No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (13 page)

I sat in front of the television, eating my tuna melt and watching Dr. Phil. The topic was obsessive-compulsive personalities. I changed the channel, because I just couldn’t relate. My thoughts turned to the scene in the restaurant, when Keith was wheeled out on the gurney. Maybe it
was
an irate mugger who had inflicted all that damage, but my gut instincts told me otherwise. Could it be possible that someone else was after the disk too and thought Keith had it on him?

I picked up the phone and punched in the police station; the number was burned into my brain by now. I asked to speak to Mike Mahoe. Luckily, he was there.

“Hi Mike, it’s Brandy Alexander.”

“Hey. How’re ya doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Listen, I was wondering if the police have had any luck finding the mugger who beat up that guy at La Boheme.”

“How’d you hear about that?”

I figured I might as well tell him, because he’d find out about it anyway.

“I was sort of his date.”

Mike stifled a laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Then stop laughing.”

Mike took a deep, calming breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay. It’s just that I’ve never run across anyone with your track record for ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The man had a point.

“It’s an art form. So have they arrested anyone?”

“I just started my shift, but I’ll check it out and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Mike. I really appreciate it. By the way, have they gotten any leads on the guy who broke into my house?” I hoped I sounded more casual than I felt. The truth is, I’ve been really creeped out about staying alone since the whole thing happened.

“There was another break-in yesterday afternoon, a few miles from your place. The guy made off with some jewelry and a wad of cash. I guess you were lucky.”

“I guess so.”

I was feeling restless and bored and all my friends were busy. John was on a date—he’d made it abundantly clear he was incommunicado. Fran was eating dinner at her in-laws’, Paul was at the club—I thought about heading over there but I figured he deserved the night off from me—and Frankie and Carla were at the Flyers’ game.

I took out a pad of paper and a pen and stretched out on the couch. At the top of the page I wrote “THINGS TO DO.” Underneath that I put: #1—Make more friends. I couldn’t think of anything else for my “TO DO” list, so I decided to watch a movie.

John had bought me the “Rocky” DVD for a house-warming gift. I made a bowl of microwave popcorn, melted the last frozen Milky Way on top of it and settled back onto the couch. The dog was snuggled next to me, none the worse for wear from his enormous dump. I was actually happy to be alone now, because I always cry at the end of this movie. It’s highly embarrassing, but there you go.

“Adrienne! Adrienne!” The water works were in full swing as Rocky’s beloved battled her way through the crowd to get to her man. Just as Adrienne fell into Rocky’s waiting arms, the dog bolted upright and hopped off the couch. He ran around in circles and squatted directly in front of the TV, his water fountain tail thumping a mile a minute.

“Here boy.” I tried calling him back to the couch, but he only had eyes for Rocky. I tried again. “Yo, Adrienne.” He whipped his shaggy head around to me, and I swear he was smiling.
I think we have a winner.
I’d have to change the spelling to the male equivalent, but at least now I could quit calling him “the dog”.

It was only 10:30 p.m.; too early to go to bed, so I decided to get into my jammies and read. I was closing the bedroom blinds when I happened to look out onto the street and noticed an unfamiliar, dark colored sedan parked across from my house. It had been there hours earlier when I had taken out the trash. There was someone in it and he seemed to be looking directly into my bedroom. Panic overtook me. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

Five minutes later a patrol car cruised to a stop in front of the sedan. The officer got out and went around to the window side of the car. The guy in the sedan rolled down his window. I couldn’t see real well, but it looked like he was showing the cop his I.D. Then he rolled up the window and the cop walked across the street and rang my bell. I flew down the stairs, Adrian at my heels.

“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s a cop.”

“A cop? What’s he doing here?”

He shrugged. “Somebody thought you needed looking after.”

I picked up the phone and punched in a number. “I don’t need a baby sitter, DiCarlo. Get rid of him.”

“Just doin’ my job, sweetheart. Ventura was spotted in the area. Makes perfect sense that he might try to contact you. Maybe even kill you.”

“Bobby! That’s just plain mean. What is your problem?” I could feel that vein in his temple throbbing right through the phone.

“My problem?” His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “You’re in a restaurant and your date gets beaten within an inch of his life, and
then
you walk in on a burglary in progress and nearly get yourself killed, and where do I hear about all this? Down at the station, because you never bothered to tell me yourself. That’s bullshit.”

“Oh, sorry. I left a message with Marie. Thought she’d pass it on.” My sarcasm was met with a stony silence. “Sorry,” I said again, so close to tears I could taste it. “Look, Bobby, I didn’t mean it. I don’t want it to be this way between us.”

“Neither do I.” The frustration in his voice was palpable.

“It’s just that you’re mad at me for something that’s not my fault.”

“I know. Jesus, Brandy, I’ve known you since you were fourteen years old. How am I supposed to stop caring about what happens to you?”

“Listen, I know you’re concerned about me. Frankly, I’m concerned about me too. And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I do. But I think Marie needs some time to adjust to the idea of me being around. So—maybe we ought to give her that time.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think you should ask to be taken off the case.”

“Is that what you want?”

“That’s what I want.”

“Why are your eyes so puffy?”

“They’re not puffy.”

“Yeah, they are.”

“Will you quit staring at me and keep your eyes on the road?”

It was Saturday morning and I was riding shotgun in Franny’s new Chevy mini van, a gift from Eddie to the “mother to be.” We were on our way to pick up Janine for an undisclosed adventure. Fran’s been a little weird lately.

“I shoulda gotten the T-Bird,” she said. “It’s more my style.”
Oh yeah, baby drool and crushed up Cheerios really say T-Bird to me.
“So,” she continued, “do you want to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to beat it out of you?”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Let’s start with why you’ve been crying.”

By the time we reached Janine’s, Franny knew
everything
and she wasn’t thrilled.

“How the hell am I supposed to keep my mouth shut when your life could be in danger? I can understand not wanting to involve Bobby. I can even understand not wanting to go to the cops. There
is
that little matter of you withholding evidence, but for Christ’s sake, Brandy, stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. If Toodie’s innocent, the police will sort it out. Now,” she ended, briskly, “what can I do to help?”

Janine was standing on the corner waiting for us, wearing a black mini skirt and fishnet stockings. It was twenty-six degrees out. Franny pulled up beside her and Janine climbed into the back seat. “So, where’re we going?”

“You’ll see,” said Fran. “And you’re going to love it!”

“I gotta tell you, Fran, so far, I’m not lovin’ it.”

“No?”

“Not so much.”

“Me neither,” Janine chimed in.

We were parked in front of Philadelphia Eddie’s, the premiere tattoo parlor on the east coast. For some reason, fathomable only to pregnant women whose hormones have gone kablooy, Franny thought we should all get tattoos— each one reflecting our inner selves.

“Which one says you’re a crazy pregnant lady who’s so afraid of change she has to get a tattoo in order to reaffirm she’s still young and desirable, even though she’s married with a baby on the way?” Janine asked.

“I think the dagger.”

Franny glared at the two of us. “Screw both of you. You have no idea what it’s like to put your life on hold because suddenly you’re responsible for another human being.”

“I’m sorry, Fran,” I said.

“Me too,” added Janine. “But it’s not like anything’s really going to change. This is the twenty-first century. You don’t have to alter your lifestyle just because you’re pregnant.”

I was about to jump in with my own reassurances, when a husky, bald headed guy wearing a drab olive green army jacket exited the hoagie shop across the street. He was chomping on a twelve-inch sandwich. “Holy cow! That’s him!” I scrambled to unbuckle my seat belt and flung open the car door.

“Who?” Janine shouted from the back seat.

“Th-the burglar! The guy who broke into my house.” As I propelled myself out of the car, my foot caught in the seat belt and I fell flat on my face on the curb.”

“Are you all right?” Franny asked, leaning over to get a better look.

“I’m fine,” I yelled. Blood was streaming out of my nose and dripping all over my jacket. “Janine, quick. He’s getting away. Franny, call the police!” I began sprinting across the street, cutting a diagonal path against the oncoming traffic. Janine, in fishnets and heels whipped open her door and followed me into the street.

“Why do I have to be the one to call the police?” Franny shouted from the car. “Why can’t I give chase and one of you sit here and call the cops?”

“What are you nuts?” Janine called over her shoulder. “You’re pregnant.”

“Nothing’s gonna change, huh?” Franny sulked.

“Franny, not now.” I was breathing so hard I almost heaved. “Just-call-the-cops!”

By the time we caught up with him, my burglar was four blocks down on a deserted side street. My face was a bloody mess, my lungs were burning so bad I thought they’d spontaneously combust and clutched in my hand was the only weapon I could find on such short notice—a Bic pen.

“Hey, you. Asshole.” He stopped and turned around to see what kind of an idiot would call him that without a semi automatic to back them up. I was wondering the same thing. Janine stood next to me, waving her hands in the air like a Kung Fu Fighter. We circled him, stalling for time until our backup arrived. I must say, he looked a little confused and it suddenly occurred to me that he didn’t know who the hell I was. How could a person invade your home, scare you half to death and then not even have the decency to recognize you on the street?

“Helloo, you broke into my house. Ring any bells?”

The light dawned and he threw his sandwich onto the ground, pastrami flying everywhere. He spun on his heel and dove straight at me, knocking me onto my butt.
Oh God, he’s going to kill me. Where are the friggin’ police?
On cue, the wail of sirens echoed in the street. Janine stood rooted to the spot as he leaped to his feet and bolted down the alley. Boy, for a husky guy, he sure could move. Crossing over to the Italian Market he disappeared into the throng of mid day shoppers.

By the time the police arrived on the scene, there was no scene. It wasn’t their fault; Franny had told them we were traveling east on Arch instead of west. I hope she has at least a few brain cells left by the time this baby is born. After the inevitable lecture about the foolishness of our actions, the cops took our statement and told us they’d be in touch.

Janine called Fran on the cell and asked her to come get us. I limped over to the curb and sat down, inspecting the jagged holes I’d ripped in the knees of my jeans when I fell out of the car. Dried blood had formed a crust on the tip of my nose and on my exposed kneecaps. My butt hurt, my face hurt and my pride didn’t feel too good either. Janine came over and sat down next to me, looking as fresh as a runway model. “Here,” she said, handing me a Wetnap. I began wiping the crud off my face, trying to envision how I’d look tomorrow when the bruising set in.

Franny rounded the corner and I crawled back into the car. She looked disgruntled.

“So,” I said, trying to fend off the mood swing, “ready to get your tattoo?”

“I’m sort of out of the mood.”

“Oh, Franny, don’t be mad,” Janine told her. “It wasn’t nearly as fun as it looked. And I promise you, as soon as this kid is born, we’ll have a real kick-ass adventure.”

Franny perked up. “With guns and everything, Neenie?”

“Okay, Fran, now you’re being just plain weird.”

“Oh, Hey,” Franny said, having suddenly shifted back to her rational self, “I got a picture of the guy, coming out of the hoagie shop.”

“You’re kidding. How?”

She took her right hand off the steering wheel and dug around in her purse until she found her phone. “Here, take a look.”

Holy cow. There he was, plain as day.

“Franny, you’re brilliant!”

“I know.”

Fran double-parked while I ran into the hoagie shop holding tight to her phone.

It was crowded but I squeezed my way to the front and flashed the picture around the deli case. There were two men working the counter. “Excuse me, but do either of you recognize this guy?”

The older of the two held my wrist steady as he examined the photo. “Yeah, hon. he’s a regular here. Goes by the name of Bulldog.”

I thanked him, bought three kosher pickles for the ride home and got back in the car.

When I got home I called the cops and Nick to tell them both about Bulldog. It was a race to see who would come up with his identity first. My money was on Nick. An hour later the phone rang.

“His name is Ivan Sandmeyer. He works as a bouncer at The Diamond Casino in Jersey.” Nick. The man is superhuman.

“Wow, that was fast. I wouldn’t want you to give away any trade secrets, but how’d you manage to come up with it so quickly?”

“Easy stuff, angel. You walk around with a street tag like Bulldog, people are bound to remember.”