The Violet Crow (16 page)

“No. I've got a better idea. Why don't you come back here and borrow a bike from one of the meter maids?”

Biff had no choice but to assent. He didn't want anyone to see how shaky he was on a bicycle. As a body builder, he was in tip-top shape. But he was also muscle-bound and none too secure balancing a bike.

When Biff returned, he couldn't find Bruno. However, two of the red-headed speed freaks, Joe Kennedy and Sammy Pearl, were sitting on the low wall in front of the Presbyterian church, razzing him: “Biff, you ride like a pussy.”

“Shut up, you hard-ons, or I'll bust you.”

They laughed insanely, spurred on by Biff's obvious annoyance. Finally, they calmed down enough for him to ask, “Have either of you seen the psychic?”

In response, they started wiggling their fingers like stage magicians casting spells, and making horror movie sound effects: “Whheee yuuuuuu zzzzpppp.”

Biff let the bicycle crash to the ground. He set his jaw and approached the teenagers, his hand fondling his nightstick. They pretended to cower in fear, but they did in fact cough up the information he wanted, pointing up the street toward the Chinese restaurant.

Biff wondered how he hadn't noticed him before, but Bruno was standing on the sidewalk in plain sight, pretending to take a photograph. In fact, he was spying on Judy Cohen, with a pair of miniature binoculars.

“What's up?” asked Biff.

“Two egg drop, three wonton.”

“That's funny.”

“I know. Five soup, only four people.”

Biff made a face. “I could arrest you for making a joke like that.”

“You know, you're right,” said Bruno segueing from Buddy Hackett to Jackie Mason. “I couldn't agree more. Ethnic jokes are degrading. But let's be honest about it …” switching on the fly to Milton Berle: “Do you remember the tornado that hit South Jersey?”

“What?”

“It caused $10 million worth of improvements.”

“C'mon, Bruno,” Biff protested. “This is a nice town. Lots of people want to live in a place like this.”

“Yeah, it is nice here,” Bruno agreed, pretending to muse over the glorious quality of life in Gardenfield. In fact, he was timing his transition back to Jackie Mason. “It's like a Jewish neighborhood. You can go wherever you please. Nobody's afraid of getting mugged by an accountant.”

“That used to be true,” Biff replied, “before all this trouble started …”

—“Trouble …?”
Bruno was teeing up the next one-liner, when an attractive young woman with a baby stroller approached them. “
Yoo-wer
Bruno X? The
sy-kick
? I've been reading about you in the
pay-per
!”

Bruno blushed. “You caught me red-handed.” He looked at her carefully. The stroller was a sophisticated piece of machinery and the dog she was walking appeared to be a Maltese poodle, a bad sign. Bruno wondered if she was going to threaten him. Maybe she had a tire iron hidden under the baby's blanket to bash his head in. Or she might sic the Maltese on him. Many of that breed were known to be as vicious as they were neurotic.

Instead she extended her hand and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “I want to thank you
fwor
what
yoo-wer doo-in
' here. My husband would say the same thing if he were here. In fact, everybody we know is behind you. We think it's
harr-ible
what they've been saying about you in the
pay-per
. Just
ig-noowr
them and keep up the good work.” Then she continued on her walk.

Bruno was staggered. He looked at Biff to see if he would confirm what had just happened. Biff must have read his thoughts. He howled with laughter. “You can't tell if she's kidding or not, can you?”

The joke was growing stale for Bruno. Better get back to the task at hand. He gave the binoculars to Biff and pointed to the restaurant. “Take a look at this. Can you tell me who those kids are?”

Biff trained the binoculars on the restaurant. “Judy Cohen and her daughters? They're the ones I'm supposed to keep you away from.”

“Yeah, I recognized them. It's the other two love-birds I'm asking about.”

“That's Alison Wales and her boyfriend, the Murphy kid. Everybody calls him Icky.”

“They look pretty cute sitting there together all snuggled up.” Alison had brought her iPod and she was sharing one of the earplugs with Icky. They were sitting together, listening to the same song, swaying slightly, arms around each other's waists. “It seems I see them everywhere I go. What's the story with them?”

“Alison's a college kid. She studies at Penn. She and Icky have been an item all through high school. He's not going to college though.”

“What's he do?”

“He's one of our local scumball speedfreaks. We think he's trying to set up a meth lab along with those kids sitting on the wall.”

“The red-headed ones?”

“The very same.”

Just then Judy and Mimi emerged from the restaurant with two large bags of takeout.

“Aren't you going to follow them?” Biff grinned provocatively. He seemed bored, ready for some action.

“What's the point, Biff?” replied Bruno. “It's obvious they're about to go home. If I followed them, you'd follow me and grab me before I could talk to them. I know where they'll be, so I'm just going to have to ditch you before I go see them.”

“I wouldn't advise that,” Biff said.

“No, of course you wouldn't. I've been getting a lot of good advice today. All of it free.”

“Not much of a day for you then.”

“No,” Bruno agreed. “And it isn't over. Not by a long shot.”

Chapter 33

After the music ended, Icky and Alison were at cross-purposes. Icky wanted to smoke but was out of cigarettes. Alison wanted to get a copy of the paper to see if they were following up on the lead she'd provided.

They paid the bill and headed up Old Kings Road in search of news and nicotine. Alison scored first. She found a box selling the
Pest
and started riffling through it, looking for an exposé of sexual harassment at Penn.

Meanwhile, Icky was prattling excitedly about an apartment that he had rented with Sammy and Joe. It was cheap, discreet, and kind of a dump—not that any of them cared. As they approached the corner of Mechanic Street, Icky made a show of sniffing the air. There was an aromatherapy spa on the corner, and the place reeked of noxious essential oils and sinus-penetrating herbal concoctions. “It smells like a Superfund site.” Icky was pleased with his clever choice. “Put down that paper for a sec so I can show you the secret entrance.” Icky led Alison around the corner, where a door allowed entrance to the apartment in back. It was painted the same shade of white as the entire side of the building. Hardly secret, but certainly discreet. The only other feature was an old-fashioned fire escape with elaborate counterweights that provided emergency egress for the second- and third-story apartments. “We're movin' in our stuff and things'll be cookin' in a coupla days,” Icky crowed.

Just then, one of the NewGarden security guards happened to be coming up Mechanic Street from the direction of the Friends School. He was still dressed in commando getup. The combination of the beret, several days' growth of beard, the commando sweater, and the visible sidearm gave him a startling and formidable aspect. Icky perked up when he saw him. He sniffed the air like a hound picking up a scent and told Alison excitedly, “Must be a foreign brand if I can smell it on top of this stench.” And he rushed over to bum a cigarette.

Icky returned a moment later, inhaling with obvious pleasure. “Right again: Gauloises! I don't think that guy knows any English, but us tobacco connoisseurs speak the same language. He was so pleased that I like Gauloises, he gave me the rest of his pack.” Icky held out the distinctive blue package with four or five cigarettes in it for Alison to see.

She had more pressing things on her mind. She'd already been through the
Pest
once, carefully, page by page. There was no coverage of her story. Now she was thrashing each sheet, her fury growing as she noticed what they were writing about instead: car crashes, the granting of liquor licenses, the weather and the heartbreaking tale of a family that couldn't buy a condo in Garden Township because they owned too many dogs. What did she need to do, connect all the dots, spell it out for them?

Furious, Alison wadded the whole paper into a ball and dropped it in the gutter where she started kicking it, swearing violently each time she struck it. Icky joined in and soon they were playing a form of soccer, punctuated by profanity and, eventually, laughter.

They sat on the curb in front of the barbershop to catch their breath. “Sonsabitches,” moaned Alison, shaking her head.

Icky was lighting another Gauloises directly from the one he'd just finished smoking. “I keep telling you, let it go.”

Alison shrugged. “Easy for you to say.” She took the cigarette from Icky's lips and puffed distractedly. The harsh tobacco made her cough. Icky tenderly took the cigarette from her so she wouldn't burn herself by accident. Finally the spasms died down enough for Alison to complete the thought that had just struck her: “If I were you, I'd stay away from those security guards. They give me the creeps.”

Chapter 34

After a bit of haggling, Biff and Bruno came up with an agreement: drinks and a movie. Biff couldn't drink, of course, while he was working. The opposite was true for Bruno. After getting fired, screamed at and threatened by McRae—plus the stress of two murders to solve—he needed a cocktail or two.

They drove to the theater in separate cars; otherwise Biff couldn't credibly claim to be “tailing” Bruno. They headed out of town, caravan-style, toward the race track circle—which wasn't there anymore, it was just a maze of traffic lights and complicated turnarounds—and pulled into a huge parking lot directly across from the world-famous Berry Hill Shopping Mall. Fortunately the bar and the movie theater shared the same parking lot. So Bruno could imbibe as he pleased and then walk to the movie. That meant Biff wouldn't have to bust him for drunk driving.

Bruno only had the rough outlines of a plan worked out. He'd arranged for a friend to call McRae and tell him to stand by for an important service of process that would be arriving shortly. That would keep him stuck at the office for a while. Which meant that Bruno had to figure out a way to ditch Biff and make it back to Judy's house before McRae gave up and went home.

That part made sense. But Biff was a bulldog. Bruno really had no idea how he could get free of him: He would have to simply follow his instincts and hope an opportunity would come his way.

One thing in his favor was the fact that Biff had not yet seen
Flying Panda, Rolling Doughnut 3
. This was a Hollywood techno-thriller with Chinese actors, lavish special effects, and lots of fighting. Bruno felt sure Biff would find it totally engrossing. The story line featured a medieval Chinese sage who is given a cup of special tea that transports him to modern-day Los Angeles. He battles gangs, police, and corrupt business interests who are all trying to kill him—he doesn't know why. Only his incredible fighting skills and the friendship of big-breasted, ample-bottomed, dewy-eyed Latina heartthrob Katarina Martinez (Bruno wondered why the tabloids didn't call her K-Mart) enable him to defeat his assailants and reveal that the heirs of Confucius are actually the street people of L.A.

The bar was a gaudy place full of television sets tuned to different stations, faux Tiffany lamps, mirrors decorated with Bourbon Street themes, and other inducements to high-spirited fun. Fortunately, the drinks were “industrial strength.” Bruno's martini filled a 16-ounce glass. He offered to buy one for Biff, but the gambit failed; Biff wasn't even tempted. He was busy studying the non-alcoholic drink menu, which featured concoctions containing ingredients like peanut butter, honey, peppermint extract, and whipped cream.

Bruno was amazed when Biff actually ordered one of them.
This was a good sign, wasn't it?
Bruno asked himself, feeling optimistic.

But the next thing he knew, the young cop was plying him with a list of questions and personal observations pertaining to all things psychic that he'd been storing up ever since Bruno had started working with the force.

“I think psychics are basically con artists,” Biff confided.

“Me too.”

“Do you really?”

“No. But I don't feel like arguing tonight.”

Biff ignored this and launched into a discourse about what he'd observed about psychics from watching cable TV. While he was speaking, Bruno stole a surreptitious glance under the bar. He noted that the keys were attached to Biff's belt with some kind of heavy-duty hardware. Not much chance that he'd ever leave them lying on the bar when, or if, he happened to go to the bathroom. And they'd be impossible to pickpocket. He'd have to think of something else.

When Bruno started paying attention again, Biff was still debunking TV psychics. “… they just throw out these general statements that are cleverly chosen to produce predictable responses from most people. Isn't that how you do it, too?”

Bruno had to admire Biff's lack of tact.
Well, if he wants to get personal, let's get personal
. “Cold reading is kind of a skill in itself,” Bruno responded. “It's like interrogating a suspect. Don't you get better results if you ask the right questions?”

“Yeah. But that's different.”

“What's different about it?”

“We don't claim to have magic powers.”

“Neither do I.”

“People think you do …”

“I don't know where they got that idea. I'm certainly not responsible for anyone thinking that.”

“But you take advantage of the perception. That makes you even more of a con than you already are.”