07 Seven Up (20 page)

“Oh yeah? Well, bill this,” Animal said and she yanked Lula's foot out from under her, sending Lula to her ass in the mud.

“Now you made me mad,” Lula said. “I was trying to explain things to you, but now you made me mad.”

I'd managed to pull myself to my feet while Lula was sparring with Animal. I was wiping the mud from my eves when Mary Maggie Mason took a flying leap at me and pinned me facedown in the mud again. “Help,” I yelled. “Help!”

“Stop picking on my friend,” Lula said. And she grabbed Mary Maggie by the hair and flung her out of the ring like a rag doll. Crash! Direct hit on a table at ringside.

Two moro women wrestlers ran out from the wings and jumped in the ring. Lula tossed one out and sat on the other. Animal jumped off the ropes at Lula, Lula let out a bloodcurdling shriek and went down in the mud with Animal.

Mary Maggie was back in the ring. The other wrestler was back in the ring. And some drunken guy climbed in. Now there were seven of us in the ring, rolling around, locked together. I was grabbing for anything I could find, trying to keep from smothering in the mud, and somehow I got a grip on Animal's G-string. And then everyone was hooting and cheering and the bouncers jumped into the ring and separated us.

“Hey,” Lula said, still swinging, “I lost my shoe. Somebody better find my shoe or I'm never coming here again.”

The stage manager had Lula by the arm. “Don't worry. We'll take care of it. Step this way. Right through the door.”

And before we realized what was happening, we were out on the street. Lula with only one shoe and me with no shirt. The door opened again, and Valerie got tossed out along with our coats and purses.

“There was something wrong with that Animal person,” Valerie said. “When you ripped her pants off she was bald down there!”

VALERIE DROPPED ME off at Morelli's house and waved goodbye.

Morelli opened the door and said the obvious. “You're covered with mud.”

“It didn't work out exactly as planned.”

“I like the no-shirt look. I could get used to it.”

I stripped in the hall and Morelli took my clothes directly to the washer. I was still standing there when he returned. I was wearing the four-inch heels and mud and nothing more.

“I'd like to take a shower,” I told him, “but if you'd rather I didn't track mud up the stairs you can just throw a bucket of water at me in the backyard.”

“I know this is probably sick,” Morelli said, “but I'm getting hard.”

MORELLI LIVES IN a row house on Slater just a short distance from the Burg. He'd inherited the house from his Aunt Rose and he'd made it a home. Go figure that. The world is filled with mysteries. His house felt a lot like my parents' house, narrow and spare in luxuries, but filled with comforting smells and memories. In Morelli's case the smells were reheated pizza, dog, and fresh paint. Morelli was little by little working on window trim.

We were at his kitchen table . . . me, Morelli, and Bob. Morelli was eating a slice of raisin-cinnamon toast and drinking coffee. And Bob and I ate everything else in the refrigerator. Nothing like a big breakfast after a night of mud wrestling.

I was wearing one of Morelli's T-shirts, a borrowed pair of sweats, and I was barefoot since my shoes were still wet inside and out and would probably get tossed in the trash.

Morelli was dressed for work in his plainclothes cop clothes.

“I don't get it,” I said to Morelli. “This guy is riding around in a white Cadillac and the police aren't picking him up. Why is that?”

“Probably he's not riding around a lot. He's been spotted a couple times, but not by anyone who's been in a position to go after him. Once by Mickey Greene on bicycle patrol. Once by a blue-and-white stuck in traffic. And he's not a priority. It isn't like there's someone assigned full-time to finding him.”

“He's a murderer. That's not a priority?”

“He's not exactly wanted for murder. Loretta Ricci died of a heart attack. At this point he's only wanted for questioning.”

“I think he stole a pot roast from Dougie's freezer.”

“Well, that ups the ante. That'll put him on the priority list for sure.”

“Don't you think it's weird that he'd steal a pot roast?”

“When you've been a cop for as long as I have you don't think anything is weird.”

Morelli finished his coffee, rinsed his cup, and put it in the dishwasher. “I have to go. Are you going to stay here?”

“No. I need a ride back to my apartment. I've got things to do and people to see.” And I could use a pair of shoes.

Morelli dropped me at the door to my building. I walked in barefoot, wearing Morelli's clothes, carrying mine. Mr. Morganstern was in the lobby.

“Must have been some night,” he said. “I'll give you ten dollars if you'll tell me the details.”

“No way. You're too young.”

“How about twenty? Only thing is you'll have to wait until the first of the month when I get my Social Security check.”

Ten minutes later, I was dressed and out the door. I wanted to get to Melvin Baylor before he left for work. In honor of the Harley, I'd dressed in boots, jeans, T-shirt, and my Schotts leather jacket. I roared out of the parking lot and caught Melvin attempting to unlock his car. The lock had rusted and Melvin was having a hard time turning the key. Why he bothered locking it at all was beyond me. No one would want to steal this car. He was dressed in suit and tie and, with the exception of dark circles under his eyes, he looked much better.

“I hate to bother you,” I said, “but you need to go to court and reschedule your date.”

“What about work? I'm supposed to go to work.”

Melvin Baylor was a very nice schnook. How he ever got the nerve to take a leak on the cake was a mystery.

“You'll have to go in late. I'll call Vinnie and have him meet us at the municipal building and hopefully it won't take long.”

“I can't get my car open.”

“Then you're in for a treat, because you get to ride on my bike.”

“I hate this car,” Melvin said. He stepped back and kicked the car in the door and a big piece of rusted metal fell off. He grabbed the side mirror and ripped it off and threw it onto the ground. “Fucking car,” he said, kicking the mirror across the street.

“That's good,” I said. “But maybe we should go now.”

“I'm not done,” Melvin said, trying his key on the trunk, having no luck there, either. “Fuck!” he yelled. He climbed up the bumper onto the trunk and jumped up arid down. He climbed onto the roof and did more jumping.

“Melvin,” I said, “you're a little out of control here.”

“I hate my life. I hate my car. I hate this suit.” he half fell, half jumped off the car and tried the trunk again. This time he got it open. He rummaged around in the trunk and came up with a baseball bat. “Ah-ha!” he said.

Oh boy.

Melvin hauled off and whacked the car with the bat. He whacked it again and again, working up a sweat. He whacked a side window, sending glass flying. He stepped back and looked at his hand. It had a big gash in it. Blood was everywhere.

Shit. I got off the bike and sat Melvin down on the curb. Every housewife on the block was standing on the street, watching the show. “I need a towel here,” I said. Then I called Valerie and told her to bring the Buick to Melvin's house.

Valerie arrived a couple minutes later. Melvin had his hand wrapped in a towel, but his suit and shoes were spattered with blood. Valerie got out of the car, took one look at Melvin, and keeled over. Crash. Onto the Seligs' lawn. I left Valerie on the lawn and drove Melvin to the emergency room. I got him settled in and drove back to the Seligs'. I didn't have time to sit and wait for Melvin to get stitched up. Unless he went into shock from blood loss, he'd probably be there for hours before seeing a doctor.

Valerie was standing on the curb, looking confused.

“I didn't know what to do,” she said. “I don't know how to drive a motorcycle.”

“No problem. You can have the Buick back.”

“What happened to Melvin?”

“Temper tantrum. He'll be fine.”

A DROP-IN AT the office was next on my list. I thought I'd dressed for the day, but Lula made me look like an amateur. She was wearing boots from the Harley store, leather pants, leather vest, keys on a chain that clipped to her belt. And draped over her chair was a leather jacket with fringe running the length of the arm and a Harley emblem stitched across the back.

“Just in case we gotta go out on the bike,” she said.

Fearsome leather-clad black biker chick causes havoc on highways. Traffic tied up for miles due to rubbernecking motorists.

“You'd better sit down so I can tell you about DeChooch,” Connie said to me.

I looked to Lula. “Do you know about DeChooch?”

Lula's face broke into a smile. “Yeah, Connie told me when I came in this morning. And she's right, you better sit down.”

“Only people in the family know about this,” Connie said. “It's been kept real quiet so you have to keep it to yourself.”

“What family are we talking about here?”

“The family.”

“Gotcha.”

“So here it is . . .”

Lula was already chuckling, unable to contain herself. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It just cracks me up. Wait until you hear this, you'll fall off the chair.”

“Eddie DeChooch set up a deal for contraband cigarettes,” Connie said. "He figured it was a small operation and he could handle it himself. So he rented a truck and drove to Richmond to pick up the cartons of cigarettes. While he's there Louie D has a fatal heart attack. As you may know, Louie D is from Jersey. All his life he's lived in Jersey and then a couple years ago he relocated to Richmond to manage some business operations. So when Louie D goes toes-up DeChooch gets on the phone and immediately notifies the Jersey family.

“The first person DeChooch calls, of course, is Anthony Thumbs.” Connie paused, leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “Do you know who I'm talking about when I say Anthony Thumbs?”

I nodded. Anthony Thumbs controls Trenton. Which I guess is a dubious honor, being that Trenton isn't exactly the center of the universe for mob activity. His real name is Anthony Thumbelli but everyone calls him Anthony Thumbs. Since Thumbelli isn't a common Italian name, I can only assume it was fabricated on Ellis Island and stuck, just as my Grandfather Plum's name was shortened from Plumerri by an overworked immigration clerk.

Connie went on. "Anthony Thumbs has never been especially fond of Louie D, but Louie D is related in some obscure way, and Anthony knows the family plot is in Trenton. So Anthony Thumbs does the right thing as head of the family and tells DeChooch to escort Louie D back to Jersey for burial. Only Anthony Thumbs, who's not known as being the world's most eloquent guy, says to Eddie DeChooch, who can't hear for anything, 'Bring the fart to me.' That's a direct quote. Anthony Thumbs says to Eddie DeChooch, 'Bring the fart to me.'

“DeChooch knows there's no love lost between Louie D and Anthony Thumbs. And DeChooch thinks it's a vendetta thing and thinks Anthony Thumbs said, 'Bring the heart to me.'”

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

Connie was grinning and tears of laughter were streaming down Lula's cheeks.

“I love this part,” Lula said. “I love this part.”

“I swear to God,” Connie said. “DeChooch thought Anthony Thumbs wanted Louie D's heart. So DeChooch breaks into the funeral home late at night and does a very nice job of slicing into Louie D and removing his heart. Had to crack a couple ribs to do it, apparently. The funeral director said . . .” Connie had to stop a minute to compose herself. “The funeral director said he'd never seen such a professional job.”

Lula and Connie were laughing so hard they had to steady themselves with both hands on Connie's desk to keep from rolling on the floor.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, not knowing whether to join them laughing or go my own route and throw up.

Connie blew her nose and wiped the tears away with a clean tissue. "Okay, so DeChooch puts the heart in an igloo cooler with some ice and takes off for Trenton with the cigarettes and the heart. He brings the cooler to Anthony Thumbs, proud as anything, and tells him he's got Louie D's heart.

"Anthony goes nuts, of course, and tells DeChooch to take the fucking heart back to Richmond and have the undertaker return it to Louie D.

“Everyone's sworn to secrecy because this is not only embarrassing, it's dangerously disrespectful between two family factions that don't get along all that well during the best of times. And on top of that Louie D's wife, who is a very religious woman, is freaking because Louie's been desecrated. Sophia DeStephano has set herself up as the protector of Louie's immortal soul and is hell-bent to see Louie buried whole. And she's given DeChooch an ultimatum that either he gets Louie's heart back in Louie's body or DeChooch will be hamburger.”

“Hamburger?”

“One of Louie's operations was a meat processing plant.”

I gave an involuntary shiver.

“Now here's where it gets confusing. DeChooch somehow loses the heart.”

It was so bizarre I wasn't sure if Connie was telling me the truth or if she and Lula had concocted the whole thing as a joke. “He lost the heart,” I said. “How could he lose the heart?”

Connie did a palms-up. Like she couldn't totally believe it. “I got it all from my Aunt Flo, and that's as much as she knows.”

“No wonder DeChooch is depressed.”

“Fuckin' A,” Lula said.

“Where does Loretta Ricci fit into this?”

Another palms-up from Connie. “Don't know.”

“Mooner and Dougie?”

“Don't know that, either,” Connie said.

“So DeChooch is looking for Louie D's heart.”

Connie was still smiling. Connie really liked this. “Apparently.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Somewhere along the way DeChooch decided Dougie had the heart. Then he decided Mooner had the heart.”

“Yeah,” Lula said, “and now he thinks you have the heart.”

A bunch of black dots danced across my field of vision and bells started clanging in my head.

“Uh-oh,” Lula said, “you don't look so good.”

I put my head between my legs and tried to take a deep breath. “He thinks I have Louie D's heart!” I said. "He thinks I'm walking around with a heart. My God, what kind of a person walks around with a dead guy's heart?