11 Eleven On Top (6 page)

“The backseat is completely gutted and there's a big hole in the floorboard.”

“Yeah, but other than that it's okay, right?”

Morelli looked at me for a couple beats. Probably trying to decide if this was worth a fight.

“It's too dark to get a really good assessment of the damage,” he finally said. "Why don't we go home and come back in the morning and take another look.

You don't want to drive it tonight anyway. You want to open the windows and let it air out."

He was right about the airing out part. The car reeked. And I knew he was also right about looking at the car when the light was better. Problem was, this was the only car I had. The only thing worse than driving this car would be borrowing the '53 Buick Grandma Mazur inherited from my Great Uncle Sandor.

Been there, done that, don't want to do it again.

And the danger involved in driving this car seemed to me to be hardly worth mentioning compared to the threat I was facing from the criminally insane stalker who set the fire.

“I'm more worried about the arsonist than I am about the car,” I said to Morelli.

“I haven't got a grip on the arsonist,” Morelli said. “I don't know what to do about him. The car I have some control over. Let me give you a ride home.”

Five minutes later we were parked in front of Morelli's house.

“Let me guess,” I said to Morelli. “Bob still misses me.”

Morelli ran a finger along the line of my jaw. “Bob could care less. I'm the one who misses you. And I miss you bad.”

“How bad?”

Morelli kissed me. “Painfully bad.”

At six-fifteen I dragged myself out of Morelli's bed and into the shower. I'd thrown my clothes in the washer and dryer the night before, and Morelli had them in the bathroom, waiting for me. I did a half-assed job of drying my hair, swiped some mascara on my lashes, and followed my nose to the kitchen, where Morelli had coffee brewing.

Both of the men in my life looked great in the morning. They woke up clear-eyed and alert, ready to save the world. I was a befuddled mess in the morning, stumbling around until I got my caffeine fix.

“We're running late,” Morelli said, handing me a travel mug of coffee and a toasted bagel. “I'll drop you off at the cleaner. You can check the car out after work.”

“No. I have time. This will only take a minute. I'm sure the car is fine.”

“I'm sure the car isn't fine,” Morelli said, nudging me out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door. He locked the door behind us and beeped his SUV open with the remote.

Minutes later we were at my parents' house, arguing on the front lawn.

“You're not driving this car,” Morelli said.

“Excuse me? Did I hear you give me an order?”

“Cut me some slack here. You and I both know this car isn't drivable.”

“I don't know any such thing. Okay, it's got some problems, but they're all cosmetic. I'm sure the engine is fine.” I slid behind the wheel and proved my point by rolling the engine over. “See?” I said.

“Get out of this wreck and let me drive you to work.”

“No.”

“In twenty seconds I'm going to drag you out and reignite the fire until there's nothing left of this death trap but a smoking cinder.”

“I hate when you do the macho-man thing.”

“I hate when you're stubborn.”

I hit the door locks and automatic windows, put the car into reverse, and screeched out of the driveway into the road. I changed gears and roared away, gagging on the odor of wet barbecued car. He was right, of course. The car was a death trap, and I was being stubborn. Problem was, I couldn't help myself.

Morelli brought out the stubborn in me.

Kan Klean was a small mom-and-pop dry cleaners that had been operating in the Burg for as long as I can remember. The Macaroni family owned Kan Klean. Mama Macaroni, Mario Macaroni, and Gina Macaroni were the principals, and a bunch of miscellaneous Macaronis helped out when needed.

Mama Macaroni was a contemporary of Grandma Bella and Grandma Mazur. Mama Macaroni's fierce raptor eyes took the world in under drooping folds of parchment-thin skin. Her shrunken body, wrapped in layers of black, curved over her cane and conjured up images of mummified larvae. She had a boulder of a mole set into the roadmap of her face somewhere in the vicinity of Atlanta. Three hairs grew out of the mole. The mole was horrifying and compelling. It was the dermatological equivalent of a seven-car crash with blood and guts spread all over the highway.

I'd never been to Kan Klean that Mama Macaroni wasn't sitting on a stool behind the counter. Mama nodded to customers but seldom spoke. Mama only spoke when there was a problem. Mama Macaroni was the problem solver. Her son Mario supervised the day-to-day operation. Her daughter-in-law, Gina, kept the books and ran day care for the hordes of grandchildren produced by her four daughters and two sons.

“It's not difficult,” Gina said to me. “You'll be working the register. You take the clothes from the customer and you do a count. Then you fill out the order form and give a copy to the customer. You put a copy in the bag with the clothes and you put the third copy in the box by the register. Then you put the bag in one of the rolling bins. One bin is laundry and one bin is dry cleaning. That's the way we do it. When a customer comes in to pick up his cleaned clothes you search for the clothes by the number on the top of his receipt. Make sure you always take a count so the customer gets all his clothes.”

Mama Macaroni mumbled something in Italian and slid her dentures around in her mouth.

“Mama says you should be careful. She says she's keeping her eye on you,” Gina said.

I smiled at Mama Macaroni and gave her a thumbs-up. Mama Macaroni responded with a death glare.

“When you have time between customers you can tag the clothes,” Gina said. “Every single garment must get tagged. We have a machine that you use, and you have to make sure that the number on the tag is the same as the number on the customer's receipt.”

By noon I'd completely lost the use of my right thumb from using the tagging machine.

“You got to go faster,” Mama Macaroni said to me from her stool. “I see you slow down. You think we pay for nothing?”

A man hurried through the front door and approached the counter. He was mid-forties and dressed in a suit and tie. “I picked my dry cleaning up yesterday,” he said, “and all the buttons are broken off my shirt.”

Mama Macaroni got off her stool and caned her way to the counter. “What?” she said.

“The buttons are broken.”

She shook her head. “I no understand.”

He showed her the shirt. “The buttons are all broken.”

“Yes,” Mama Macaroni said.

“You broke them.”

“No,” Mama said. “Impossible.”

“The buttons were fine when I brought the shirt in. I picked the shirt up and the buttons were all broken.”

“I no understand.”

“What don't you understand?”

“English. My English no good.”

The man looked at me. “Do you speak English?”

“What?” I said.

The man whipped the shirt off the counter and left the store.

“Maybe you not so slow,” Mama Macaroni said to me. “But don't get any ideas about taking it easy. We don't pay you good money to stand around doing nothing.”

I started watching the clock at one o'clock. By three o'clock I was sure I'd been tagging clothes for at least five days without a break. My thumb was throbbing, my feet ached from standing for eight hours, and I had a nervous twitch in my eye from Mama Macaroni's constant scrutiny.

I took my bag from under the counter and I looked over at Mama Macaroni. “See you tomorrow.”

“What you mean, see you tomorrow? Where you think you going?”

“Home. It's three o'clock. My shift is over.”

“Look at little miss clock watcher here. Three o'clock on the dot. Bing. The bell rings and you out the door.” She threw her parchment hands into the air.

“Go! Go home. Who needs you? And don't be late tomorrow. Sunday is big day. We the only cleaner open on Sunday.”

“Okay,” I said. “And have a nice mole.” Shit! Did I just say that? “Have a nice day!” I yelled. Crap.

I'd parked the Saturn in the small lot adjacent to Kan Klean. I left the building and circled the car. I didn't see any notes. I didn't smell anything burning.

No one shot at me. Guess my stalker was taking a day off.

I got into the car, turned my cell phone on, and scrolled to messages.

First message. “Stephanie.” That was the whole message. It was from Morelli at seven-ten this morning. It sounded like it had been said through clenched teeth.

Second message. Morelli breathing at seven-thirty.

Third message. “Call me when you turn your phone on.” Morelli again.

Fourth message. “It's two-thirty and we just found Barroni's car. Call me.”

Barroni's car! I dialed in Joe's cell number.

“It's me,” I said. “I just got off work. I had to turn my phone off because Mama Macaroni said it was giving her brain cancer. Not that it would matter.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm on the road. I'm going home to take a nap. I'm all done in.”

The car...

“The car is okay,” I told Morelli.

“The car is not okay.”

“Give up on the car. What about Barroni?”

“I lied about Barroni. I figured that was the only way you'd call.”

I put my finger to my eye to stop the twitching, disconnected Morelli, and cruised into my lot.

Old Mr. Ginzler was walking to his Buick when I pulled in. “That's some lookin' car you got there, chicky,” Mr. Ginzler said. “And it stinks.”

“I paid extra for the smell,” I told Mr. Ginzler.

“Smart-ass kid,” Mr. Ginzler said. But he smiled when he said it. Mr. Ginzler liked me. I was almost sure of it.

Rex was snoozing in his soup can when I let myself into my apartment. There were no messages on my machine. Most people called my cell these days. Even my mother called my cell. I shuffled into the bedroom, kicked my shoes off, and crawled under the covers. The best I could say about today was that it was marginally better than yesterday. At least I hadn't gotten fired. Problem was, it was hard to tell if not getting fired from Kan Klean was a good thing or a bad thing. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, telling myself when I woke up my life would be great. Okay, it was sort of a fib, but it kept me from bursting into tears or smashing all my dishes.

A couple hours later I was still awake and I was thinking less about breaking something and more about eating something. I strolled out to the kitchen and took stock. I could construct another peanut butter sandwich. I could mooch dinner off my mother. I could take myself off to search for fast food. The last two choices meant I'd have to get back into the Saturn. Not an appealing prospect, but still better than another peanut butter sandwich.

I laced up my sneakers, ran a brush through my hair, and applied lip gloss. The natural look. Acceptable in Jersey only if you've had your boobs enhanced to the point where no one looked beyond them. I hadn't had my boobs enhanced, and most people found it easy to look beyond them, but I didn't care a whole lot today.

I took the stairs debating the merits of a chicken quesadilla against the satisfaction of a dozen doughnuts. I was still undecided when I pushed through the lobby door and crossed the lot to my car. Turns out it wasn't a decision I needed to make because my car was wearing a police boot.

I ripped my cell phone out of my bag and punched in Morelli's number.

“There's a police boot on my car,” I said to him. “Did you put it on?”

“Not personally.”

“I want it off.”

“I'm crimes against persons. I'm not traffic.”

“Fine. I want to report a crime against a person. Some jerk booted my car.”

Morelli blew out a sigh and disconnected.

I dialed Ranger. “I have a problem,” I said to Ranger.

“And?”

“I was hoping you could solve it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“My car's been booted.”

“And?”

“I need to get the boot off.”

“Anything else?”

“I could use some doughnuts. I haven't had dinner.”

“Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“Babe,” Ranger said, and the connection went dead.

Ten minutes later, Rangers Porsche rolled to a stop next to the Saturn. Ranger got out and handed me a bag. Ranger was in his usual black. Black T-shirt that looked like it was painted onto his biceps and clung to his washboard stomach. Black cargo pants that had lots of pockets for Rangers goodies, although clearly not all his goodies were relegated to the pockets. His hair was medium cut and silky straight, falling across his forehead.

“Doughnuts?” I asked.

“Turkey club. Doughnuts will kill you.”

“And?”

Ranger almost smiled at me. “If I had to drive this Saturn I'd want to die, too.”

“Can you get the boot off?” I asked Ranger.

Ranger toed the big chunk of metal that was wrapped around my tire. “Tank's on his way with the equipment. How'd you manage to get booted in the lot?”

“Morelli. He thinks the car's unsafe.”

“And?”

“Okay, so it's got some cosmetic problems.”

“Babe, it's got a twelve-inch hole in the floor.”

“Yeah, but the hole's in the back and I can't even see it when I'm in the front. And if I leave the back windows open the fumes get sucked out before they get to me.”

“Good to know you've thought this through.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Do I look like I'm laughing?”

“I thought I saw your mouth twitch.”

“How'd this happen?”

I took the turkey club out of the bag and unwrapped it. “It was the note guy. I took Grandma to a viewing at Stivas, and when we left, there was a note in the car. It said it was my turn to burn... and then the backseat caught fire on the way to my parents' house.” I took a bite of the sandwich. “I have a feeling about the note guy. I think the note guy is Stiva's kid. Spiro. Joe's Grandma Bella told me she had a vision about rats running away from a fire. And one of the rats was sick and it came back to get me.”