Turbo Twenty-Three

  According to Butchy’s employment file and Ranger’s research, Butchy lived on the edge of the Burg. He was renting a house on King Street. I couldn’t place its exact location, but I knew the area. It was typical Burg. Mostly blue-collar. Small cottage-type houses on tiny lots.

  It was Friday night, and I traditionally had dinner with my parents. Morelli had a standing invitation to join us, but he usually begged off. I couldn’t blame him. At some point during the dinner the inevitable question of marriage would arise. I had no good answer.

  My mother called at four-thirty. “Is Joseph coming to dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he has to work,” I said. “I think it’s only going to be me.”

  “It’s just as well. Your grandmother invited some stranger. She said she met him at Bertha Webster’s viewing, and he might be the man of her dreams.”

  Okay, I know this sort of thing drives my mother nuts. She worries about my grandmother. I don’t worry about Grandma so much as I do about the rest of the world. It seems to me Grandma is livin’ la vida loca. Truth is, I’m a little jealous. It looks to me like she’s having more fun than I am.

  SIXTEEN

  I LEFT MY apartment at five o’clock and drove to the Burg. I wound around the jumble of streets and finally found King. Butchy’s place was a little box of a house in the middle of a block. One floor. Probably two bedrooms and one bath. Detached single-car garage. It wasn’t a total shambles, but it wasn’t in immaculate condition either. The paint was peeling around the windows. The postage stamp front yard was clean but barren. No shrubs, flowers, gnomes, or plaster statues of the Virgin Mary. Butchy’s truck was in the driveway.

  I stared at the truck for a bunch of beats. It was chilling to think that it might belong to a killer. Even more creepy that the killer might be Butchy. Butchy wasn’t on my radar when I was working the loading dock, but he was a big blip on the screen now.

  I slowly cruised down the street and made my way to my parents’ house. I parked in their driveway because the front of my car was less visible there than it would be at the curb. My mother was at the door with my grandmother when I stepped onto the porch.

  “What happened to your car?” my mother wanted to know.

  “It got a little smushed,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting a new one.”

  “What kind are you going to get?” Grandma asked. “Are you going to get a Corvette? I think you should get one like Ranger. His cars are hot.”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I’ll have to see what I can afford.”

  A chopper slowly rumbled down the street and parked in front of my parents’ house. The rider was in full black leather with a long gray ponytail sticking out from under a black Darth Vader helmet.

  “There’s my honey,” Grandma said.

  My mother went pale.

  “He could be okay,” I said to my mother. “He’s probably a lawyer.”

  “Nope,” Grandma said. “He tends bar at Kranski’s in north Trenton. His name’s Bertie. And he’s got tattoos all over the place.”

  Bertie took his helmet off, hooked it onto the back of his bike, and walked toward us.

  “He reminds me of someone,” my mother said.

  “Willie Nelson,” I told her. “But I think he’s older than Willie. Willie’s only in his eighties.”

  “Bertie isn’t that old,” Grandma said. “It’s that the smoke in the bar’s aged him. He’s still a handsome devil, though. Wait until you see him up close. He’s got bedroom eyes. The one bedroom eye you can’t see so much on account of it’s behind the cataract, but the other one is a beaut.”

  We all said hello to Bertie and moved inside to the living room where my father was in his favorite chair, watching television.

  “This is my honey, Bertie,” Grandma said to my father.

  My father looked over at Bertie. “Are you going to marry her?” my father asked.

  “Not tonight,” Bertie said.

  My father gave up a sigh and turned back to the television.

  “Dinner is ready to go on the table,” my mother said. “We have pot roast.”

  We all shuffled into the dining room and took a seat. I helped my mother with the pot roast, potatoes, green beans, gravy, and red cabbage. There was red wine, beer, and a pitcher of water on the table.

  “It’s too bad Joseph couldn’t come to dinner tonight,” Grandma said. “We would all be couples.” She turned to Bertie. “Joseph is Stephanie’s boyfriend. He’s a homicide detective.”

  “That’s got to be a pretty interesting job in Trenton these days,” Bertie said. “Was he assigned to the Bogart Bar murder?”

  I shook my head, no. “He wasn’t working that night,” I said.

  “Stephanie was there,” Grandma said. “She saw the whole thing. The Bogart Bar man fell out of the freezer truck, right at her feet.”

  Bertie looked impressed. “No kidding! How did you manage that?”

  “I was involved in a car accident,” I said. “It was a coincidence.”

  My father was at the head of the table, barely tolerating the conversation, waiting for the food to be passed to him. My mother always put the meat platter directly in front of him, but the rest of the food was distributed along the length of the table.

  “Potatoes,” he barked, leaning forward, knife in one hand, fork in the other.

  Everyone jumped in their seat, and Grandma handed him the potatoes.

  “I heard another Bogart worker got frozen,” Grandma said. “And it doesn’t look like they have any suspects.”

  “It’s obvious to me,” Bertie said. “They should talk to Kenny Morris.”

  “Who’s Kenny Morris?” I asked him.

  “He’s Mo’s kid,” Bertie said. “He’s a regular at the bar where I work. He’s got a real grudge against Bogart. Gets a snootful and all he can talk about is how he hates Bogart and wants to ruin him.”

  “Why does he hate Bogart?”

  “He had a thing for Bogart’s daughter. Asked her to marry him and she turned him down. He blamed it on her father. He said her father wouldn’t have her involved with a Morris.”

  “Gravy,” my father said.

  Grandma passed him the gravy.

  “That’s so sad,” Grandma said. “It’s just like Romeo and Juliet, but instead of Romeo and Juliet dying, Romeo turns some people into Popsicles.”

  “It seems like a stretch,” I said. “Did he ever say anything that would make you think he killed the two Bogart men?”

  “Not directly,” Bertie said, “but he hated Bogart Bars. He said they were his father’s idea, and Bogart stole it. And he said he had a plan to get even. He said that a lot. Personally, I think he turned that Bogart worker into a Bogart Bar to torture old Harry. And I think one day it’s going to be Harry Bogart who gets dipped in chocolate and nuts.”

  “You should be a detective,” Grandma said to Bertie. “You have this all figured out.”

  “People talk to bartenders and barbers,” Bertie said. “Occupational hazard.”

  “What about the man who was frozen today?” I said. “He wasn’t turned into a Bogart Bar.”

  “Yep,” Bertie said. “That presents a dilemma.”

  “You’ll have to ask Kenny about it when you see him next,” Grandma said.

  My experience is that drunks aren’t especially reliable. Fact and fiction tend to intermingle, stories get inflated, emotions run amok. So I wasn’t going to immediately decide Kenny Morris was a killer. I wasn’t going to dismiss it either.

  “How often does he come into the bar?” I asked Bertie.

  “Couple times a week. Always on Saturday night. Guess that’s a low point in his week since he’s not seeing the Bogart girl.”

  Bertie had his plate heaping with food, and he poured gravy over everything.

  “This gravy rocks,” Bertie said.

  “The trick to good gravy is that you have to burn the meat,” Grandma said. “Only
on the bottom, of course. That way you get the nice dark color.”

  “I was married once,” Bertie said. “Seems like that marriage went on forever. When you have kids you stick it out even if it makes you sick.”

  “Did it make you sick?” Grandma asked.

  “Gave me an ulcer. She was always talking, talking, talking.”

  “I don’t talk all that much,” Grandma said. “Mostly I watch television.”

  “And she couldn’t cook,” Bertie said. “Couldn’t make gravy. Couldn’t come close to this gravy.”

  “I bet her gravy had lumps,” Grandma said.

  “Yeah,” Bertie said. “It had big, ugly lumps. Disgusting.”

  My father had his head up. The conversation was starting to interest him.

  “Edna is a great cook,” he said. “Some man is going to be lucky to get her. She makes French toast.”

  “It’s one of my specialties,” Grandma said. “I use real vanilla and a touch of nutmeg.”

  “See, that shows you take pride in your work,” Bertie said. “You add that extra touch of nutmeg. I’m like that when I tend bar. Every drink is special. Like when I make a mojito I use a mortar and pestle so I get the mint leaves just right.”

  “Gives me goose bumps when you talk about it,” Grandma said.

  “Me too,” my father said. “You want more pot roast, Bertie?” He looked down the table at my mother. “Maybe you need to reheat the gravy for Bertie.”

  Grandma jumped up. “I’ll do it. I’m real good at reheating.”

  “So, Bertie,” my father said. “It sounds like you have a real job and everything. I bet you even have a house.”

  “The wife got the house,” Bertie said. “I have an apartment over the bar.”

  “I bet it’s a nice apartment,” my father said.

  Bertie forked into his pot roast. “Suits me. I don’t have far to go after work. When I want to take off there’s no maintenance to worry about.”

  Grandma brought the gravy to the table. “That’s important, because Bertie’s a free spirit, like me.”

  “Yep,” Bertie said. “That’s why Edna and I get along. We understand each other. We’re a couple rollin’ stones.”

  We all looked over at Grandma. She didn’t usually roll very far. Mostly to the bakery and the funeral home.

  “Bertie and I are thinking about taking a vacation on his chopper,” Grandma said. “We might go to Mexico.”

  “That’s a long way to go on a chopper,” I said. “Have you ever ridden on the chopper?”

  “No,” Grandma said, “but we’re going out tonight after dinner. Bertie’s going to take me for a ride.”

  “You’re going to love it,” Bertie said. “There’s nothing like it.”

  My mother looked into her glass. It was empty. “I might need more iced tea,” she said.

  • • •

  We all stood on my parents’ small front porch and watched Grandma mount the chopper in her powder blue polyester pantsuit and white tennies. She put a big black helmet on and wrapped her arms around Bertie.

  “Woohoo!” Grandma said. “Here we go.”

  “She’s going to die,” my mother said.

  My father looked hopeful.

  Bertie fired up the bike, and it gave a lurch and rolled down the street.

  “She’ll be fine,” I said to my mom. I didn’t totally believe it, but it seemed like the thing to say.

  “You should follow her,” my mother said.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for them,” I told her, taking my car keys out of my messenger bag.

  It was true that I would watch for them, but I wouldn’t follow them. They were out of sight, and I had no idea where they were going. And I had plans of my own. I wanted to ride by Butchy’s house one more time.

  I had my usual bag of leftovers in the crook of my arm and my messenger bag hanging from my shoulder. I marched to my car and settled myself behind the wheel. So far so good. No one made a parting comment on the dent. I waved to my parents as I backed out of the driveway. My father was smiling and shaking his head. My mother was grim-faced, lips pressed tight together. I sighed and drove away.

  It was twilight when I got back to King Street. Not yet dark enough to creep around Butchy’s house and peek in his windows. I parked on the opposite side of the street, two houses down, and waited. Butchy’s truck was still in his driveway. Lights were on in the front room. A light went on in another room toward the back of the house, and I guessed Butchy had gone to the kitchen. All the other houses on the street were lit too. Traffic was minimal. Every driveway had a car parked in it. Garages in the Burg were for the most part used to store items that should have been thrown away ten years ago. Cars with dead batteries and flat tires, rusted bicycles, the sofa the dog chewed up and the cat peed on. Plus there were lawn mowers, snow shovels, Costco economy packs of bottled water and paper products, hoses and sprinklers, and cases of motor oil.

  I checked in with Morelli. “What’s up?”

  “I couldn’t get the game in on your television, so Bob and I are at my house. Did your mom pack a leftovers bag for me?”

  “Pot roast for sandwiches, Italian bread from the bakery, half a chocolate cake, plus some stuff in the bottom of the bag. I think she threw in some apples.”

  “You’re coming over, right?”

  “Right. Give me a half hour.”

  I waited ten more minutes, left my car, and walked to Butchy’s house. There were two windows on the driveway side, which was now in deep shadow, so I walked toward them. Probably bedroom windows. I stood on tiptoes and peeked in. The shades weren’t drawn, but the room was dark and I couldn’t see much. I went to the garage and tested the door. Locked. I circled around to the window on the side. It had security bars on it, and the glass had been painted black.

  I had an instant image of a large freezer sitting inside surrounded by empty jugs of chocolate syrup and chopped nuts.

  I moved on to the back of the house, crept quietly onto the back stoop, and looked in the back-door window at the kitchen. Part of the room was given over to an eating area with a table and four chairs. There was a large cardboard box on the table. I couldn’t see the contents. There were a couple dishes and some glasses in the dish drain by the sink. Dated electric stove and refrigerator freezer. Small toaster oven on the counter. A roll of paper towels. A loaf of supermarket bread, a jar of peanut butter, and an open package of Chips Ahoy! cookies were lined up next to the paper towels. I thought to myself that Butchy kept a Spartan kitchen, and then I realized it looked a lot like mine. This dragged another sigh out of me.

  I left the back of the house and carefully avoided the side window in the front room. Butchy was watching television. I didn’t want him catching movement on the other side of the glass.

  Ten minutes later I parked in front of Morelli’s house. Bob rushed at me when I walked in and knocked me against the wall. I held the food bag over my head. Morelli gave me a fast kiss and took the bag off my hands.

  “You don’t usually stay this long at your parents’,” he said, taking the bag to the kitchen.

  “A guy that I worked with on the Bogart loading dock rents a house in the Burg. I wanted to look around a little.”

  Morelli set the cake on the counter and put the rest of the bag in the fridge. “And? Did you look around?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t make a lot of money, but he has an expensive truck. He parks it in the driveway, not in the garage, and the garage is locked with the window barred and painted black.”

  “You’re talking about half the Burg. None of that is criminally unusual.”

  I got two forks, and we attacked the cake.

  “I guess that’s true, but he feels off,” I said. “He’s too dumb. And he’s too much in the right place. And he has unexplained money.”

  “He could be in debt up to his eyeballs.”

  “I ran him through the system. He’s debt free.”

  “So you think he’s do
ing wet work? Connie’s uncle won’t be happy to learn there’s a competitor.”

  I carved out a piece with maximum frosting. “I think it would be more like industrial sabotage.”

  “I’ll pass this along. In the meantime I want you to promise me you’ll keep your distance.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Morelli looked at me. “That’s a fib, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much.” I watched him shoveling in cake. “Aren’t you supposed to be avoiding gluten?”

  “I’m taking probiotics, and I’m better as long as I don’t get carried away.”

  “What about your mom’s lasagna?”

  “If my mother makes it, the gluten doesn’t count.”

  “And what about this cake?”

  “Your mom made it. Close enough.”

  I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I didn’t think he was close enough at all. It seemed to me that being engaged to be engaged wouldn’t count for much in the gluten protection plan.

  “Okay, so if it wasn’t Butchy, who do you think killed the two Bogart men?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know, but I think this killer is psycho. Killing someone and running away from the crime is normal. Killing someone and trying to hide the crime is normal. Killing someone and making him into a Bogart Bar isn’t normal.”

  “He only did that once.”

  “Yeah,” Morelli said. “He probably ran out of chocolate.”

  SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS SATURDAY, and I woke up next to Morelli. This was a luxury that didn’t often happen. Even when he didn’t have to be at an early briefing, he was still up before the sun. He made coffee. He showered. He walked Bob. He surfed the news. This morning he was in bed and the sun was outside, shining without him. That meant Morelli wanted something.