04 Four to Score (22 page)

“I'm not actually overdue yet.”

“Wait a minute. You can't take this test if you aren't overdue. I thought you knew that.”

“What?”

“It takes time to develop the hormone. When's your period?”

“I don't know. In about a week, I guess. Are you telling me this test isn't valid?”

“That's what I'm telling you.”

“Fuck!”

“I gotta go,” Mary Lou said. “I told Lennie I'd bring pizza home for supper. You want to eat with us?”

“No. Thanks anyway.”

After Mary Lou left I slouched in the chair in the living room and stared at the blank television screen. Taking the pregnancy test had exhausted me.

I heard a car pull up and footsteps on the pavement outside the house. It was another little Italian lady.

“I'm Joseph's Aunt Loretta,” she said, handing me a foil-topped casserole. “I just heard. And don't worry, dear, these things happen. We don't talk about it, but Joseph's mother had sort of a hurry-up wedding, too, if you know what I mean.”

“It's not what it seems.”

“The important thing is that you eat good food. You aren't throwing up, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Don't worry about getting the dish back to me. You can give it to me at the shower.”

My voice rose an octave. “The shower?”

“I gotta go,” she said. “I gotta visit my neighbor in the hospital.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Cancer,” she whispered. “Terrible. Terrible. She's rotting away. Her insides are rotted, and now she's got sores all over her body. I had a cousin once who rotted like that. She turned black and just before she died her fingers fell off.”

“Eeeeeuw.”

“Well,” she said, “you enjoy the casserole.”

I waved good-bye and carted the warm casserole off to the kitchen. I set it on the counter and banged my head against the cabinet door a couple of times. “Argh.”

I lifted a corner of the foil and peeked inside. Lasagna. Smelled good. I cut a square for myself and scooped it onto a plate. I was thinking about seconds when Morelli came home.

He looked at the lasagna and sighed. “Aunt Loretta.”

“Yep.”

“This is out of control,” he said. “This has to stop.”

“I think they're planning a shower.”

“Shit.”

I got up and rinsed my plate, so I wouldn't be tempted to cut another wedge of lasagna. “How'd things go today?”

“Not that good.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Can't. I'm working with the Feds. It's not supposed to go public.”

“You don't trust me.”

He cut a slab of lasagna and joined me at the table. “Of course I trust you. It's Mary Lou I don't trust.”

“I don't tell Mary Lou everything!”

“Look, it's not your fault. You're a woman, so you blab.”

“That's disgusting! That's so sexist!”

He took a bite of lasagna. “I have sisters. I know women.”

“You don't know all women.”

Morelli considered me. “I know you.”

I could feel my face get warm. “Yeah, well, we should talk about that.”

He pushed back in his chair. “It's your nickel.”

“I don't think I'm cut out for irresponsible sex.”

He thought about that for a beat and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “We have a problem then, because I don't think I'm cut out for marriage. At least not now.”

Wow. Big surprise. “I wasn't proposing marriage.”

“What were you proposing?”

“I wasn't proposing anything. I guess I was just setting boundaries.”

“You know, you're one of those women who drive men nuts. Men drive off bridges and drink too much because of women like you. And it was your fault in the bakery, too.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You want to explain that to me?”

Morelli smiled. “You smelled like a jelly doughnut.”

“You jerk! That's what you wrote on the bathroom wall in Mario's Sub Shop. You said I was warm and sweet and good to eat. And then you went on to describe how you did it! It got back to my parents, and I was grounded for three months. You have no scruples!”

His eyes darkened. “Don't confuse me with that eighteen-year-old kid.”

We glared at each other for a couple of beats, and the silence was shattered by the sound of something smashing through Morelli's living room window.

Morelli bolted from his chair and ran for the front room. I was close behind, almost slamming into him when he stopped short.

A bottle lay in the middle of his living room floor, and there was a fire-blackened rag stuck into the mouth of the bottle. A Molotov cocktail that had burned itself out because the bottle hadn't broken on impact.

Morelli skirted the bottle, rushed into the hall and out the door.

I got to the door in time to see Morelli aim and fire at a retreating car. Only the gun didn't fire. It went click, click, click. Morelli looked at the gun in disbelief.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“This is your gun. I got it out of the sideboard when I ran through the hall. It hasn't got any bullets in it!”

“Bullets are creepy.”

Morelli looked dazed. “What good is a gun without bullets?”

“It's good for scaring people. Or you can hit people with it. Or you can use it to break windows . . . or crack walnuts.”

“You recognize that car?”

“No. You get a look at the driver?”

Morelli shook his head. “No.” He stalked through the house, took his gun and pager off the kitchen counter and clipped them to his belt. He called the dispatcher and gave him the car description. Then he called someone else with the plate number. He took an extra clip out of a kitchen drawer and put it in his pocket while he waited on the plate.

I was standing behind him, and I was trying hard to stay calm, but I was shaking inside, and I was having flashbacks of my ruined apartment. If I'd been home, in bed, when the bottle had exploded, I'd have been killed, charred beyond recognition. As it was I'd lost just about everything I owned. Not that it was much . . . but it was all I had. And now it had almost happened again.

“That was for me,” I said, relieved that my voice didn't tremble and give me away.

“Probably,” Morelli said. He murmured something into the phone and hung up. “The car was reported stolen a couple hours ago.”

He gingerly picked up the bottle with a kitchen towel and put it in a paper bag. Then he set the bag on the kitchen counter. “Fortunately, this guy didn't chose his bottle wisely, and when he threw it, it landed on carpet.”

The phone rang, and Morelli snatched at it.

“It's for you,” he said. “It's Sally.”

“I need help,” Sally said. “I have a gig tonight, and I can't figure out this makeup shit.”

“Where's Sugar?”

“We had another fight, and he took off.”

“Okay,” I said, reacting more than thinking, still feeling numbed by the second attempt to end my life. “I'll be right over.”

“Now what?” Morelli asked.

“I need to help Sally with his makeup.”

“I'll go with you.”

“Not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“I don't need a bodyguard.” What I really meant was I don't want to get you killed, too.

“Then consider this to be a date.”

*    *    *    *    *

WE KNOCKED twice, and Sally just about ripped the door off its hinges when he yanked it open. “Shit,” he said, “it's you.”

“Who'd you think it would be?”

“I guess I was hoping it was Sugar. Look at me. I'm a wreck. I don't know how to do any of this shit. Sugar always gets me dressed. Christ, I haven't got the right hormones for this fucking shit, you know what I mean?”

“Where'd Sugar go?”

“I don't know. We had another fight. I don't even know how it started. Something about me not appreciating his coffee cake.”

I looked around. The house was beyond immaculate. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Nothing out of place. Through the kitchen door I could see the kitchen counters neatly lined with cakes, pies, loaves of bread, glass jars filled with cookies and homemade fudge.

“I didn't even realize he was all that upset,” Sally said. “He got dressed and left when I was in my bubble bath.”

Morelli arched an eyebrow. “Bubble bath?”

“Hey, give me a break here. RuPaul says you're supposed to take a goddamn bubble bath, so that's what I do. Gets you in touch with your fuckin' female side.”

Morelli grinned.

Sally was wearing black bikini Calvins and panty hose, and he was holding a contraption that looked like a corset with breasts. “You gotta help me,” he said. “I can't get into this by myself.”

Morelli held up a hand. “You're on your own.”

Sally looked over at him. “What, are you homophobic?”

“Nope,” Morelli said. “I'm Italian. There's a difference.”

“Okay,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

Sally wiggled into the corset and got it in place. “Tighten this fucker up,” he said. “I need to get a waist.”

I pulled at the strings, but I couldn't get them to go together. “I can't do this. I haven't got enough hand strength.”

We both looked at Morelli.

Morelli gave a disgusted sigh. “Shit,” he said, heaving himself off the couch. He took hold of the strings, put his foot to Sally's butt and yanked.

“Oof,” Sally said. He looked over his shoulder at Morelli. “You've done this before.”

“Dolan used to wear one of these when he went undercover.”

“I don't suppose you did Dolan's makeup?”

“Sorry,” Morelli said, “makeup's way out of my league.”

Sally looked to me.

“No sweat,” I said. “I'm from the burg. I was putting makeup on Barbie before I could walk.”

Half an hour later I had him appropriately slutted up. We tugged on his wig and did some last-minute combing. Sally zipped himself into a short black leather skirt and a black leather top that looked like Madonna meets the Hell's Angels. He slipped his sizefourteen feet into a pair of platform heels, and he was ready to go.

“How are you doing on time?” I asked.

He grabbed his guitar case. “I'm cool. So how do I look? Am I pretty?”

“Well, uh . . . yeah.” If you like almost-seven-feet-tall, slightly bowlegged, hook-nosed guys with hairy chests and arms dressed up like the bride of the Valkyries.

“You should come with me,” Sally said. “I'll introduce you to the rest of the band, and you could stay and watch the show.”

“Do I know how to take a girl on a date, or what?” Morelli said.

We took the elevator with Sally and followed him out of the lot. He looped around down by the river and got on Route 1 north.

“That was nice of you to help him with his corset,” I said.

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “I'm Mr. Sensitivity.”

Sally went about fifteen miles and put his blinker on, so we'd know he was turning. The club was on the right side of the highway, all lit up in red and pink neon lights. Already there were a lot of cars in the lot. The sign on the rooftop advertised an all-girl revue. I guessed that was Sally.

Sally crawled out of the Porsche and straightened his skirt.

“We've played here for four weeks now,” he said. “We're like fucking regulars.”

Regular what I didn't know.

Morelli looked around the lot. “Where's Sugar's car?”

“The black Mercedes.”

“Sugar does okay.”

Sally grinned. “You ever see him in drag?”

We both shook our heads no.

“When you see him you'll understand.”

We followed Sally in through the kitchen entrance.

“If I go through the front I'll get fucking mobbed,” he said. “These people are animals.”

We went down a dreary narrow hall to a back room. The room was filled with smoke and noise and the Lovelies. All five of them. All dressed in various forms of leather . . . with the exception of Sugar. Sugar was wearing a blood-red satin dress that fit him like his own skin. It was short and tight and so smooth in front I thought he must have been surgically altered. His makeup was flawless. His lips were full and pouty, painted in high gloss to match the dress. He wore the Marilyn wig, and on my best day I never looked that good. I slid a sideways glance at Morelli, and he obviously was caught in the same dumbstruck fascination that I was experiencing. I shifted my attention back to Sugar and realization suddenly hit me.

“The woman in the bar was Sugar,” I whispered to Morelli. “It was a different blond wig, but I'm sure it was Sugar.”

“Are you kidding me? He was right in front of you, and you didn't recognize him?”

“It happened so fast, and the room was dark and crowded. And besides, look at him! He's beautiful!”

Sugar saw the three of us come into the room, and he was on his feet, calling Sally an ungrateful slut.

“Christ,” Sally said, “what's he talking about? Don't you have to be a chick to be a slut?”

“You are a chick, you dumb shit,” one of the other drag queens said.

Sally grabbed his package and gave it a hike up.

“I'd like to talk to you in private,” Morelli said to Sugar.

“You don't belong here, and I'm not talking to you,” Sugar said. “This is the band's dressing room. Now get the hell out.”

Morelli crossed the room in three strides, backing Sugar into a corner. They stood talking like that for a few minutes, and then Morelli eased off. “Nice meeting you,” he said to the other band members, who were shuffling foot to foot in awkward silence. “Talk to you later,” he said to Sally.

When we left Sugar was still in the corner, his eyes small and glittery, not a part of his baby doll face.

“Jeez,” I said. “What did you say to him?”

“I asked him if he was involved in the firebombings.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“Not much.”

“He sure makes a beautiful woman.”

Morelli gave his head a small shake of amazement. “Christ, for a minute there I didn't know whether I wanted to punch him in the face or ask him for a date.”

“We going to stay to watch the band?”

“No,” Morelli said. “We're going out to the lot to check out the Mercedes, and then we're going to run a check on Sugar.”

*    *    *    *    *

THE MERCEDES was clean, and so was Sugar. No priors for Gregory Stern. When we got back to Morelli's house there were two cop cars parked in front and several people milling around on the sidewalk. Morelli parked the truck and got out and walked over to the nearest uniform, who happened to be Carl Costanza.