Lean Mean Thirteen, Page 2

  “Uh oh,” Lula said, watching me.

  “Is that J-J-Joyce?” I asked Dickie.

  “Yeah,” Dickie said. “We've reconnected. I had a thing with her a bunch of years ago, and I guess I never got over the attraction.”

  “I know exactly how many years ago. I caught you pork-ing that pig on my dining room table fifteen minutes before I filed for divorce, you scum-sucking, dog-fucking lump of goose shit.”

  Joyce Barnhardt had been a fat, buck-toothed, sneaky little kid who spread rumors, picked at emotional wounds, spit on my dessert at lunchtime, and made my school years a nightmare. By the time she was twenty, the fat had all gone to the right places. She dyed her hair red, had her breasts enlarged and her lips plumped, and she set out on her chosen career of home wrecker and gold digger. Looking back on it all, I had to admit Joyce had done me a favor by being the catalyst to get me out of my marriage to Dickie. That didn't alter the fact that Joyce will never be my favorite person, though.

  “That's right,” Dickie said. “Now I remember. I thought I could finish up before you got home, but you came home early.”

  And next thing, Dickie was on the floor, my hands around his neck. He was yelling as best he could, considering I was choking him, and Lula and Connie were in the mix. By the time Lula and Connie wrestled me off him, the room was filled with clerical staff.

  Dickie dragged himself up and looked at me wild-eyed. “You're all witnesses,” he said to the roomful of people. “She tried to kill me. She's insane. She should be locked up in a looney bin. Call the police. Call animal control. Call my lawyer. I want a restraining order.”

  “You deserve Joyce,” I said to Dickie. “What you don't deserve is this desk clock. It was a wedding present from my Aunt Tootsie.” And I took the clock, turned on my heel, tipped my nose up ever so slightly, and flounced out of his office, Connie and Lula right behind me.

  Dickie scrambled after us. “Give me that clock! That's my clock!”

  Lula whipped out her Glock and pointed it at Dickie s nose. “Were you paying attention? Her Aunt Tootsie gave her that clock. Now get your little runt ass back in your office and close the door before I put a big hole in your head.”

  We took the stairs for fear the elevator might be too slow, barreled out the front door, and speed-walked down the block before the police could show up and haul me off to the clink. I saw the shiny black SUV parked across the street. Tinted windows. Motor running. I paused and gave the car a thumbs-up, and the lights flashed at me. Ranger was listening to the bugs I'd just left in Dickie's pockets.

  We rammed ourselves into Lula's Firebird, and Lula rocketed the car away from the curb.

  “I swear, I thought you were gonna burst into flames when you saw that picture of Dickhead and Joyce,” Lula said. “It was like you had those glowing demon eyes you see in horror movies. I thought your head was gonna rotate.”

  “Yeah, but then a calm came over me,” I said. “And I saw I had a chance to plant the bugs in Dickie s pockets.”

  “The calm must have come while you were squeezing his neck and banging his head against the floor,” Connie said.

  I blew out a sigh. “Yep. That was about the time.”

  We had food spread all over Connie’s desk. Meatball subs in wax paper wrappers, a big tub of coleslaw, potato chips, pickles, and diet sodas.

  “This was a good idea,” I said to Lula. “I was starved.”

  “Guess going apeshit makes you hungry,” Lula said. “What s up next?”

  “I thought I'd do some phone work on Simon Diggery. Maybe I can get a lead on him that'll take me someplace other than a graveyard.”

  Diggery was a wiry little guy in his early fifties. His brown hair was shot with gray and tied back in a ponytail. His skin looked like old leather. And he had arms like Pop-eye from years of hauling dirt. Most often, he worked alone, but on occasion he could be seen walking the streets at two in the morning with his brother Melvin, shovels on their shoulders like Army rifles.

  “You're not going to get anywhere with phone calls,” Lula said. “Those Diggerys are wily.”

  I pulled a previous file on Diggery and copied phone numbers and places of employment. In the past, Diggery had delivered pizzas, bagged groceries, pumped gas, and cleaned kennel cages.

  “It's a place to start,” I said to Lula. “Better than knocking on their doors.”

  The Diggery's all lived together in a raggedy double-wide in Bordentown. Simon, Melvin, Melvin's wife, Melvin's six kids, Melvin's pet python, and Uncle Bill Diggery. If you knocked on the door to the double-wide, you'd only find the python. The Diggery’s were like feral cats. They scattered into the woods behind their home the minute a car stopped in the driveway.

  When the weather was especially bad and the ground was frozen, grave robbing was slow work and Simon would sometimes take odd jobs. I was hoping to catch him at one of those jobs. Since the jobs were random, the only way to learn of them was to trick a family member or neighbor into giving Simon up.

  “What's the charge this time?” Lula asked.

  I paged through the file. “Drunk and disorderly, destruction of private property, attempted assault.”

  Everyone knew Diggery was Trenton's premier grave robber, but his arrests were seldom associated with desecration of the dead. He was most often arrested for disorderly conduct and assault. When Simon Diggery got drunk, he swung a mean shovel.

  I gathered my information together and stuffed it into my bag along with the clock. “I'm working at home for the rest of the day.”

  “I feel like working at home until July,” Lula said. “I'm fed up with this weather.”

  I'd just gotten into my car when my mom called on my cell.

  “Where are you?” she wanted to know. “Are you at the bail bonds office?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  “I was wondering if you would stop at Giovichinni's for me on your way home. Your father is out in the taxi all day, and my car won't start. I think I need a new battery. I want a halfpound of liverwurst, a half-pound of ham, a half-pound of olive loaf, and a half-pound of turkey. Then you can get me some Swiss cheese and some good rye. And a rump roast. And get an Entenmanns. Your grandmother likes the raspberry coffee cake.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I'm on my way.”

  The bail bonds office sits with its back to downtown Trenton and its front to a small ethnic neighborhood known as the Burg. I was born and raised in the Burg, and while I now live outside Burg limits, I'm still tethered to it by family and history. Once a Burgerbit, always a Burgerbit. Giovichinni’s s is a small family-owned deli a short distance down on Hamilton, and it's the Burg deli of choice. It's also a hotbed of gossip, and I was certain news of my rampage was circulating through every corner of the Burg, including Giovichinni's.

  I was currently driving a burgundy Crown Vic that used to be a cop car. I'd needed a car fast, and this was the only car I could afford at Crazy Iggy s Used Car Emporium. I promised myself the Vic was temporary, put it in gear, and motored to Giovichinni's.

  I hurried through the store, head down, all business, hoping no one would mention Dickie. I walked away from the butcher unscathed, rushed past Mrs. Landau and Mrs. Ruiz without saying hello, and I stood in line at the checkout behind Mrs. Martinelli. Thank goodness, she didn't speak English. I looked past Mrs. Martinelli and knew my luck had run out. Lucy Giovichinni was at the register.

  “I hear you trashed your ex's office this morning,” Lucy said, checking my groceries. “Is it true you threatened to kill him?”

  “No! I was there with Lula and Connie. We had some legal issues we wanted to run by him. Honestly, I don't know how these rumors get started.”

  And this was only the beginning. I could see it coming. This was going to turn into a disaster of biblical proportions.

  I carried my bags to the Vic, loaded them into the trunk along with Aunt Tootsies desk clock, and got behind the wheel. By the time I reached my parent's house, sleet was s
lanting onto the windshield. I parked in the driveway and dragged the bags to the front door, where my Grandma Mazur was waiting.

  Grandma Mazur came to live with my parents when my Grandpa Mazur bypassed the FDA and took his trans-fat needs to a higher authority.

  “Did you get the coffee cake?” Grandma asked.

  “Yep. I got the coffee cake.” I slid past her and carried everything to the kitchen, where my mother was ironing.

  “How long has she been ironing?” I asked Grandma.

  “She's been at it for about twenty minutes. Ever since the call came in about you sending Dickie to the hospital and then eluding the police.”

  My mother ironed when she was stressed. Sometimes she ironed the same shirt for hours.

  “I didn't send Dickie to the hospital. And there were no police involved.” At least none that I ran across. “Lula and Connie and I went to Dickie for some legal advice and somehow these rumors got started.”

  My mother stopped ironing and set the iron on end. “I never hear rumors about Miriam Zowickis daughter, or Esther Marchese s daughter, or Elaine Rosenbach s daughter. Why are there always rumors about my daughter?”

  I cut myself a slice of coffee cake, wolfed it down, and crammed my hands into my jeans pockets to keep from eating the whole cake.

  Grandma was stowing the food in the fridge. “Stephanie and me are just colorful people, so we get talked about a lot. Look at all the crazy things they say about me. I swear, people will say anything.”

  My mother and I exchanged glances because almost everything crazy that was said about Grandma Mazur was true. If a mortuary viewing was closed casket, she pried the lid open to take a peek. She sneaked out to Chippendales performances when the road show hit town. She drove like a maniac until she finally lost her license. And she punched Morelli s Grandma Bella in the nose last year when Bella threatened to put the curse on me.

  'Would you like a sandwich?“ my mother asked. ”Can you stay for dinner?"

  “Nope. Gotta go. I have phone work to do.”

  Joe Morelli is my off -again, on-again boyfriend. Patience has never been his strong suit, but he's settled into a waiting game while we both struggle with commitment issues. He's six feet of hard muscle and Italian libido. His hair is currently longer than he would prefer, more out of laziness than fashion choice. He's a plainclothes Trenton cop who tolerates my job and my association with Ranger, but would prefer I go a safer route… like working as a human cannonball. Morelli owns a little fixer-upper house not far from my parents, but he sleeps over when all the planets are lined up correctly. For almost two weeks now, the planets have been misaligned, but it looked like today was about to improve because Morelli's SUV was parked in the lot next to my apartment building.

  I pulled up next to Morelli's car and cut the Vic's engine. I looked up at my windows and saw that lights were on. I live on the second floor of a no-frills three-story brick building on the edge of Trenton. My unit overlooks the parking lot, and that's fine by me. I can amuse myself watching the seniors smash into each other trying to park.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag with my failure to appear files, and hurried into the building. I took the elevator, swung my ass down the second-floor hall, opened the door to my apartment, and stood looking at Morelli. He'd left his boots in my small foyer, and he was at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. He was head-to-toe gorgeous male in thick gray socks and a faded Blue Claws T-shirt that hung loose over his jeans. He had a large spoon in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. His big, goofy, orange dog, Bob, was at his feet. Morelli smiled and put the spoon and the glass down when he saw me.

  “You're home early,” he said. “I thought I'd surprise you with dinner. This feels like a spaghetti night.”

  Who would have thought Joe Morelli, the scourge of the Burg, the bad boy every girl wanted and every mother feared, would grow up and get domesticated.

  I went to his side and looked into the pot. “Smells wonderful. Do I see hot sausages in there?”

  “Yep. From Giovichinni's. And fresh basil and green peppers and oregano. Only a little garlic since I have big plans for tonight.”

  My hamster, Rex, lives in an aquarium on the kitchen counter. Rex likes to snooze in his soup can during the day, but Morelli had fed Rex some green pepper, and he was out of his can, busy stuffing the pepper pieces into his cheeks.

  I tapped on the side of the cage by way of saying hello, and sipped some of Morelli s wine.

  “You look good with a spoon in your hand,” I said to Morelli.

  “I'm gender secure. I can cook. Especially if it's man food. I draw the line at folding laundry.” He draped an arm across my shoulders, and nuzzled my neck. “You feel cold, and I'm feeling very warm. I could share some of my heat with you.”

  “What about the sauce?”

  “Needs to simmer for a couple more hours. I don't have that problem. I've been simmering for days.”

  TWO

  I ROLLED OUT of bed a little after eight A.M. and went to the window. Not snowing or sleeting, but not great weather either. Gray skies, and it looked cold. Morelli was gone. He'd caught a double homicide at ten last night and never returned. Bob had stayed with me, and Bob was now pacing between my bedroom and the front door.

  I pulled on some sweats, stuffed my feet into my boots, grabbed my coat, and hooked Bob up to his leash.

  “Okay, big guy,” I said to Bob. “Lets make tracks.”

  We walked around a couple blocks until Bob was empty, and then we went back to my apartment for breakfast. I made coffee, and while the coffee brewed, Bob and I ate the cold spaghetti.

  I dropped a couple noodles into Rex's food dish, and gave him fresh water. There was some upheaval in the wood chips in front of the soup can, Rexs nose poked through and did some twitching, and Rex emerged. He scurried to his food dish, packed the noodles into his cheeks, and scurried back to his soup can. This is pretty much the extent of my relationship with Rex. Still, he was a heartbeat in the apartment, and I loved him.

  I carried my coffee into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. I blasted my hair with the hair dryer and swiped some mascara on my lashes. I got dressed in a sweater and jeans and boots, and took the phone and my paperwork into the dining room. I was working my way through Diggery s neighbors and a second cup of coffee when I heard the lock tumble on my front door.

  Morelli strolled into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have news.” “Good news or bad news?”

  “Hard to tell,” Morelli said. “I guess it depends on your point of view. Dickie Orr is missing.”

  “And?”

  “Forced entry on his front door. Blood on the floor. Two bullets extracted from his living room wall. Skid marks on the wood floor in the foyer as if something had been dragged across it.”

  “Get out!”

  “Police responded when his neighbors called saying they heard shots. Chip Burlew and Barrelhead Baker were the first on the scene. They got there a few minutes before midnight. Front door open. No Dickie. And it gets better. Marty Gobel caught the case, and when he talked to Dickie s office first thing this morning everyone fingered you.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Possibly because you went gonzo on him yesterday?”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Lula and Connie and I wanted to get some legal advice, and I sort of lost it when I saw a picture of Dickie and Joyce Barnhardt. He had it on his desk.”

  “I thought you were over Dickie.”

  “Turns out there was some hostility left.”

  And now Dickie might be dead, and I wasn't sure what I felt. It seemed mean-spirited to be happy, but I wasn't experiencing a lot of remorse. The best I could manage on short notice was that there would be a hole in my life where Dickie used to reside. But then, maybe not. Maybe there wasn't even much of a hole.

  Morelli sipped his coffee. He was wearing a gray
sweatshirt under a navy jacket, and his black hair curled over his ears and fell across his forehead. I had a flashback of him in bed when his hair was damp against the nape of his neck, and his eyes were dilated black and focused on me.

  “Good thing I have an alibi,” I said.

  “And that would be what?”

  “You were here.”

  “I left at ten to take the murders in the Berringer Building.”

  Uh oh. “Do you think I killed Dickie?” I asked Morelli.

  “No. You were naked and satisfied when I left. I can't see you leaving that mellow state and going off to Dickie's house.”

  “Let me analyze this a little,” I said to Morelli. “Your expertise in bed is my alibi.”