Two for the Dough (19 page)

Wonderful.

I left his office and caught sight of Morelli slouched against the wall next to the front door, hands shoved in pants pockets, clearly pissed off. He spotted me, and his expression didn’t change, but the rise and fall of his chest picked up. I plastered a phony smile on my face and breezed across the lobby to him, whisking out the door before Spiro had a chance to see us together.

“I see you got my message,” I said when we reached the truck, turning up the wattage on the smile.

“Not only did you steal my truck, but you parked it illegally.”

“You park illegally all the time.”

“Only when it’s official police business, and I have no other choice … or when it’s raining.”

“I don’t know why you’re upset. You wanted me to talk to Spiro. So that’s what I did. I came here and talked to Spiro.”

“For starters, I had to flag down a blue-and-white to get a ride over here. And more important, I don’t like you running around on your own. I want you in eyesight until we nail Mancuso.”

“I’m touched you’re worried about my safety.”

“Safety hasn’t got much to do with it, Skippy. You have an uncanny knack for running into people you’re looking for, and you’re completely inept at taking them down. I don’t want you screwing up another encounter with Kenny. I want to make sure I’m around next time you stumble across him.”

I settled onto the seat with a sigh. When you’re right, you’re right. And Morelli was right. I wasn’t totally up to speed as a bounty hunter.

We were silent for the ride back to my apartment. I knew these streets like I knew my own hand. Half the time, I drove them unconsciously, suddenly realizing I was in my parking lot, wondering how the devil I’d gotten there. Tonight I paid closer attention. If Kenny was out there, I didn’t want to miss him. Spiro had said Kenny was like smoke, that he lived in the shadows. I told myself this was a romanticized vision. Kenny was your everyday sociopath who went sneaking around thinking he was God’s second cousin.

The wind had picked up, and clouds scudded overhead, periodically obliterating the sliver of moon. Morelli parked next to the Buick and cut the engine. He reached over and toyed with the collar on my jacket. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

I told him about the bodyguard deal.

Morelli just stared at me. “How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you walk into this stuff? If you knew what you were doing, you’d be a real threat.”

“Guess I lead a charmed life.” I looked at my watch. It was 7:30, and Morelli was still working. “You put in long hours,” I said. “I thought cops clocked on in eight-hour shifts.”

“Vice is flexible. I work when I need to.”

“You have no life.”

He shrugged. “I like my job. When I need a break I take off for a weekend at the shore or a week in the Islands.”

This was pretty interesting. I’d never thought of Morelli as being an “Islands” person. “What do you do when you go to the Islands? What’s the appeal?”

“I like to dive.”

“And what about the shore? What do you do at the Jersey shore?”

Morelli grinned. “I hide under the boardwalk and abuse myself. Old habits die hard.”

I had a tough time visualizing Morelli diving off the coast of Martinique, but the thought of him abusing himself under the boardwalk was crystal clear. I could see him as a horny little eleven-year-old, hanging outside the Seaside bars, listening to the bands, eyeballing the women in their elastic tank tops and skimpy shorts. And later, crawling under the boardwalk with his cousin Mooch, the two of them whacking off together before they had to meet up with Uncle Manny and Aunt Florence for the ride back to the bungalow in Seaside Heights. Two years later he would have substituted his cousin Sue Ann Beale for his cousin Mooch, but the basic routine would be the same.

I pushed the truck door open and lurched out into the parking lot. The wind whistled around Morelli’s antennae and whipped at my skirt. My hair flew about my face in a frenzied explosion of tangled frizz.

I made an attempt to tame it in the elevator while Morelli looked on, calmly curious about my efforts to shove the mess into an elastic band I’d found in my jacket pocket. He stepped into the hall when the doors opened. Waited while I fumbled for the key.

“How scared is Spiro?” Morelli wanted to know.

“Scared enough to hire me to protect him.”

“Maybe it’s just a ploy to get you into his apartment.”

I stepped into the entrance hall, flipped the light switch, and shrugged out of my jacket. “It’s an expensive ploy.”

Morelli went straight to the TV and buzzed in ESPN. The Rangers’ blue jerseys blinked onto the screen. The Caps were at home in white. I watched a face-off before bobbing into the kitchen to check my answering machine.

There were two messages. The first from my mother, calling to say she heard First National had openings for tellers and that I should be sure to wash my hands if I touched Mr. Loosey. The second call was from Connie. Vinnie had gotten back from North Carolina and wanted me to stop in the office tomorrow. Pass on that one. Vinnie was worried about the Mancuso money. If I stopped in to see him, he’d yank Mancuso out from under me, and give it to someone with more experience.

I pushed the off button, grabbed a bag of blue corn chips from the cupboard, and snagged a couple beers from the refrigerator. I slouched next to Morelli on the couch, setting the corn chips between us. Ma and Pa on a Saturday night.

Halfway through the first period the phone rang.

“How’s it going?” the caller asked. “You and Joe doing it doggy style? I hear he likes that. You really are something. Doing both Spiro and Joe-boy.”

“Mancuso?”

“Just thought I’d call to see if you enjoyed your surprise package.”

“It was a real kick. What’s the point?”

“No point. Just having fun. I was watching when you opened it in the hall. Nice touch bringing the old lady into it. I like old ladies. You might say they’re my specialty. You’ll have to ask Joe about the things I do to old ladies. No wait, better yet, why don’t I show you firsthand?”

“You’re sick, Mancuso. You need help.”

“It’s your granny who’s gonna need help. Maybe you, too. Wouldn’t want you to feel left out. In the beginning I was pissed off. You kept bungling around in my business. Now I’m seeing this from a new angle. Now I think I could have a good time with you and Granny Halfwit. It’s always best when you have someone watching, waiting their turn.

“Maybe I could even get you to tell me about Spiro, and how he steals from his friends.”

“How do you know it wasn’t Moogey who stole from his friends?”

“Moogey didn’t know enough to steal from his friends.”

The disconnect clicked in my ear.

Morelli was standing beside me in the kitchen, beer bottle dangling from one hand, looking casual, but his eyes were still and hard.

“That was your cousin,” I said. “He was calling to see if I enjoyed my surprise package, and then he suggested he might have some fun with me and Grandma Mazur.”

I thought I was doing a pretty good imitation of the tough-as-nails bounty hunter, but the truth is I was shaking inside. I wasn’t going to ask Morelli what Kenny Mancuso did to old women. I didn’t want to know. And whatever it was, I didn’t want it done to Grandma Mazur.

I called my parents’ house to make sure Grandma Mazur was safe at home. Yes, she was watching television, my mother said. I assured her I’d washed my hands, and begged off on coming back for dessert.

I changed out of the dress into jeans and sneakers and a flannel shirt. I retrieved my .38 from the cookie jar, made sure it was loaded, and slipped it into my pocketbook.

When I came back to the living room Morelli was hand-feeding a corn chip to Rex.

“Looks to me like you’re dressed for action,” Morelli said. “I heard you lifting the lid on the cookie jar.”

“Mancuso made threatening sounds about my grandmother.”

Morelli pulled the power on the Rangers. “He’s getting restless and frustrated, and he’s getting stupid. It was stupid to come after you in the mall. It was stupid of him to sneak into Stiva’s. And it was stupid to call you. Every time he does something like that he risks exposure. Kenny can be cunning when he’s on top of himself. When he loses it, he’s all ego and impulse.

“He’s feeling desperate because his gun deal got screwed up. He’s looking for a scapegoat, looking for someone to punish. Either he had a buyer who paid him some front money, or else he sold off a batch of shit before the bulk of it was stolen. My money’s on the buyer theory. I think he’s in a sweat because he can’t meet his contract and the front money’s been spent.”

“He thinks Spiro has the stuff.”

“These two would eat their young if you gave them the chance.”

I had my jacket in my hand when the phone rang again. It was Louie Moon.

“He was here,” Moon said. “Kenny Mancuso. He came back, and he cut Spiro.”

“Where’s Spiro now?”

“He’s at St. Francis. I took him there, and then I came back to see to things. You know, close up and all.”

Fifteen minutes later we were at St. Francis. Two uniforms, Vince Roman and a new guy I didn’t know, stood flatfooted, weighted to the earth by their gun belts, at the emergency room desk.

“What’s the deal?” Morelli asked.

“Took a statement from Stiva’s kid. Got slashed by your cousin.” Vince cut his eyes to the door behind the desk. “Got Spiro back there, stitching him up.”

“How bad?”

“Could have been worse. Guess Kenny tried to cut Spiro’s hand off, but the blade glanced off the rodent’s big gold ID bracelet. Wait’ll you see the bracelet. Right out of the Liberace collection.”

This got a chuckle out of Vince and his partner.

“Don’t suppose anyone tagged Kenny?”

“Kenny’s the wind.”

Spiro was sitting up on a hospital bed in the ER when we found him. There were two other people in the ER, and Spiro was separated from them by a privacy curtain partially pulled closed. His right arm was heavily bandaged from hand to forearm. His white shirt was blood-splattered, open at the neck. A blood-soaked necktie and kitchen towel had been tossed onto the floor beside the bed.

Spiro came out of his stupor when he saw me. “You were supposed to protect me!” he yelled. “Where the hell were you when I needed you?”

“I don’t go on duty until ten of ten, remember?”

His eyes swiveled to Morelli. “He’s nuts. Your cousin is fucking nuts. He tried to chop my goddamn hand off. He should be locked up. He should be in a looney bin. I was in my office, minding my own business, working on Mrs. Mayer’s bill, when I look up and there’s Kenny. He’s raving about me stealing from him. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He’s a fucking fruitcake. Then next thing he says he’s gonna chop me up piece by piece until I tell him what he wants to know. Lucky for me I was wearing that bracelet, or I would have been learning how to write left-handed. I started yelling, and Louie came in, and Kenny took off.

“I want some police protection,” Spiro said. “Ms. Marvel here doesn’t perform.”

“I can have a blue-and-white drive you home tonight,” Morelli said. “After that you’re on your own.” He passed his card to Spiro. “If there’s a problem you can give me a call. If you need someone fast go to nine-one-one.”

Spiro made a derisive sound and glared at me.

I smiled nicely and rocked back on my heels. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

The wind had slacked off, and it was drizzling when we came out of the hospital.

“Warm front coming in,” Morelli said. “Supposed to be nice weather behind the rain.”

We climbed into Morelli’s truck and sat, watching the hospital. Roman’s squad car was parking in the driveway reserved for emergency vehicles. After about ten minutes Roman and his partner escorted Spiro into the squad car. We followed them to Demby and waited while they made sure Spiro’s apartment was secure.

The cruiser rolled out of the lot, and we sat for a few minutes longer. Lights were on in Spiro’s apartment, and I suspected they’d be burning all night.

“We should watch him,” Morelli said. “Kenny’s not thinking good. He’s going to keep after Spiro until he gets what he wants.”

“Wasted effort. Spiro doesn’t have what Kenny wants.”

Morelli was motionless, staring irresolutely through the rain-streaked windshield. “I need a different car. Kenny knows my truck.”

It went unsaid that he knew my Buick. The whole world knew my Buick. “What about the tan cop car?”

“He’s probably got that spotted, too. Besides, I need something that’ll give me more cover. A van or a Bronco with tinted windows.” He cranked the engine over and put the truck into gear. “You have any idea when Spiro opens in the morning?”

“He usually gets to work by nine.”

Morelli knocked on my door at six-thirty, and I was way ahead of him. I’d already showered and dressed in what I’d come to think of as my work uniform. Jeans, warm shirt, shoes of the day. I’d cleaned Rex’s cage and had Mr. Coffee cooking.

“This is the plan,” Morelli said. “You follow Spiro, and I follow you.”

I didn’t think that sounded like much of a plan, but I didn’t have anything better, so I didn’t complain. I filled my thermos with coffee, packed two sandwiches and an apple into my little cooler, and turned my answering machine on.

It was still dark when I walked to my car. Sunday morning. No traffic. Neither of us was in a talkative mood. I didn’t see Morelli’s truck in the lot.

“What are you driving?” I asked.

“A black Explorer parked on the street, to the side of the building.”

I unlocked the Buick and threw everything into the backseat, including a blanket, which it looked like I wouldn’t need. It had stopped raining and the air felt much warmer. In the fifties, I guessed.

I wasn’t sure if Spiro kept the same schedule on Sundays. The funeral home was open seven days a week, but I suspected weekend hours depended on bodies received. Spiro didn’t seem like the sort to go to church. I crossed myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d attended mass.

“What was that all about?” Morelli asked. “What’s with the sign of the cross?”