“What?”
“Seven fucking twenty.”
An SUV pulled up to the window, I reached for the money, and I found myself
staring into Spiro Stiva's glittering rat eyes. The lighting was bad, but I could see that his face had obviously been badly burned in the funeral home fire. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to speak.
His mouth had become a small slash in the scarred face. The mouth smiled at me, but the smile was tight and joyless. He handed me a ten. His hand shook, and the skin on his hand was mottled and glazed from burn scars.
Fred gave me a bag, and I automatically passed it through to Spiro.
“Keep the change,” Spiro said. And he tossed a medium-size box wrapped in
Scooby-Doo paper and tied with a red ribbon through the drive-thru window.
And he drove away.
The box bounced off the small service counter and landed on the floor between Fred and me. Fred picked the box up and examined it. "There's a gift tag attached.
It says Time is ticking away.' What's that supposed to mean? Hey, and you know what else? I think this thing is ticking. Do you know that guy?"
“Yeah, I know him.” I took the box and turned to throw it out the drive-thru window. No good. Another car had already pulled up.
“What's the deal?” Fred asked.
“I need to take this outside.”
“No way. There are a bazillion cars lined up. Mann will have a cow.” Fred reached for the box. “Give it to me. I'll put it in the back room for you.”
“No! This might be a bomb. I want you to very quietly call the police while I take this outside.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Just call the police, okay?”
“Holy crap! You're serious. That guy gave you a bomb?”
“Maybe . . .”
“Put it under water,” Fred said. “I saw a show on television and they put the bomb under water.”
Fred ripped the box out of my hand and dumped it into the chicken fryer. The boiling oil bubbled up and spilled I over the sides of the fryer. The oil slick carried to the grill, there was a sound like phuunf, and suddenly the grill was covered in blue flame.
Fred's eyes went wide. “Fire!” he shrieked. He grabbed a super-size cup and
scooped water from the rinse sink.
“No!” I yelled. “Get the chemical extinguisher.”
Too late. Fred threw the water at the grill fire, a whoosh of steam rose in the air, and fire raced up the wall to the ceiling.
I pushed Fred to the front of the store and went back to make sure no one was left in the kitchen area. Flames were running down the walls and along the counters and the overhead sprinkler system was shooting foam. When I was sure the prep area was empty I left through a side door.
Sirens were screaming in the distance and the flash of emergency-vehicle strobes could be seen blocks away. Black smoke billowed high in the sky and flames licked out windows and doors and climbed up the stucco exterior.
Customers and employees stood in the parking lot, gawking at the spectacle.
“It wasn't my fault,” I said to no one in particular.
Carl Costanza was the first cop on the scene. He locked eyes with me and smiled wide. He said something to Dispatch on his two-way, and I knew Morelli would be getting a call. Fire trucks and EMT trucks roared into the parking lot. More cop cars. The crowd of spectators was growing. They spilled onto the street and clogged the sidewalk. The evening news van pulled up. I moved away from the building to stand by the Buick at the outermost perimeter of the lot. I would have driven home, but the keys were in my bag, and my bag was barbecued.
The flashing strobes and the glare of headlights made it difficult to see into the jumble of parked cars and emergency trucks. Fire hoses snaked across the lot and silhouettes of men moved against the glare. Two men walked toward me, away from the pack. The silhouettes were familiar. Morelli and Ranger.
They had a strange alliance. They were two very different men with similar goals. They were teammates of a sort. And they were competitors. They were both smiling when they reached me. I'd like to think it was because they were happy to see me alive. But probably it was because I was my usual wreck. I was grease stained and smoke smudged. I still had the headset taped to my head. I was still wearing the awful chicken hat and Cluck pajamas. And globs of pink foam hung from the hat and clung to my shirt.
They both stood hands on hips when they reached me. They were smiling, but there was a grim set to their mouths.
Morelli reached over and swiped at the pink gunk on my hat.
“Fire extinguisher foam,” I said. “It wasn't my fault.”
“Costanza told me the fire was started with a bomb.”
“I guess that might be true... indirectly. I was working the drive-thru window, and Spiro pulled up. He tossed a gift-wrapped box at me and drove away. The box was ticking, and Fred got all excited and dumped the box in the vat of boiling oil. The oil bubbled over onto the grill and next thing the place was toast.”
“Are you sure it was Spiro?”
“Positive. His face and hands are scarred, but I'm sure it was him. The card on the box said 'Time is ticking away'”
Morelli took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “Call it,” he said to Ranger.
“Heads.”
Morelli caught the quarter and slapped it over. “Heads. You win. I guess I have to clean her up.”
“Good luck,” Ranger said. And he left.
I was too exhausted to get totally irate, but I managed to muster some half-assed outrage. I glared at Morelli. “I don't believe you tossed for me.”
“Cupcake, you should be happy I lost. He would have put you through the car wash at the corner of Hamilton and Market.” He took my hand and tugged me forward.
“Let's go home.”
“Will Big Blue be safe here?”
“Big Blue is safe everywhere. That car is indestructible.”
Morelli was in the shower with me. “Okay,” he said. “There's some bad news, and then there's some bad news. The bad news is that it would seem some clumps of hair got yanked out of your head when we ripped the electrician's tape off. The other bad news is that you still smell like fried chicken, and it's making me hungry. Why don't we towel you off and send out for food?”
I put my hand to my hair. “How bad is it?”
“Hard to tell with all that oil in it. It's sort of clumping together.”
“I shampooed three times!”
“I don't think shampoo is going to cut it. Maybe you need something stronger... like paint stripper.”
I grabbed a towel, stepped out of the shower, and looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. He was right. Shampoo wasn't working, and I had bald spots at the side of my head where the tape had been bound to me. “I'm not going to cry,” I said to him.
“Thank God. I hate when you cry. It makes me feel really shitty.”
A tear slid down my cheek.
“Oh crap,” Morelli said.
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “It's been a long day.”
“We'll figure this out tomorrow,” Morelli said. He took the cap off a tube of aloe ointment and carefully dabbed the ointment on my chicken-fryer burns.
“I bet if you go to that guy at the mall, Mr. Whatshisname . . .”
“Mr. Alexander.”
“Yeah, he's the one. I bet he'll be able to fix your hair.” Morelli recapped the tube and reached for his cell phone. “I'm calling Pino. What do you want to eat?”
“Anything but chicken.”
I woke up thinking Morelli was licking me, but it turned out to be Bob. My face was wet with Bob slurpees, and he was gnawing on my hair. I made a sound that was halfway between laughing and crying, and Morelli opened an eye and batted Bob away.
“It's not his fault,” Morelli said. “You still smell like fried chicken.”
“Great.”
“Could be worse,” Morelli said. “You could still smell like cooked car.”
I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. I soaped myself in the shower until there was no more hot water. I got out and sniffed at my arm.
Fried chicken. I returned to the bedroom and checked out the bed. Empty. Large grease stain on my pillowcase. I borrowed some sweats from Morelli's closet and followed the coffee smell to the kitchen.
Bob was sprawled on the floor next to his empty food bowl. Morelli was at the table, reading the paper.
I poured out a mug of coffee and sat across from Morelli. “I'm not going to cry.”
“Yeah, I've heard that before,” Morelli said. He put the paper aside and slid a bakery bag over to me. “Bob and I went to the bakery while you were in the shower. We thought you might need happy food.”
I looked inside the bag. Two Boston cream doughnuts. “That's so nice of you,” I said. And I burst into tears.
Morelli looked pained.
“My emotions are a little close to the surface,” I told him. I blew my nose in a paper napkin and took a doughnut. “Any word on the fire?”
“Yeah. First, some good news. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is closed indefinitely, so you don't have to go back to work there. Second, some mixed news. Big Blue is parked at the curb in front of my house. I'm assuming this is Rangers handiwork. Unfortunately, unless you have an extra key you're not going tobe driving it until you get a locksmith out here. And now for the interesting stuff. They were able to retrieve the gift box from the chicken fryer.”
I pulled the second doughnut out of the bag. “And?”
“It was a clock. No evidence that it was a bomb.”
“Is that for sure?”
“That's what the lab guys said. I also got a report back on the car bomb. It was detonated from an outside source.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it didn't go off when Mama Macaroni stepped on the gas or turned the key in the ignition. Someone pushed the button on Mama Macaroni when they saw her get into the car. We'll assume it was Spiro since he gave you the box. Hard to believe he'd mistake Mama Macaroni for you, so I have to think he blew her away for giggles.”
“Yikes.”
Bob lumbered over and sniffed at the empty doughnut bag. Morelli crumpled the bag and threw it across the room, and Bob bounded after it and tore it to shreds.
“I'm guessing Spiro was waiting for you and when Mama Macaroni showed up he couldn't resist blowing her to smithereens. Hell, I'm not sure I could resist.”
Morelli took a sip of my coffee. “Anyway, it looks like he isn't trying to kill you... yet.”
I drank a second cup of coffee. I called Mr. Alexander and made an appointment for eleven o'clock. I stood to leave and realized I had nothing.
No key to the Buick. No key to my apartment. No credit cards. No money. No shoes. No underwear. We'd thrown all my clothes, including my shoes, into the trash last night.
“Help,” I said to Morelli.
Morelli smiled at me. “Barefoot and desperate. Just the way I like you.”
“Unless you also like me with a greasy head you'd better find a way to get me dressed and out to the mall.”
“No problemo. I have a key to your apartment. And I have the day off. I'm ready to roll anytime you are.”
“How did this happen?” Mr. Alexander asked, studying my hair. “No. On second thought, don't tell me. I'm sure it's something awful. It's always awful!”
He leaned over me and sniffed. “Have you been eating fried chicken?”
Morelli was slouched in a chair, hiding behind a copy of GQ. He was armed, he was hungry, and he was hoping for a nooner. From time to time, women walked in and checked Morelli out, starting with the hip work boots, going to the long legs in professionally faded jeans, pausing at the nicely packaged goods.
He didn't have a ring on his left hand. He didn't have a diamond stud in his ear. He didn't look civilized enough to be gay. He also didn't return the interest. If he looked beyond the magazine it was to assess the progress Mr. Alexander was making. If he locked eyes with an ogling woman his message wasn't friendly and the woman hurried on her way. I suspected the unfriendly disinterest was more a reflection of Morelli's impatience than of his single-minded love for me.
“I'm done!” Mr. Alexander said, whipping the cape off me. “This is the best I can do to cover up the bald spots. And we've gotten all the oil out.” He looked over at Morelli. “Do you want me to tame the barbarian?”
“Hey, Joe,” I yelled to him. “Do you need a haircut?”
Morelli always needed a haircut. Ten minutes after he got a haircut he still needed a haircut.
“I just got a haircut,” Morelli said, getting to his feet.
“It would look wonderful if we took a smidgeon more off the sides,” Mr. Alexander said to Morelli. “And we could put the tiniest bit of gel in the top.”
Morelli stood hands on hips, his jacket flared, his gun obvious on his hip.
“But then maybe not,” Mr. Alexander said. “Maybe it's perfect just as it is.”
Morelli's cell phone rang. He answered the phone and passed it over to me.
“Your mother.”
“I've been calling and calling you,” my mother said. “Why don't you answer your cell phone?”
“My phone was in my bag and my bag was in CluckinaBucket when it burned down.”
“Omigod, it's true! People have been calling night and day, and I thought they were joking. Since when do you work at Cluck-in-a-Bucket?”
“Actually, I don't work there anymore.”
“Where are you? You're with Joseph. Are you in jail?”
“No. I'm at the mall.”
“Four days to your sisters wedding and you're burning down the Burg. You have to stop exploding things and burning things. I need help. Someone has to check on the cake. Someone has to pick up the decorations for the cars. And the flowers for the church.”
“Albert is in charge of the flowers.”
“Have you seen Albert lately? Albert is drinking. Albert is locked away in his office having conversations with Walter Cronkite.”
“I'll talk to him.”
“No! No talking. It's better he's drunk. If he gets sober he might back out. And leave him in the office. The less time spent with Valerie the more likely he is to marry her.”
I could see Morelli losing patience. He wasn't much of a mall person. He was more a bedroom and bar and playingfootball-in-the-park person. My grandmother was yelling in the background. “I gotta go to a viewing tonight. Stiva's laying out Mama Mac. I need a ride.”
“Are you insane?” my mother said to my grandmother. “The place will be filled with Macaronis. They'll tear you to pieces.”
Morelli parked the SUV in front of my parents' house and looked over at me.
“Don't get any ideas about your powers of persuasion. I'm only doing this for the meatloaf.”
“And later you're going to play detective with me.”
“Maybe.”
“You promised.”
“The promise doesn't count. We were in bed. I would have promised anything.”
“Spiro's going to make an appearance, one way or another. I know it. He's going to have to see his handiwork. He's going to want to be part of the process.”
“He won't see any of his handiwork tonight. The lid will be nailed down. I know Stiva's good, but trust me, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Mama Macaroni together again.”
Morelli and I got out of the SUV and watched a car creep down the street toward us. It was a blue Honda Civic. It was Kloughn's car. Kloughn hit the curb and eased one tire over before coming to a complete stop. He looked through the windshield at us and waved with just the tips of his fingers.
“Snockered,” I said to Morelli.
“I should arrest him,” Morelli said.
“You can't arrest him. He's Valerie's cuddle umpkins.”
Morelli clo
sed the distance, opened the door for Kloughn, and Kloughn fell out of the car. Morelli dragged Kloughn to his feet and propped him against the Civic.
“You shouldn't be driving,” Morelli said to Kloughn.
“I know,” Kloughn said. “I tried walking, but I was too drunk. It's okay. I was driving very slooooowly and 'sponsibly.”