Getting Old is the Best Revenge (11 page)

Every
yenta
has shown up. Every troublemaker. The curious, the bored, and the concerned. The social butterflies consider this an event. Even the group around the pool, tired of sunbathing, grab towels and muumuus and follow us pied pipers inside. As the TV commentators say, it's a slow news day--apparently my neighbors can't find anything better to do.

Believe me, I don't expect results. In fact, I expect chaos. All I hope for is that it might convince them to be alert for any suspicious persons. And maybe cut out the rude remarks for a while.

My mind wanders while Evvie runs the meeting. I try to think of some subtle approach of confronting Elio Siciliano tomorrow. There has to be a way to prevent him from getting furious with us. I'm kidding myself. The man's family came from a place famous for sharp tempers and revenge. Wait 'til he hears what his wife has been up to. And I wish I could talk more with Angelina about her dead cousin, Josephine. My gut instinct tells me there is some connection between the deaths of those two rich ladies. But Lanai Gardens has its own problem at the moment.

Evvie, as recording secretary as well as moderator, is listing on the chalkboard the names of the women who have come forward. She's also noting the times of day the peeping occurred and which buildings were peeped. We're looking for a pattern.

May Levine, the woman who first brought this situation to our attention, reminds us her peeper showed up at four-thirty a.m.

Eileen O'Donnell from Phase Four speaks up: "My peeper came at six."

Jane Willis from Three informs us her incident was at ten p.m.

"Oy,"
I hear Bella say behind me. "Why

couldn't they be at the same time? Why didn't he make it easier for us to catch him?"

"So what are we supposed to do?" Lola Binder asks. "Lots of us are asleep by eight. We never see anything." Hy congratulates her for speaking up.

"Yeah," says Mary Mueller, "and who gets up that early? I personally like to sleep 'til noon."

Everyone has a different opinion on what to do.

"Maybe we can hire a night guard," suggests sweet Barbi Bailey.

Her cousin Casey slaps her playfully on the back. "Right on, cous'." Barbi blushes.

Evvie shakes her head. "Six phases, thirty-six buildings. We'd need more than one guard. Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?"

Irving Weiss raises his hand about an inch high. He is seated with his wife, Millie, and Yolie Diaz. Millie is dozing.

"Yes, Irving," I say. "Do you have a suggestion?" We are always amazed when Irving volunteers words. They are few and far between, but when he speaks, he usually makes sense.

"Maybe go back to the police. You have enough victims to report. Now they have to believe you."

"Good idea," Evvie starts to say, but she is quickly interrupted by the "victims."

"I already tried that," says May. "Forget it."

"I'm not giving my name to any cops," says Eileen. "Then it will be all over the neighborhood. You promised us," she says, glaring at me. She turns to the whole group. "Everything said here stays here, you got it?"

There is much nodding around the room. And probably as many crossed fingers.

"Yeah," says May. "Gladdy Gold, you're a
private
detective."

"But Morrie Langford is a good guy," I say. "Remember how he helped us a few months ago?"

"All I remember," says Ida, "is Tessie tripping and falling down on him while he chased our killer."

There is much fond laughter at this memory.

Three sets of arms are crossed and tightened against their chests. "No cops, you heard her," says May.

"Well," says Tessie, standing up, "if the gals who got peeped don't want us neighbors to help them, let's not waste a nice day. I vote we go have lunch instead."

Tessie's mind is never far from her next meal. She's the only person I know who discusses the dinner menu in the middle of lunch.

"How selfish can you get," says May indignantly.

Some of the other women also stand, stretching, preparing to walk out. Others are chagrined. They aren't receiving enough good gossip from this meeting.

The three victims jump up angrily. "This is how you help?" says Jane.

Evvie, sensing mutiny about to erupt, says, "Everybody sit."

There is much grumbling and a shuffling of chairs, then everyone settles down again.

Our handyman, Denny Ryan, puts his hand up.

Evvie acknowledges him. "Denny, you have an idea?" This is a new Denny compared to the overly shy man he used to be. His close shave with murder has awakened him. Now he's making an effort to participate. And dress better. His new style is to wear a Marlins cap at a jaunty angle, and a clean T-shirt and fairly well fitting jeans. We suspect that's because of Denny's infatuation with Yolie, who glances shyly at him as often as he glances at her. In fact, he gives her a quick grin before standing up to speak.

"I don't sleep so much. I could walk around and see if I see anything . . ." He breaks off. That was a huge speech for Denny. Yolie claps her hands.

The group murmurs. Evvie says, "That's really kind of you, Denny, but it's too big a job for one person."

"Yeah, way too much ground to cover," says Ida.

"Right, maybe by the time you go around the corner of one building he just went the other way," adds Sophie.

"Thanks anyway," says Evvie.

Denny sits, a little disappointed.

"So what about a team taking turns?" Bella suggests.

"It's too cold to go out at night, or even in the early morning," says Ida, who can never find a temperature that pleases her. "We'll catch pneumo nia." It's seventy-five degrees outside, but Ida is wearing a heavy sweater to combat the dreaded air-conditioning.

Mary says, "Not only that, we'll never get enough people to go out seven mornings and nights a week."

"Even if we did," Tessie adds, "some blabbermouth would talk about our schedule and if the
vantz
lives here, he'll know everything we're doing."

A chorus of yeahs follows.

"What about an alarm system? Someone on the first floor gets peeped, she bangs a big pot," says Lola.

"And then what, we all come running out? At night? In the dark?" says Ida. "And who would hear a pot, anyway?"

"Stupid idea," says someone in a back row.

"What a bunch of wusses," says May.

Hy Binder jumps up, waving his arms. Uh-oh, I think, here comes trouble. I knew he was too quiet.

"Just suppose," says Hy, "someone does run into the peeper. Then what? All we got left around here is a bunch of decrepit old broads. Excuse me"--he tips an imaginary hat to Barbi and Casey--"I didn't mean you. So some old dame is gonna beat him up and wrestle him to the ground? Are you crazy?"

The crowd boos. Hy is definitely a man you love to hate. He is always far to the right of politically incorrect.

"All we gotta do is grab the mask off his face," says May.

Evvie shakes a fist at him.

"Yeah. Right. He'll just stand still and say, 'Oh, please take my mask off. And maybe while you're at it, should I drop my pants so you can see if it looks familiar?' "

More boos, and now the group starts throwing peanuts and candy from their pocket stashes.

But Hy is on a roll. "And if Mr. Peepers runs after you, you won't be able to run away. Anybody can catch you, you infirms." He shouts this last part over the catcalls.

Hy charges up to the front of the room and takes over, pushing Evvie out of his way. "Quiet! I have the solution. It's so simple a moron could have thought of it."

Louder jeers erupt from the crowd.

"Yeah, moron, tell us all about it!" wheezes a smoker's voice from the left aisle.

Hy sure knows how to stir up a room the minute he opens up his mouth. All except for his brainwashed wife, Lola, who gazes up at him adoringly.

"Okay,
shlemiel,
" says Ida. "What's the solution?"

Hy has to make a dramatic event out of everything. He dances around wiggling his butt, a favorite, but nauseating, antic of his. He waits until the chatter dies down and he has everyone's attention. He then announces at the top of his lungs, "Keep your friggin' shades down!"

The women are throwing anything available at him: tissues, beach towels, paperback books, stale celery sticks left over from the cooking class held here yesterday.

He shields his face with his hands. "What? What's your problem? It's cheap, don't cost nobody nothing. Don't even have to pay the hotshot P.I.'s a cent."

Ida goes after him with her sun umbrella, threatening to clobber him as he ducks behind a chair, still ranting. "The guy will never come back again if there's nothing for him to see, and frankly, why he'd want to look at you ugly old broads-- Ouch!" he says as Ida whacks him across his precious rear.

Tessie comes forward and lifts Hy up. "Shut up, squirt," she says, and dumps him back into his seat.

He slinks down, terrified of big Tessie.

Everyone applauds.

The door is suddenly flung open. Sol Spankowitz from Phase Three hurries in, both hands carrying huge and obviously heavy grocery bags. "Hey, somebody said there was a party in the clubhouse, so I brought deli. Corned beef, pastrami, chopped liver, and lots of Dr. Brown's CelRay tonic." He grins broadly. "And if this isn't enough, I'll run out for more."

For a moment all stare at the newcomer.

And then the rush begins to get at the food, the women laughing with delight. Those who don't rush Sol reach for their own hidden little brown bags and remove their snacks.

Tessie hugs Sol. "My savior," she says as she digs deep into his huge sack from Moishe's Deli.

"I guess the meeting is over," I tell the girls. It was just as well Sol broke up the meeting. We were getting nowhere fast.

19

Macho Man

I
t's time to take on Elio Siciliano. We are sitting in a coffee shop across the street from Siciliano & Sons Construction, looking out the rather dingy windows, spying on our prey. Our almost unanimous decision was to give Angelina's husband a chance to save his life. We'll tell him what we know about his alleged philandering before we report him to his scary wife.

It was not an easy vote, since no one except Evvie and I was willing to meet him face-to-face. Sophie wanted to send him a letter. Bella's idea was to leave a message on his answering machine. Ida, needless to say, would have had us go straight to Angelina so that vicious justice could be meted out. We outvoted her.

Sophie points out the window. "Those two guys must be Elio's sons. Mmm, what muscles."

"The muscles on the old man ain't bad either," says Evvie, though the direction of her gaze makes it clear that she's enjoying the testosterone types working with shirts off, sweat glistening on their chests.

"He must be some kind of hot stuff, still working at his age," Bella offers.

Evvie says, "I doubt he does any of the hard labor anymore. He looks like the kind of guy who'd die before he'd retire."

"Yeah, I bet he likes to come in just to boss his sons around," says Sophie.

Ida pipes in, "If I were married to a shrew like Angelina, I'd do anything to get out of that house."

Evvie gets up and goes to the next table to pick up another napkin. She wiggles her way back, singing, " 'Macho, macho, macho man.' "

"What's that?" Bella asks.

"A song from a very funny movie," says our entertainment
maven
.

"Well," I say, "have we stalled enough? Bad coffee, greasy doughnuts, and more bad coffee." No bagels in this industrial neighborhood.

I look at my "associates" shriveled up in their seats. Nobody moves.

"OK,
I'll go it alone," I say.

"Yeah," agrees Sophie, "we don't want to gang up on him."

Evvie gets up. "I'll go with you, Glad."

As we leave, we hear behind us a whispered "Good luck." And then, "Another doughnut?" And then, louder, "Look out for the cement mixer. You don't want to end up on a freeway."

Evvie and I cross the street. It's very hot today. How can these guys stand it?

When we reach Elio, all three men turn and look at us. "Mr. Siciliano?" I ask.

I get a chorus of three yeses. Definitely sons. Same big shoulders, though Elio's are bent. Same sharp, dark eyes, except that Elio's are watery.

"Mr. Elio Siciliano?" says Evvie.

Now the boys move off. This is of no interest to them. If we were blond, young, and cute, I'm sure they'd stay.

"Ladies. What can I do for you?" says Poppa.

"A private word?" I suggest, looking around at the rest of the men working close enough to overhear.

He leads us into the small shack that serves as his office. We sit down facing him on the only two rickety chairs behind a scarred brown desk. The tiny room smells heavily of cigar smoke. He stands in front of us, arms crossed. He doesn't bother to hide his impatience.

I've practiced what I'm going to tell him, as tactfully as possible, but now in front of Mr. Macho, I hesitate. Not so, stalwart Evvie. Where fools rush in, she's usually first.