Two for the Dough (21 page)

“When I talked to the woman who managed the storage lockers she said she remembered seeing a white truck with black lettering make several passes in the area of your locker. It was too vague to mean anything at the time.”

Spiro waited for a break in traffic and wheeled a U-turn. He parked at the edge of the macadam apron, behind the drop-offs. Chances of Sandeman still being at the station were slim, but I strained to see in the office all the same. I didn’t want a confrontation with Sandeman if I could avoid it.

We got out and took a look at the truck. It belonged to Macko Furniture. I knew the store. It was a small family-owned business that had steadfastly stayed with a downtown location when others were moving to highway strip malls.

“This mean anything to you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Don’t know anybody at Macko Furniture.”

“It’s the right size for caskets.”

“There must be fifty trucks in Trenton that fit this description.”

“Yes, but this one is at the garage where Moogey worked. And Moogey knew about the caskets. He went down to Braddock and drove them back for you.”

Dumb chick feeds information to slimy guy. Come on, slimy guy, I thought. Get careless. Give me some information in return.

“So you think Moogey was tight with someone from Macko Furniture, and they decided to steal my caskets,” Spiro said.

“It’s possible. Or maybe while the truck was being serviced, Moogey borrowed it.”

“What would Moogey want with twenty-four caskets?”

“You tell me.”

“Even with the hydraulic tailgate, you’d need at least two guys to move those caskets.”

“Doesn’t seem like a problem to me. You find some big oaf, pay him minimum wage. He helps you move caskets.”

Spiro had his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just hard to believe Moogey’d do something like that. There were two things you could always count on from Moogey. He was loyal, and he was dumb. Moogey was a big, dumb shit. Kenny and me let him hang out with us because he was good for laughs. He’d do anything we told him. We’d say, hey, Moogey, how about you run over your dick with a lawn mower. And he’d say, sure, you want me to get a hard-on first?”

“Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as you thought.”

Spiro didn’t say anything for a couple beats, then he turned on his heel and walked back to the Lincoln. We kept quiet for the rest of the trip. When we reached Spiro’s parking lot I couldn’t resist another shot with the caskets.

“Kind of funny about you and Kenny and Moogey. Kenny thinks you’ve got something that belongs to him. And now we think maybe Moogey had something that belonged to you.”

Spiro slid into a space, put the car in park, and swiveled his body in my direction. He draped his left arm over the wheel, his top coat gaped, and I caught a glimpse of a gun butt and shoulder holster.

“What are you getting at?” Spiro asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Thinking that you and Kenny have a lot in common.”

Our eyes held, and cold fear ran the length of my spine and crawled through my stomach. Morelli was right about Spiro. He’d eat his young, and he wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in my worthless brain. I hoped I hadn’t pushed too hard.

“Maybe you should stop thinking out loud. Maybe you should stop thinking altogether,” Spiro said.

“I’m going to raise my rates if you’re going to get cranky.”

“Christ,” Spiro said, “you’re already fucking overpaid. For a hundred dollars a night, the least you could do is throw in a blow job.”

What I was going to throw in was a nice long time behind bars. It was a comforting thought, and it kept me going while I did my bodyguard thing in his apartment, flipping on lights, scoping out closets, counting dustballs under his bed, and gagging at the soap scum behind his shower curtain.

I gave his place a green light, drove the Lincoln back to the funeral home, and exchanged it for my Buick.

I caught Morelli in my rearview mirror half a block from my parents’ house. He idled in front of the Smullenses’ until I parked the Buick. When I stepped out of the car, he crept forward and parked behind me. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for being cautious.

“What were you doing at Delio’s?” Morelli wanted to know. “I assume you were baiting Spiro about the truck.”

“You assume right.”

“Anything come of it?”

“He said he didn’t know anyone from Macko Furniture. And he discounted the possibility that Moogey might have taken the caskets. Apparently Moogey was the group idiot. I’m not even sure Moogey was involved.”

“Moogey drove the caskets to New Jersey.”

I leaned back against the Buick. “Maybe Kenny and Spiro didn’t include Moogey in the master plan, but somewhere along the line Moogey found out and decided to cut himself in.”

“And you think he borrowed the furniture truck to move the caskets.”

“It would be one theory.” I pushed off from the Buick and hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder. “I’m picking Spiro up at eight tomorrow to take him to work.”

“I’ll catch up with you in his lot.”

I let myself into the darkened house and paused for a moment in the front hall. The house was always at its best when it was asleep. There was an air of satisfaction to the house at the end of the day. Maybe the day hadn’t gone exactly right, but the day had been lived and the house had been there for its family.

I hung my jacket in the hall closet and tiptoed into the kitchen. Finding food in my kitchen was always hit or miss. Finding food in my mother’s kitchen was a sure thing. I heard the stairs creak and knew from the tread that it was my mother.

“How did it go at Stiva’s?” she asked.

“It went okay. I helped him lock up, and then I drove him home.”

“I guess it’s hard for him to drive with his wrist. I hear he got twenty-three stitches.”

I pulled out some ham and provolone cheese.

“Here, let me,” my mother said, taking the ham and cheese, reaching for the loaf of rye bread on the counter.

“I can do it,” I said.

My mother took her good carving knife from the knife drawer. “You don’t slice the ham thin enough.”

When she’d made each of us a sandwich, she poured two glasses of milk and set it all on the kitchen table. “You could have invited him in for a sandwich,” she said.

“Spiro?”

“Joe Morelli.”

My mother never ceased to amaze me. “There was a time when you would have chased him out of the house with that carving knife.”

“He’s changed.”

I tore into the sandwich. “So he tells me.”

“I hear he’s a good cop.”

“A good cop is different from a good person.”

I woke up disoriented, staring at a ceiling from a previous life. Grandma Mazur’s voice snapped me back to the present.

“If I don’t get into that bathroom there’s gonna be a big mess in the hall,” she yelled. “Last night’s supper’s going through me like goose grease.”

I heard the door open. Heard my father mumble something indiscernible. My eye started to twitch, and I squinched it closed. I focused my other eye on the bedside clock. Seven-thirty. Damn. I’d wanted to get to Spiro’s early. I jumped out of bed and rummaged through the laundry basket for clean jeans and a shirt. I ran a brush through my hair, grabbed my pocketbook, and rushed into the hall.

“Grandma,” I hollered through the door. “Are you going to be long?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” she yelled back.

All right, I could postpone the bathroom for half an hour. After all, if I’d gotten up at nine I wouldn’t have used the bathroom for another hour and a half.

My mother caught me with my jacket in hand. “Where are you going?” she asked. “You haven’t had breakfast.”

“I told Spiro I’d pick him up.”

“Spiro can wait. The dead people won’t mind if he’s fifteen minutes late. Come eat your breakfast.”

“I don’t have time for breakfast.”

“I made some nice oatmeal. It’s on the table. I poured your juice.” She looked down at my shoes. “What kind of shoes are they?”

“They’re Doc Martens.”

“Your father wore shoes like that when he was in the army.”

“These are great shoes,” I said. “I love these shoes. Everyone wears shoes like this.”

“Women interested in getting married to a nice man do not wear shoes like that. Women who like other women wear shoes like that. You don’t have any funny ideas about women, do you?”

I clapped my hand over my eye.

“What’s wrong with your eye?” my mother asked.

“It’s twitching.”

“You’re too nervous. It’s that job. Look at you rushing out of the house. And what’s that on your belt?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Your sister, Valerie, doesn’t wear such things on her belt.”

I looked at my watch. If I ate real fast, I could still get to Spiro by eight.

My father was at the table, reading his paper, drinking coffee. “How’s the Buick?” he asked. “You giving it high-test?”

“The Buick’s fine. No problems.”

I chugged the juice and tried the oatmeal. It needed something. Chocolate, maybe. Or ice cream. I added three spoons of sugar and some milk.

Grandma Mazur took her seat at the table. “My hand feels better,” she said, “but I got the devil of a headache.”

“You should stay at home today,” I said. “Take it easy.”

“I’m going to take it easy at Clara’s. I look a fright. Don’t know how my hair got like this.”

“No one will see you if you don’t go out of the house,” I argued.

“Suppose someone comes over. Suppose that good-looking Morelli boy comes to visit again? You think I want him seeing me like this? Besides, I got to go while I still got the bandage on and I’m big news. Not every day a person gets attacked at the bakery.”

“I have things to do first thing this morning, but then I’ll be back, and I’ll take you to Clara’s,” I told Grandma. “Don’t go without me!”

I wolfed down the rest of the oatmeal and had a fast half cup of coffee. I grabbed my jacket and pocketbook and took off. I had my hand on the door when the phone rang.

“It’s for you,” my mother said. “It’s Vinnie.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him I’ve already left.”

The cell phone rang just as I hit Hamilton.

“You should have talked to me at home,” Vinnie said. “It would have been cheaper.”

“You’re breaking up … lousy connection.”

“Don’t give me that lousy connection crap.”

I made some static sounds.

“And I’m not going to fall for that phony static, either. Make sure you get your keester in here this morning.”

I didn’t see Morelli lurking in Spiro’s parking lot, but I assumed he was there. There were two vans and a truck with a cap. Both good possibilities.

I collected Spiro and headed for the funeral home. When I stopped for the light at Hamilton and Gross, we both turned our attention to the Exxon station.

“Maybe we should stop in and ask a few questions,” Spiro said.

“What kind of questions?”

“Questions about the furniture truck. Just for the hell of it. I guess it would be interesting to see if Moogey was the one who took the caskets.”

I figured I had a couple choices. I could torture him by saying, what’s the point? Let’s just get on with our lives. And then I’d drive right on by. Or I could play along to see how it goes. There was definitely some merit to torturing Spiro, but my best instincts told me to let him run with the ball and tag along.

The bays were open. Most likely Sandeman was there. Big deal. Compared to Kenny, Sandeman was starting to look small-time. Cubby Delio was working the office. Spiro and I ambled in together.

Cubby snapped to attention at the sight of Spiro. Little prick that he was, Spiro still represented Stiva’s mortuary, and Stiva threw a lot of business to the station. All of Stiva’s cars were serviced and gassed here.

“I heard about your arm,” Cubby said to Spiro. “Damn shame. I know you and Kenny used to be friends. I guess he just went crazy. That’s what everyone says.”

Spiro passed it off with a wave of his hand that implied it was nothing more than an annoyance. He pivoted on his heel and looked out the office window at the truck, still parked in front of the bay. “I wanted to ask you about the Macko truck. Do you always service that truck? Does it come in regularly?”

“Yep. Macko has an account, just like you. They’ve got two trucks, and we do both of them.”

“Who usually brings them in? Usually the same guy?”

“Usually it’s Bucky or Biggy. They’ve been driving for Macko for a lot of years. Is there a problem? You looking to get some furniture?”

“Thinking about it,” Spiro said.

“It’s a good company. Family run. Keep their trucks in real good condition.”

Spiro stuck his injured arm in his jacket. Small man imitates Napoleon. “Looks like you haven’t found a replacement for Moogey.”

“Thought I had a guy, but he didn’t work out. Hard to replace Moogey. When Moogey was running the station I hardly had to be here. Could take a day off once a week to go to the track. Even after he got shot in the knee, he was still reliable. Still came to work.”

I suspected Spiro and I had parallel thoughts, and I was thinking that maybe Moogey borrowed the truck on one of those track days. Of course, if he borrowed the truck, someone else would have to be minding the store. Or someone else would have to be driving the truck.

“It’s hard to get good help,” Spiro said. “I have the same problem.”

“I’ve got a good mechanic,” Cubby said. “Sandeman’s got his own ways, but he’s a damn good mechanic. The rest of the people come and go. Don’t need a rocket scientist to pump gas or change a tire. If I could find someone to work full time in the office, I’d be set.”

Spiro did some oily chitchat and oozed himself out of the office.

“You know any of the guys who work here?” he asked me.

“I’ve spoken to Sandeman. He has an attitude. Does a little recreational drug use.”

“You tight with him?”

“I’m not his favorite person.”

Spiro’s gaze dropped to my feet. “Maybe it’s the shoes.”

I wrenched the car door open. “Anything else you want to comment on? Maybe you have a few words to say about my car?”