07 Seven Up (7 page)

“What's new?” I asked. Connie was related to half the mob in Jersey.

“Dodie Carmine got a boob job.”

This was good stuff but not what I wanted. “Anything else?”

“You're not the only one looking for DeChooch. I got a call from my Uncle Bingo, wondering if we had a line out. After that I talked to my Aunt Flo and she said something went wrong in Richmond when DeChooch went down there for the cigarettes. She didn't know anything more.”

“It says on the arrest sheet that DeChooch was alone when he was picked up. Hard to believe he didn't have a partner.”

“From what I know he was on his own. He set the deal up, rented a truck, and drove to Richmond.”

“Blind old dude drives to Richmond to heist some cigs.”

“You got it.”

I had Metallica wailing away. Bob was riding shotgun next to me, digging Lars on the drums. The Burg was conducting business behind closed doors. And I suddenly had a disturbing thought.

“DeChooch was arrested between here and New York?”

“Yeah, the rest stop in Edison.”

“Do you think he could have dropped some cigarettes off in the Burg?”

There was a moment of silence. “You're thinking of Dougie Kruper,” Connie said.

I snapped the phone closed, put the car in gear, and headed for Dougie's house. I didn't bother knocking when I got there. Bob and I barged right in.

“Hey,” Mooner said, ambling out of the kitchen, spoon in one hand, opened can in the other, “I'm having lunch here. You want some orange and brown stuff in a can? I got extra. Shop & Bag was having a two-for-one sale on cans without labels.”

I was halfway up the stairs. “No thanks. I want to take another look at Dougie's inventory. He get anything other than that one shipment?”

“Yeah, some old guy dropped a couple boxes off a couple days ago. Wasn't much to it, though. Just a couple boxes.”

“Do you know what's in those boxes?”

“First-quality ciggies. You want some?”

I pushed my way through the merchandise in the third bedroom and found the cartons of cigarettes. Damn.

“This isn't good,” I said to Mooner.

“I know. They'll kill you, dude. Better off with weed.”

“Superheroes don't do weed,” I said.

“No way!”

“It's true. You can't be a superhero if you do drugs.”

“Next thing you'll be telling me they don't drink beer.”

Hard call. “I don't actually know about beer.”

“Bummer.”

I tried to imagine Mooner when he wasn't high, but I couldn't get a picture. Would he suddenly start wearing three-piece suits? Would he become a Republican?

“You need to get rid of this stuff,” I said.

“You mean like sell it?”

“No. Get rid of it. If the police come in here you'll be charged with possession of stolen property.”

“The police are here all the time, dude. They're some of Dougie's best customers.”

“I mean officially. Like if they're investigating Dougie's disappearance.”

“Ahhhh,” Mooner said.

Bob eyed the can in Mooner's hand. The stuff in the can looked a lot like dog food. Of course when you have a Bob dog everything is dog food. I shoved Bob out the door, and we all went back downstairs.

“I have some phone calls to make,” I told Mooner. “I'll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Yeah, but what about me?” Mooner asked. “What should I do? I should be like . . . helping.”

“Get rid of the stuff in the third bedroom!”

THE FLOWERS WERE still in the hall when Bob and I stepped out of the elevator. Bob sniffed at them and ate a rose. I dragged Bob into the apartment and, first thing, checked my phone messages. Both were from Ronald. Hope you like the flowers, the first said, they set me back a couple bucks. The second suggested we should get together because he thought we had something going between us.

Blech.

I made myself another peanut butter sandwich to get my mind off Ronald. Then I made one for Bob. I took the phone to the dining room table and called all of the Krupers on the piece of yellow paper. I told them I was a friend and I was looking for Dougie. When I was given Dougie's Burg address I faked surprise that he was back in Jersey. No need to alarm Dougie's relatives.

“We scored a big zero with the phone thing,” I said to Bob. “Now what?”

I could take Dougie's photo and shop it around, but chances of anyone remembering Dougie were shin to nonexistent. I had a hard time remembering Dougie when I was standing in front of him. I called for a credit check and found Dougie had a MasterCard. That was the extent of Dougie's credit history.

Okay, now I was getting into very bleak territory. I'd eliminated friends, relatives, business accounts. This was pretty much my arsenal. And what's worse, my stomach felt hollow and icky. It was the something-is-wrong feeling. I really didn't want Dougie to be dead, but I wasn't finding any proof that he was alive.

Well, that's stupid, I said to myself. Dougie's a goof. God only knows what he could be doing. He could be on a pilgrimage to Graceland. He could be playing blackjack in Atlantic City. He could be losing his virginity to the late-night cashier of the local 7-Eleven.

And maybe the hollow, icky feeling in my stomach is hunger. Sure, that's it! Good thing I went shopping at Giovichinni's. I dug out the Tastykakes, and gave Bob a coconut layer cake. I ate the package of butterscotch krimpets.

“What do you think?” I asked Bob. “Do you feel better now?”

I felt better. Cake always makes me feel better. In fact I felt so good I decided to go out and look for Eddie DeChooch again. Different neighborhood this time. This time I was going to try Ronald's neighborhood. There was the added incentive of knowing Ronald wasn't at hone.

Bob and I drove across town to Cherry Street. Cherry Street is part of a residential pocket at the northeast corner of Trenton. It's a neighborhood of mostly two-family houses on small building lots and it feels a little like the Burg. It was late afternoon. School was out. Televisions ran in living rooms and kitchens. Crockpots simmered.

I crept past Ronald's house looking for the white Cadillac, looking for Eddie DeChooch. Ronald's house was a single family with red-brick facing. Not as pretentious as Joyce's with her columns but not all that tasteful, either. The garage door was closed. A minivan sat in the driveway. The small front yard was neatly landscaped around a three-foot-tall, blue-and-white statue of the Virgin Mary. She looked composed and at peace in her plaster shrine. More than I could say for myself in my fiberglass Honda.

Bob and I cruised the street, peeking down driveways, straining to see the shadowy figures who moved behind sheer curtains. We drove Cherry Street twice and then began investigating the rest of the neighborhood, dividing it into grids. We saw a lot of big old cars, but we didn't see any big old white Cadillacs. And we didn't see Eddie DeChooch.

“No stone unturned,” I said to Bob, trying to justify time wasted.

Bob gave me a look that said whatever. He had his head out the window, looking for cute miniature poodles.

I turned onto Olden Avenue and headed for home. I was about to cross Greenwood when Eddie DeChooch sailed past me in the white Caddy, going in the opposite direction.

I hung a U-turn in the middle of the intersection. It was coming up to rush hour and there were a lot of cars on the road. A dozen people leaned on their horns and flipped me hand signals. I forced myself into the stream of traffic and tried to keep Eddie in my line of vision. I was about ten cars behind him. I saw him wheel off onto State Street, heading for center city. By the time I was able to make the turn I'd lost him.

I GOT HOME ten minutes before Joe arrived.

“What's with the flowers in the hall?” he wanted to know.

“Ronald DeChooch sent them. And I don't want to talk about it.”

Morelli watched me for a beat. “Am I going to have to shoot him?”

“He's laboring under the delusion that we're attracted to each other.”

“A lot of us labor under that delusion.”

Bob galloped over to Morelli and pushed against him to get Morelli's attention. Morelli gave Bob a hug and a full body rub. Lucky dog.

“I saw Eddie DeChooch today,” I said.

“And?”

“And I lost him again.”

Morelli grinned. “Famous bounty hunter loses old guy . . . twice.” Actually it was three times!

Morelli closed the space between us and slid his arms around me. “Do you need consoling?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How much time do we have?”

I did a sigh. “Not enough.” God forbid I should be five minutes late for dinner. The spaghetti would be overcooked. The pot roast would be dry. And it would all be my fault. I would have ruined dinner. Again. And worse, my perfect sister, Valerie, has never ruined dinner. My sister had the sense to move thousands of miles away. That's how perfect she is.

MY MOTHER OPENED the door to Joe and me. Bob bounded in, ears flopping, eyes bright.

“Isn't he cute,” Grandma said. “Isn't he something.”

“Get the cake up on the refrigerator,” my mother said. “And where's the pot roast? Don't let him near the pot roast.”

My father was already at the table, keeping his eye on the pot roast, staking out the end slab of beef.

“So what's happening with the wedding?” Grandma asked when we were all at the table, digging into the food. “I was just at the beauty parlor, and the girls wanted to know about the date. And they wanted to know did we have a hall rented? Marilyn Biaggi tried to get the firehouse for her daughter Carolyn's shower, and it was taken clear through the rest of the year.”

My mother slipped a look at my ring finger. No ring on the ring finger. Just like yesterday. My mother pressed her lips together and cut her meat into tiny pieces.

“We're thinking about a date,” I said, “but we haven't settled on anything yet.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. We have never discussed a date. We've avoided a discussion of the date like the plague.

Morelli hung an arm across my shoulders. “Steph suggested we skip the wedding and start living together, but I don't know if that's such a good idea.” Morelli was no slouch when it came to lying, either, and sometimes he had a nasty sense of humor.

My mother sucked in some air and stabbed a piece of meat so hard her fork clanked against her plate.

“I hear that's the modern way of doing things,” Grandina said. “I don't see nothing wrong with it myself. If I wanted to shack up with a man I'd just go ahead and do it. What's a silly piece of paper mean anyways? In fact I would have shacked up with Eddie DeChooch, but his penis don't work.”

“Jesus Christ,” my father said.

“Not that I'm only interested in a man for his penis,” Grandma added. “It's just that Eddie and me only had a physical attraction. When it came to talking we didn't have too much to say.”

My mother was making motions like she was stabbing herself in her chest. “Just kill me,” she said. “It would be easier.”

“It's the change,” Grandma whispered to Joe and me.

“It's not the change,” my mother shrieked. “It's you! You make me crazy!” She pointed her finger at my father. “And you make me crazy! And you, too,” she said, glaring at me. “You all make me crazy. Just once I'd like to have a dinner without talk about private parts, and aliens, and shooting. And I want grandchildren at this table. I want them here next year, and I want them here legally. You think I'm going to last forever? Pretty soon I'll be dead and then you'll be sorry.”

Everyone sat slack-jawed and paralyzed. No one said anything for a full sixty seconds.

“We're getting married in August,” I blurted out. “The third week in August. We were keeping it a surprise.”

My mother's face brightened. “Really? The third week in August?”

No. It was an absolute flat-out fabrication. I don't know where it came from. Just popped out of my mouth. Truth is, my engagement was kind of casual, being that the proposal was made at a time when it was difficult to distinguish between the desire to spend the rest of our lives together and the desire to get sex on a regular basis. Since Morelli's sex drive makes mine look insignificant he usually is more frequently in favor of marriage than I am. I suppose it would be most accurate to say we were engaged to be engaged. And that's a comfortable place for us to live because it's vague enough to absolve Morelli and me of serious marital discussion. Serious marital discussion always leads to a lot of shouting and door slamming.

“Have you been looking at dresses?” Grandma asked. “August don't give us much tune. You need a gown. And then there's the flowers and the reception. And you need to reserve the church. Have you asked about the church yet?” Grandma jumped out of her chair. “I've got to go call Betty Szajack and Marjorie Swit and tell them the news.”

“No, wait!” I said. “It's not official.”

“What do you mean . . . not official?” my mother asked.

“Not many people know.” Like Joe.

“How about Joe's granny?” Grandma asked. “Does she know? I wouldn't want to cross Joe's granny. She could put the jinx on things.”

“Nobody can put the jinx on things,” my mother said. “There's no such thing as a jinx.” Even as she said it I could see she was fighting back the urge to cross herself.

“And besides,” I said, “I don't want a big wedding with a gown and everything. I want a . . . barbecue.” I couldn't believe I was saying this. Bad enough I'd announced my wedding date, now I had it all planned out. A barbecue! Jeez! It was like I had no control over my mouth.

I looked at Joe and mouthed help!

Joe draped an arm around my shoulders and grinned. The silent message was, Sweetheart, you're on your own with this one.

“Well, it'll be a relief just to see you happily married,” my mother said. “Both my girls . . . happily married.”

“That reminds me,” Grandma said to my mother. “Valerie called last night when you were out at the store. Something about taking a trip, but I couldn't figure out what she was saying on account of there was all this yelling going on behind her.”

“Who was yelling?”

“I think it must have been the television. Valerie and Steven never yell. Those two are just the perfect couple. And the girls are such perfect little ladies.”