07 Seven Up (13 page)

“I want you to look up a couple names in the phone book,” I said to Grandma. “I need to know where Pinwheel Soba and Dave Vincent live.”

I listened to Grandma thumbing through pages, and finally she came back on the line. “Neither of them's listed.”

Rats. Morelli would be able to get me the addresses, but Morelli wouldn't want me messing around with Snake Pit owners. Morelli would give me a big lecture about being careful, we'd get into a shouting match, and then I'd have to eat a lot of cake to calm down.

I took a deep breath and redialed Ranger.

“I need addresses,” I told Ranger.

“Let me guess,” Ranger said. “Pinwheel Soba and Dave Vincent. Pinwheel's in Miami. He moved last year. Opened a club in South Beach. Vincent lives in Princeton. There's supposed to be bad feelings between DeChooch and Vincent.” He gave me Vincent's address and disconnected.

A flash of silver caught my eye and I looked up to see Mary Maggie zip around the corner in her Porsche. I pulled out after her. Not exactly following her, but keeping her in view. We were both going in the same direction. North. I stayed with her and it seemed to me she was going pretty far afield to get to a gym. I bypassed my turnoff and stayed with her through center city to north Trenton. If she'd been on guard she would have spotted me. It's hard for a single car to do a decent tail. Fortunately, Mary Maggie wasn't looking for a tail.

I dropped back when she turned onto Cherry Street. I parked around the corner from Ronald DeChooch's house and watched Mary Maggie get out of her car, walk to the door, and ring the doorbell. The door opened and Mary Maggie stepped inside. Ten minutes later, the front door opened again and Mary Maggie Mason came out. She stood on the front porch for a minute or two talking to Ronald. Then she got into her car and drove away. This time she went to a gym. I watched her park and go into the building and then I left.

I took Route 1 to Princeton, hauled out a map, and located Vincent's house. Princeton isn't actually part of New Jersey. It's a small island of wealth and intellectual eccentricity floating in the Sea of Central Megalopolis. It's an honest-to-god town awash in the land of the strip mall. Hair is smaller, heels are shorter, asses are tighter in Princeton.

Vincent owned a large yellow-and-white colonial set onto a half-acre lot on the edge of town. There was a detached two-car garage. No cars in the driveway. No flag proclaiming that Eddie DeChooch was in residence. I parked one house down on the opposite side of the street and watched the house. Very boring. Nothing happening. No cars cruising by. No children playing on the sidewalk. No metal blaring out of a second-story boom box. A bastion of respectability and decorum. And a little intimidating. Knowing it was bought with Snake Pit profits did nothing to alter the feeling of old-money snootiness. I didn't think Dave Vincent would appreciate having his peaceful Sunday disturbed by a bounty hunter looking for Eddie DeChooch. And I could be going out on a limb here, but I suspected Mrs. Vincent wouldn't take a chance on tarnishing her social standing by harboring the likes of Choochy.

After I'd done an hour of worthless surveillance a cop car crept down the street and pulled up behind me. Great. I was about to get rousted out of the neighborhood. If someone caught me sitting in front of their house in the Burg, they'd send their dog out to take a leak on my car wheel. Backup action would be a string of profanities yelled at me to get the hell out of there. In Princeton they send a perfectly pressed, perfectly polite officer of the law to make an inquiry. Is this class, or what?

There didn't seem to be anything gained by stressing Officer Perfect so I got out of my car and walked back to him while he was checking my plate. I passed him my card and the bond contract stating my right to apprehend Eddie DeChooch. And I gave him the standard explanation of routine surveillance.

Then he explained to me that the good people in this neighborhood aren't used to being under surveillance, and probably it'd be best if I conducted my surveillance in a more discreet manner.

“Sure,” I said. And then I left. If a cop is your friend he's the best friend you'll ever have. On the other hand, if you're not on intimate terms with a cop it's smart not to annoy him.

Watching the Vincent house wasn't going to do me any good, anyway. If I wanted to talk to Dave Vincent better to see him at work. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to take a look at The Snake Pit. Not only would I get to talk to Vincent, I'd also get another shot at Mary Maggie Mason. She'd seemed like a nice enough person, but clearly there was more to the story.

I took Route 1 south and on a whim decided to take another look around at Mary Maggie's garage.

I CRUISED INTO the garage and rode around looking for the Cadillac. I went up and down every aisle, but I didn't have any luck. Good thing, too, because I didn't know what I'd do if I found Choochy. I didn't feel capable of bringing him in on my own. And the thought of agreeing to Ranger's deal gave me an orgasm on the spot, followed by a panic attack.

I mean, what if I spent the night with Ranger? What then? Suppose he was so amazing I got ruined for all other men. Suppose he was better in the sack than Joe. Not that Joe was a slouch in bed. It was just that Joe was mortal, and I wasn't sure about Ranger.

And what about my future? Was I going to marry Ranger? No. Ranger wasn't marriage material. Hell, Joe was barely marriage material.

And then there was the other side of it. Suppose I didn't measure up. I involuntarily squinched my eyes closed. Argh! It would be awful. Beyond embarrassing.

Suppose he didn't measure up! The fantasy would be ruined. What would I think about when it was just me and the shower massage?

I shook my head to clear my brain. I didn't want to contemplate a night with Ranger. It was too complicated.

IT WAS DINNERTIME when I got back to my parents'. Valerie was out of bed and at the table, wearing dark glasses. Angie and Mooner were eating peanut butter sandwiches in front of the television. Mary Alice was galloping around the house, pawing at the carpet and snorting. Grandma was dressed for the viewing. My father had his head down over his meat loaf. And my mother was at the head of the table, having a full-blown hot flash. Her face was flushed, her hair was damp on her forehead, and her eves darted feverishly around the room, daring anyone to imply she was in the throes of the change.

Grandma ignored my mother and passed me the applesauce. “I was hoping you'd show up for dinner. I could use a ride to the viewing.”

“Sure,” I said. “I was going, anyway.”

My mother gave me a pained expression.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“It's your clothes. You go to the Ricci viewing dressed like that, and I'll be getting phone calls for a week. What will I say to people? They'll think you can't afford decent clothes.”

I looked down at my jeans and boots. They looked decent to me, but I wasn't about to argue with a menopausal woman.

“I have clothes you can wear,” Valerie said. “In fact, I'll go with you and Grandma. It'll be fun! Does Stiva still serve cookies?”

There must have been a mix-up at the hospital. Surely I don't have a sister who thinks funeral parlors are fun.

Valerie popped up out of her chair and pulled me upstairs by the hand. “I know just the outfit for you!”

There's nothing worse than wearing someone else's clothes. Well, maybe world famine or a typhoid epidemic, but aside from that, borrowed clothes never feel right. Valerie is an inch shorter than me and five pounds lighter. Our shoe sizes are identical, and our taste in clothes couldn't be more different. Wearing Valerie's clothes to the Ricci viewing equates to Halloween in hell.

Valerie whisked a skirt out of her closet. “Ta-dah!” she sang. “Isn't this wonderful? It's perfect. And I have the perfect top for it, too. And I have the perfect shoes. They're all coordinated.”

Valerie has always been coordinated. Her shoes and her handbags always match. Her skirts and shirts match, too. And Valerie can actually wear a scarf without looking like an idiot.

Five minutes later, Valerie had me completely outfitted. The skirt was mauve and lime green, patterned with pink and yellow lilies. The material was diaphanous and the hemline hit midcalf. Probably looked great on my sister in L.A., but I felt like a seventies shower curtain. The top was a stretchy little white cotton shirt with cap sleeves and lace around the neck. The shoes were pink strappy sandals with three-inch heels.

Never in my life had I ever considered wearing pink shoes.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and tried not to grimace.

“LOOK AT THIS,” Grandma said when we got to Stiva's. “It's a packed house. We should have gotten here sooner. All the good seats up front by the casket are going to be gone.”

We were in the foyer, barely able to push our way through the mourners who were spilling in and out of the viewing rooms. It was precisely seven o'clock, and if we'd gotten to Stiva's any sooner we would have had to line up outside like fans at a rock concert.

“I can't breathe,” Valerie said. “I'm going to be squashed like a bug. My girls will be orphans.”

“You have to step on people's feet and kick them in the back of the leg,” Grandma said, “then they move away from you.”

Benny and Ziggy were standing just inside the door to room one. If Eddie came through the door they had him. Tom Bell, the primary on the Ricci case, was also here. Plus half the population of the Burg.

I felt a hand cup my ass and I whirled around to catch Ronald DeChooch leering down at me. “Hey, chicky,” he said, “I like the flimsy skirt. I bet you're not wearing any panties.”

“Listen, you dickless sack of shit,” I said to Ronald DeChooch, “you touch my ass again and I'll get someone to shoot you.”

“Spunky,” Ronald said. “I like that.”

Meanwhile, Valerie had disappeared, swept away with the crowd surging forward. And Grandma was worming her way up to the casket ahead of me. A closed casket is a dangerous situation, since lids have been known to mysteriously spring open in Grandma's presence. Best to stay close to Grandma and keep watch that she doesn't get her nail file out to work at the latch.

Constantine Stiva, the Burg's favorite undertaker, spotted Grandma and rushed to stand guard, beating Grandma to the deceased.

“Edna,” he said, nodding and smiling his understanding undertaker smile, “so nice to see you again.”

Once a week Grandma caused chaos at Stiva's, but Stiva wasn't about to alienate a future customer who was no spring chicken and had her eye on a top-of-the-line mahogany, hand-carved eternal resting box.

“I thought it only right that I pay my respects,” Grandma said. “Loretta was in my seniors group.”

Stiva had himself wedged between Grandma and Loretta. “Of course,” he said. “Very kind of you.”

“I see it's another one of them closed-coffin things,” Grandma said.

“The family's preference,” Stiva said, his voice as smooth as custard, his expression benign.

“I guess it's best, being that she was shot and then all carved up in the autopsy.”

Stiva showed a flicker of nervousness.

“Shame they had to do the autopsy,” Grandma said. “Loretta was shot in the chest and she could have had an open casket except I guess when they do the autopsy they take your brain out and I suppose that makes it hard to get a good hairdo.”

Three people who had been standing nearby sucked in air and speed-walked to the door.

“So what did she look like?” Grandma asked Stiva. “Would you have been able to do anything with her if it wasn't for the brain thing?”

Stiva had Grandma by the elbow. “Why don't we go into the lobby where it's not so crowded and we can have some cookies.”

“That's a good idea,” Grandma said. “I could use a cookie. Nothing interesting to see here, anyway.”

I followed them out and on the way stopped to talk to Ziggy and Benny.

“He's not going to show up here,” I said. “He's not that crazy.”

Ziggy and Benny shrugged in unison.

“Just in case,” Ziggy said.

“What was the deal with Mooner yesterday?”

“He wanted to see the club,” Ziggy said. “He came out of your apartment building to get some air and we got to talking and one thing led to another.”

“Yeah, we didn't mean to kidnap the little guy,” Benny said. “And we don't want old lady Morelli putting the eye on us. We don't believe in any of that Old World stuff, but why take a chance.”

“We heard she put the eye on Carmine Scallari, and he couldn't, uh, perform after that,” Ziggy said.

“The story goes he even tried that new medicine but nothing helped,” Benny said.

Benny and Ziggy both gave an involuntary shiver. They didn't want to be in the same predicament as Carmine Scallari.

I looked past Benny and Ziggy into the lobby and spotted Morelli. He was standing to one side, against the wall, surveying the crowd. He was wearing jeans and black crosstrainers and a black T-shirt under a tweed sportcoat. He looked lean and predatory. Men approached him to talk sports and then move on. Women watched from a distance, wondering if Morelli was as dangerous as he looked, if he was as bad as his reputation.

He caught my eye from across the room and crooked his finger at me, doing the universal come here gesture. He draped a proprietary arm around me when I reached him and kissed me on my neck, just below my ear. “Where's Mooner?”

“Watching television with Valerie's kids. Are you here because you're hoping to catch Eddie?”

“No. I'm here hoping to catch you. I think you should let Mooner overnight with your parents, and you should come home with me.”

“Tempting, but I'm with Grandma and Valerie.”

“I just got here,” Morelli said. “Did Grandma manage to get the lid up?”

“Stiva intercepted her.”

Morelli ran his finger along the lace edging on the shirt. “I like the lace.”

“What about the skirt?”

“The skirt looks like a shower curtain. Sort of erotic. Makes me wonder if you're wearing underwear.”

Omigod! “That's the same thing Ronald DeChooch said to me.”