Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (26 page)

“I gotta get dressed,” I said. “They’re lettin’ me leave now.”

“I can wait outside if you want.”

“Actually, I could use some help, gettin’ my pants on.”

“Sure, okay,” said Arnold.

I slipped the hospital gown off, sat on the bed, and put on the shorts that Herm had brought for me. They were a couple of
sizes too big, but that wasn’t what got Arnold’s openmouthed attention.

I followed his gaze to my feet. “I lost the toes at Bastogne, during the war,” I explained. “Frostbite and trench foot.”

“Jeez. You were at Bastogne?”

“Spent a week there.”

His eyes drifted higher, to a series of scars along the length of my right leg. “Got those the day I jumped into France. Shrapnel
from a Nazi potato masher.”

“A what?”

“Grenade. All superficial wounds, luckily. Poured a little sulfa powder on ’em, got bandaged at the aid station, went right
back into the fight the same day. The medics took the fragments out later.”

His eyes moved still higher, past my appendectomy scar to the inch-and-a-half gash just under my right shoulder blade. “Knife
wound,” I said. “Got that in ’39, my first year as a shamus. Help me with my pants, okay?”

We got my pants on without any trouble. Herm’s waist was a couple of inches bigger than mine. I even got his sock over the
heavy bandage on my foot.

Same story with Herm’s big Hawaiian shirt. I was buttoning the last button when the kid observed, “I’m guessin’ these ain’t
your clothes.”

“Damn good guess, Arnold.”

“My friends, they call me Stinky.”

“That what you want me to call you?”

“Well, it’s kind of a kid’s name. I mean, I knew Teddy and Chick from grammar school, Jimmy too. Them all bein’ dead now,
I don’t know.”

“Charlotte ever call you Stinky?”

He lowered his eyes. “No.”

“Why don’t I just call you Arnie?”

He grinned at me, eyes rising. “Okay.”

I closed Herm’s suitcase, slipping the Barracuda Brothers’ thick envelope inside, and put it beside me on the floor. The nurse
came in with the wheelchair, looked at Arnold, then at me. “Shall I take you downstairs now, Mr. Lombardi?”

“Another minute, okay, nurse?” She nodded and started to leave. “Say good-bye to old lockjaw for me,” I added, pointing at
my absent roommate’s bed, and she closed the door. I eased myself into the chair, propped my feet on the supports, and placed
the suitcase securely on my lap.

“So, Arnie, whaddya think?”

He looked like he might cry. His eyes filled up as swells of suppressed emotion rolled like high waves through him.

“I wanted to say thanks,” he said, fighting those emotions, trying not to shame himself with tears, not old enough to know
there wasn’t shame in tears. Still a kid, Arnold, but he had all the material for being a man.

“You’re welcome,” I answered, offering a smile and letting
it spread into my father’s. Pop’s smile, my smile, and Arnie’s smile, one and the same. “Want to push me out?” I asked. “Save
the nurse some trouble?”

“Sure.” He started pushing the wheelchair, then stopped. “I’m real sorry, Mr. Lombardi. About everything. I really mean it.”

“I know you do, kid.”

“Pa, he’s got nothin’ but good stuff to say about you.”

“He’s a good man. His heart’s in the right place.”

“And Ma, she’s sorry she hit you with the fryin’ pan that time.”

“All forgiven.”

“She was wond’rin’, y’ know, if maybe you could come over for dinner sometime. Ma, she cooks sausage and potatoes like nobody.”

“Sounds good.”

“Maybe you could be friends with Pa.”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Maybe even you and me… could be friends… even.”

“Maybe.”

“You think a dumb fuckin’ dago like you
could be
friends with a dumb fuckin’ Polack like me? You think so, Mr. Lombardi?”

“It’s a possibility.”

He offered my father’s warm smile again, and his hand. I took it firmly and held it.

“Thanks again, Mr. Lombardi.” He started pushing the wheelchair.

“Hey, Arnie,” I said.

“Yeah, Mr. Lombardi?”

“Call me Eddie.”

Brooklyn. Winter 1949. Private eye Eddie Lombardi is having a
very
bad dream—and it starts coming true the minute he wakes up.

Eddie has no interest in helping Arnold Pulaski get out of jail—as far as he’s concerned, the little weasel can rot in there.
Only a tearful plea from Arnold’s father and some major arm-twisting from Eddie’s old pal Gino makes him take the case.

Arnold, whose lack of repentance is irritating in the extreme, is charged with stealing the district attorney’s car. It seems
like a typical case of petty criminals trying for the big time, until Arnold’s teenage partners-in-crime are killed off one
by one.

Hot on the trail of a cold-blooded killer, Eddie is confronted with opposition at every turn, in the form of a compromised
D.A., an amoral female, blackmail, and a missing file that holds the case against one of Brooklyn’s biggest crime lords. If
only Eddie can stay alive long enough to figure out how everything fits together…