16 Sizzling Sixteen (3 page)

Its the right thing to do, Ranger said.

RANGEMAN KEEPS A fleet of shiny new black cars for employee use. Most are SUVs. There are a couple F150s and a couple vans. And Rangers personal car is a Porsche Turbo. The car I drew in the Rangeman lottery was a black Jeep Wrangler.

It was noon when I parked the car in front of the office, and Lula and Connie had two pizza boxes open on Connies desk.

Thats a lot of pizza for someone only eating one of everything, I said to Lula.

Im not eating from Connies box, Lula said. I got myself one pizza and thats what Im eating, but if you want a piece, you could help yourself.

Lulas pizza had the works, and Connie had a cheese and pepperoni pizza. Since I was in a cheese and pepperoni mood, I went with Connies pizza.

Let me guess where you got the shiny black car, Lula said. Im guessing Ranger.

Its a loaner.

Lula selected another piece. Do you know what I think? I think that man is all bad and scary silent on the outside and soft and mushy on the inside.

I knew Ranger pretty well and I wasnt sure what was on the inside, but I knew it wasnt soft and mushy.

Have you heard any more from Mickey Gritch? I asked Connie.

No. I got a phone call first thing this morning and nothing since. I guess Mickey called Lucille last night. Lucille called Harry, and Harry made a few inquiries and found out about the hooker. And by the time I talked to Lucille, she was having the locks changed on the house, and Harry was on a rant. I got the clear impression no one on that side of the family cares if Mickey Gritch offs Vinnie.

Thats a shame, I said. I know Vinnie brought all this on himself, but its still sad.

I ate two pieces of pizza, chugged a bottle of water, and hiked my bag onto my shoulder.

Where you going? Lula wanted to know.

I have Ranger tracking Mickey Gritch, so I thought Id take the afternoon to try to find Dirk McCurdle. Hes still in violation of his bond.

I thought his name was McCuddle, Lula said.

Nickname, I told her.

The papers branded him McCuddle because he married four women before the state of New Jersey wised up and arrested him. Besides being tagged for bigamy, McCurdle got caught shoplifting some very expensive lingerie. He said social security didnt give him enough money for him to keep up with the anniversary presents.

Dirk McCurdle was seventy-two years old, 59 tall, pleasantly plump and pink-cheeked, had wispy white hair and a face like a cherub.

I have a feeling McCurdle is with one of his wives, I said. One is in the Burg, ones on Cherry Street, and two are in Hamilton Township.

Hold on, Lula said. Ill go with you in case one of those wives gets out of hand and you need backup.

I glanced at the file Connie had given me. McCurdles first wife was his age. All the other wives were in their late seventies. Probably, I could handle them.

Anyway, I never saw any bigamist wives, Lula said. I want to see what they look like.

I THOUGHT ID start with the most recent wife and work my way back. Margaret McCurdle lived in a garden apartment in Hamilton Township. The buildings in the complex were two-story redbrick with white doors and white shutters at the windows. There were ten apartments in each building. Five up and five down. Margaret lived in an end unit on the ground floor.

This looks real normal, Lula said, swinging out of my Jeep, taking in the faux colonial columns in the front of the building. This dont look like a bigamist hide out. I hope Im not gonna be disappointed. I hate when that happens.

We crossed the lot to the front door and I rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door was about five foot nothing. Her hair was pale blond and cut short. Her makeup reminded me of pictures of Japanese geisha. Exaggerated bow mouth painted with glossy bright-red lipstick, white pancake makeup, and pencil-thin black eyebrows. She was wearing a magenta velour warm-up suit and white tennis shoes.

Are you Margaret McCurdle? I asked her.

Yes. You arent more wives, are you?

No.

Thank goodness, she said. I cant keep track of them anymore. I dont know how Dirk does it. He has wives coming out of the woodwork.

I gave her my card. Im a bond enforcement agent, I told her, and Im looking for Dirk.

Good luck, Margaret said on a sigh. Ive given up looking for him. He went out for ice cream two weeks ago and never came back. And now it turns out Im wife number four. I read about it in the paper. I suppose I should get a lawyer, but theyre so expensive.

Whats it like being married to a bigamist? Lula asked her.

Its perfect, she said. He told me he was still managing his company in Des Moines. So he would show up on Thursday night in time to set the garbage out for Friday pickup. And then he would leave early Sunday. He was very attentive, and he was always a gentleman. And he was excellent in bed.

No kidding, Lula said. You and McCuddle have a lot of sex?

No, but we talked about it.

Jail?

Not yet, I said.

Lula and I said good-bye to Margaret McCurdle, and I drove us a half mile to Ann McCurdles house on Sycamore Street. Ann lived in a small ranch house in a neighborhood filled with small ranch houses. Her house was pale gray, with blue shutters and a blue door. Her yard was tidy, and it looked like someone had just mulched around her azalea bushes.

This is fascinating to me, Lula said, because Im a student of human nature. Thats why I was such a good ho. I took an interest in my clients. And now here I am seeing all these bigamist wives living in all these different kinds of houses. Dont you think its fascinating?

Actually, it wasnt high on my list of things that fascinated me, but I thought it was nice that Lula was fascinated.

I rang Anns doorbell with Lula hovering behind me. I rang a second time and the door was answered by a wiry old lady with a paintbrush in her hand. She had gray hair the color and texture of steel wool, her bifocals were crooked on her face, and she was dressed in white orthopedic shoes and a shapeless cotton creation that was somewhere between a dress and a bathrobe.

Mrs. McCurdle? I asked her.

Yeah, she said. Me and everybody else. She craned her neck to look past Lula. This isnt another one of them television interviews, is it? Im painting my kitchen, and I dont have my hair fixed.

I introduced myself and gave her my card. Im looking for your husband, I told her. Do you have any idea where he might be?

She pushed a clump of hair back from her face and left a smudge of lemon yellow paint. I dont know where he is, and if you find him, I want to know so I can hunt him down and wring his neck. He started painting my kitchen this stupid yellow color three weeks ago and never came back to finish.

Its gonna be real cheery when you get done, Lula said.

Cheery, my behind, Ann McCurdle said. Every time I look at it, my blood pressure goes up. Im popping pills like theyre M&Ms.

So I guess marrying a bigamist didnt work out for you, Lula said.

It could have been worse. Just when I was getting sick of him, hed go off on a two-week business trip. Thats the secret to keeping the magic in a marriage, she said. You dont see too much of each other. Men are only interested in one thing anyway. S-E-X. And then after they get it, they go to sleep and snore.

I noticed that, Lula said.

I thanked Ann McCurdle for her help, and Lula and I went back to the Jeep.

Maybe bigamists arent as fascinating as I thought, Lula said, cinching her seat belt. According to the newspaper, none of these wives knew there were other wives. Now that Im meeting them, I could see how that could happen.

I motored out of the lot and turned onto Klockner Boulevard. His first wife lives in the Burg. I thought wed try her next, since its on our way back to the office.

The Burg is an odd-shaped chunk of Trenton bordered by Hamilton Avenue, Liberty Street, Chambers Street, and Broad Street. I lived in the Burg for my entire childhood, and my parents still live there. Houses are small, yards are narrow, cars are large, windows are clean. This is a neighborhood of hard working second-generation Americans. Families are extended and proudly dysfunctional. Although dysfunction in Jersey might be hard to measure.

This house looks like a turd, Lula said. How could someone live in a all-brown house? Youd think you were going into a turd every day. Its just my opinion, but Id find that depressing. When you had company over, what would you tell them? The directions would be to turn off Hamilton and park in front of the house looks like a turd.

I had to admit, it wasnt the most attractive house Id ever seen, but turd seemed harsh. Truth is, the bottom half of my parents house was brown, and okay, if I was being honest, it wasnt such a great-looking house, either.

I knocked at the door and a sturdy woman answered. She was early seventies, short black hair shot with silver, wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a green pants suit, large pearl earrings, lots of perfume.

Tomasina McCurdle? I asked.

Thats me, she said. And I know who you are, too. Youre Ednas granddaughter. The one who burned down the funeral home.

It wasnt my fault, I told her. People were shooting at me.

I suppose youre looking for my foolish husband, the bigamist.

We sure are, Lula said. And if you dont mind me asking, what was it like being married to a bigamist?

It was like being married to anyone else.

Thats disappointing, Lula said.

Tomasina pressed her lips together. Tell me about it. I was married to that idiot for fifty-one years, and ten years ago, he decided to just up and marry someone else. And then he goes and marries every floozy that comes along. What the heck was he thinking?

Do you know where I might find him? I asked her.

I imagine hes with one of his home wreckers.

Other than homewreckers, is there any place else he might be staying? A relatives house? A close friend?

I cant see him with any relatives. His brother died last year. His parents are dead. Our son lives in Delaware, and hed tell me if Dirk was with him. Ernie Wilkes is his best friend, but Ernies wife wouldnt put up with having Dirk in the house.

You look all dressed up, Lula said. Are you going out someplace?

No. I just got home. I was at Karen Shishlers afternoon viewing at Stivas. Tomasina turned to me. Your grandmother is there causing a scene because theres a closed casket. The viewing was over, and she refused to leave until they opened the casket.

Thanks, I said. If you see Dirk, please call me.

FOUR

I guess youre gonna go get your granny, Lula said.

Yeah. Ill just check to see if shes still here.

Im gonna wait in the car if its okay with you, Lula said. Not that Im afraid of dead people or anything, but it gives me the willies.

Stivas is housed in a big white colonial on Hamilton. The front steps are covered in green outdoor carpet, and they lead to a wide front porch that spans the width of the house. I walked into the large lobby and heard Grandma arguing with the funeral director in slumber room number three.

How do I know shes in there if you wont open the lid? Grandma said.

You have my word of honor, he told her.

Mitchell Shepherd owns the funeral home. He bought it a year ago and probably regrets his decision. People in the Burg take their funeral homes seriously, and since the Burg lacks a movie theater or mall, the funeral home is most often the entertainment of choice. Shepherd is a mostly bald man in his fifties. He has a round face, round body, and his funereal uniform is navy suit, white shirt, navy striped tie.

Just a peek, Grandma said. I wont tell no one.

Cant do it. The family wants the casket closed.

Grandma Mazur came to live with my parents when Grandpa Mazur passed on to wherever it is that baconeating, whiskey-drinking, gravy-loving people pass on to. Shes five foot five on a good day, has tightly permed gray hair, a body thats mostly slack skin on spindle bones, and an attitude only old ladies can pull off.

I made an effort to come here today, and what good is it if I cant even see the deceased? Grandma said. Next time, Im going to Mortons Mortuary. They never have closed caskets.

Shepherd looked like hed pay Grandma to go to Mortons. He glanced my way and almost collapsed with relief.

Stephanie! he said. How nice to see you.

Well, for goodness sakes, Grandma said. Look whos here. Did your mother send you after me?

No. I heard you were creating a disturbance, and I came on my own.

Just in time to give me a ride home, Grandma said. No reason to stay here any longer, since Mr. Party Pooper wont open the lid for me.

I escorted Grandma out of the funeral home and she stopped short when she saw the Jeep.

Isnt this a cute little thing, she said. This is a pip of a car. I always wanted to ride in one of these. How the heck do I get into it?

Lula climbed into the backseat and reached a hand down to Grandma. I got my hand under Grandmas behind, and we alley-ooped her into the passenger seat.

I love pot roast, Lula said. I bet youre having mashed potatoes and gravy with it, too. I love mashed potatoes and pot roast gravy.

You should stay for dinner, Grandma said. We always got extra.

If youre sure its no trouble, Lula said. I wouldnt want to impose. And I wont eat much on account of Im on this new diet where I only eat one thing. Like, I only eat one piece of pot roast and one glob of mashed potatoes and one green bean.

Have you lost weight? Grandma asked.

Not yet, but I only just started. Im still getting the hang of it. Like, what happens when you eat salad? Does it mean you eat one salad? Or does it mean you eat one piece of lettuce and one piece of tomato? It dont matter a lot, since I dont understand the whole salad obsession anyway. Lettuce dont look like a food to me. And if youre gonna eat a tomato, I say put it on a burger.

My parents live in a two-family house. They share a common wall with Mrs. Markowitz, and both halves of the house are identical in construction. Living room, dining room, kitchen downstairs. Three small bedrooms and one bath upstairs. Mrs. Markowitz has lived next door to my parents for as long as I can remember. Her husband died years ago, and she lives alone now, making coffee cake and watching television. Shes painted her half of the house lime green. My parents have always had their house brown on the bottom half and mustard yellow on the top. I dont know why. I expect its a Trenton thing.

The house hasnt changed much over the years. A new appliance when needed. New curtains. Mostly, its overcrowded with comfortable non descript furniture, cooking smells, and good memories.

My mom has always been a homemaker. Shes a younger, more filled-out version of my grandma Mazur, and I think Im cut from some of the same cloth. I have their good metabolism, oval-shaped face, and blue eyes.

My dad is retired from the post office, and now he drives a cab part-time. I get my unruly hair from his side of the family. And also my perverted cousin Vinnie.

The table was set for three when we walked in. My mom quickly added two more place settings, and in minutes, my father had his head bent over his plate, forking in meat and potatoes, and my mother was at the other end, trying not to stare at Lulas fire-engine red hair and tiny leopard-print top that showed about a quarter of a mile of cleavage.

Isnt this nice, Grandma said, looking around the table. I love when we have guests. Its like a party. What were you two doing in the neighborhood? she asked me. Were you looking for dangerous criminals?

We were looking for Dirk McCurdle, I told her.

Wasnt that a scandal? Grandma said. Imagine having four wives. No one even suspected. He was such a pleasant man. I would see him at the funeral parlor when the Knights of Columbus would have a ceremony.

Do you have any ideas where he might be hiding?

Did you try all his wives? Grandma asked. One of them might still have a soft spot for him.

I have one left.

If that dont work, you could try Pips bottle, Grandma said.

My mother blew out a sigh, and my father murmured something that sounded like crazy old bat.

Is that the red bottle youre talking about? Lula said. The one looks like a beer bottle?