe gallop past us and turn at Sixteenth Street. A black Cadillac Escalade with a satellite dish on its roof drove by seconds later, turned at Sixteenth, and there was gunfire. By the time we got to Sixteenth there was no giraffe and no Escalade. And Rogers was lying facedown in the middle of the road.”

  “Are you sure it was a giraffe?”

  “Skinny legs with knobby knees, yellow with big brown spots, long neck. Yep, I’m pretty sure it was a giraffe. Hasn’t anyone else reported seeing a giraffe in that neighborhood?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I’d ask dispatch, but I’d feel like an idiot.”

  “How’s your leg? Are you in pain?”

  “No pain at all. I’m loaded up with pain pills. I could set my hair on fire and I wouldn’t feel it.”

  “Is it okay for you to be driving?”

  “Yeah, they don’t make me drowsy. They just make me nice and numb. Can’t feel my leg. Can’t feel my fingertips or my tongue.”

  “Good to know about your fingertips and your tongue. I’m glad we didn’t waste time getting naked in the parking lot.”

  Morelli grinned. “I could have managed.”

  The waitress brought two meatball subs with extra coleslaw.

  “I ordered for both of us when I got here,” Morelli said. “Hope you don’t mind. I’m on a tight schedule. Did Rogers say anything to you?”

  I dug into my coleslaw. “No. He was stretched out with a dart in his butt. That’s it.”

  “I don’t suppose you got the license plate on the black SUV.”

  “Sorry, it flew past me, but how many Escalades have a satellite dish on the roof?”

  “Was it a big dish, like for a news station?”

  “It was a small dish, like for an idiot drug dealer or a tricked out rapper.”

  Morelli took a bite of his sub, and some red sauce leaked out of his mouth and ran down his chin.

  “You might want to cut back on those pills,” I told him.

  He wiped up with his napkin. “Just in case you intend to spend the rest of your life with me, this is probably what I’m going to look like when I’m ninety.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “No. I’m just saying.” He stopped wiping and looked at me. “What if it was a proposal? Would you say yes?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  He smiled again. “I’m saving up for the ring.”

  That would have been a terrifying statement if I’d thought for a moment it was true. Morelli is just as unwilling to commit as I am.

  “Something to look forward to,” I said.

  His smile widened.

  We finished our lunch, Morelli got the check, and we slid out of the booth.

  “Who’s the unlucky person in your crosshairs today?” he asked.

  “Uncle Sunny.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s in violation of his bond.”

  “Walk away from it. Let Vinnie give it to Ranger.”

  “Ranger doesn’t do bond enforcement anymore.”

  Morelli wrapped his arm around me and ushered me out the door, into the sunshine. “No one is going to help you catch Sunny. And a lot of people are going to stand in your way. Some of them are vicious and crazy.”

  “Are you talking about your grandmother?”

  “Yes. She’s at the top of the list of vicious, crazy people.”

  I gave Morelli a sisterly kiss, got into my Taurus, and drove to my parents’ house. It’s not a fancy house, but it’s home, and I feel safe and comfortable there.

  FOUR

  MY PARENTS’ HOUSE is narrow, with three small bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs. The living room is filled to bursting with overstuffed furniture, end tables, ottomans, lamps, candy dishes, fake flower arrangements, and plastic bins filled with toys for my sister’s kids. The sofa and all the chairs face the television. The rectangular dining room table is always set with a lace cloth and two candlesticks. The table seats eight but has been known to manage nine and a high chair. This leaves just enough space in the room for my niece to gallop around the table, pretending to be a horse. The kitchen is where all important decisions are made: what’s for dinner, where should I go to college, should I have my gallbladder removed, should I go to Andy Melnik’s viewing tonight or watch the Miss America pageant?

  Grandma Mazur was at the door when I parked. Grandma moved in with my parents when my grandfather relocated his clogged arteries to a heavenly address. Her hair is steel gray and permed in a style that was fashionable in 1959. She st
ands straight as a broomstick. She likes a nip of whiskey before going to bed. And lately she’s taken to wearing Pilates pants and tank tops that show the horrifying effects of gravity on slack skin. She’s also a treasure trove of gossip, and she’s my go-to source for underground information. She’d know things about Uncle Sunny that weren’t on Connie’s fact sheet.

  “What a nice surprise,” Grandma said. “I was hoping something interesting would come down the street. The cable is out and there’s no television.”

  I followed Grandma to the kitchen, where my mother was making minestrone. My mother is the middle child caught between my grandmother and me. She wears her brown hair in a soft bob. Her wardrobe is conservative, heavy on slacks and cotton blouses. Her Catholic faith is strong.

  “Have you eaten?” my mother asked. “We have lunch meat from Giovichinni.”

  “I’m good,” I told her. “I had lunch with Morelli.”

  I set my messenger bag on the floor and pulled a chair up to the small kitchen table. Grandma brought the cookie jar over and sat opposite me. I lifted the lid and took out a Toll House cookie.

  “Did you catch any bad guys today?” Grandma asked me. “Were you in any shootouts?”

  “No and no.”

  I didn’t look over at my mother for fear I’d see her rolling her eyes and reaching for the whiskey bottle. My mother isn’t big on shootouts.

  “I’m looking for Uncle Sunny,” I said. “He skipped out on his bond.”

  “He’s a slippery one,” Grandma said. “Are you having any luck?”

  “No. Lula and I staked out his apartment, but we didn’t see any sign of him.”

  Grandma ate a cookie and helped herself to another. “I’d stake out the girlfriend.”

  “Sunny has a girlfriend?”

  “He’s been seeing Rita Raguzzi for ten years,” Grandma said. “He’s a real ladies’ man, if you know what I mean, but word is he keeps his toothbrush at Rita’s house. He was seeing Rita years before his wife died.”

  My mother and grandmother made the sign of the cross.

  “His wife should rest in peace,” my mother said. “She was a saint.”