High Five (14 page)

“Well, actually . . .” I said.

Joe brushed a kiss across the nape of my neck. “I'm trying.”

“I see babies,” Bella said. “You will give me more greatgrandchildren. I know these things. I have the eye.” She patted my stomach. “You're ripe tonight. Tonight would be good.”

I looked at Joe.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I've got it covered. Besides, there's no such thing as the eye.”

“Hah!” Bella said. “I gave Ray Barkolowski the eye, and all his teeth fell out.”

Joe grinned down at his grandmother. “Ray Barkolowski had periodontal disease.”

Bella shook her head. “Young people,” she said. “They believe in nothing.” She took my hand and dragged me after her. “Come. You should meet the family.”

I looked back at Joe and mouthed “Help!”

“You're on your own,” Joe said. “I need a drink. A big one.”

“This is Joe's cousin, Louis,” Grandma Bella said. “Louis fools around on his wife.”

Louis looked like a thirty-year-old loaf of fresh raised white bread. Soft and plump. Scarfing down appetizers. He stood next to a small olive-skinned woman, and from the look she gave him, I assumed they were married.

“Grandma Bella,” he said, croaky-voiced, his cheeks mottled in red, mouth stuffed with crab balls. “I would never—”

“Silence,” she said. “I know these things. You can't lie to me. I'll put the eye on you.”

Louis sucked in some crab and clutched his throat. His face got red, then purple. He flailed his arms.

“He's choking!” I said.

Grandma Bella tapped her finger to her eye and smiled like the wicked witch in
The Wizard of Oz.

I gave Louis a good hard
thwack
between his shoulder blades, and the crab ball flew out of his mouth.

Grandma Bella leaned close to Louis. “You cheat again, and next time I'll kill you,” she said.

She moved off toward a group of women. “One thing you learn about Morelli men,” she said to me. “You don't let them get away with a thing.”

Joe nudged me from behind and put a drink in my hand. “How's it going?”

“Pretty good. Grandma Bella put the eye on Louis.” I took a sip. “Champagne?”

“All out of cyanide,” he said.

A
T EIGHT O'CLOCK
the waitresses were clearing the plates off the tables, the band was playing, and all the Italian ladies were on the dance floor, dancing with one another. Kids were running between the tables, squealing and shrieking. The wedding party was at the bar. And the Morelli men were out back, smoking cigars and passing gas.

Morelli had forsaken the cigar ritual and was slouched back in his chair, studying the buttons on my dress. “We could go now,” he said. “And no one would notice.”

“Your grandma Bella would notice. She keeps looking over here. I think she might be getting ready to do the eye thing again.”

“I'm her favorite grandson,” Morelli said. “I'm safe from the eye.”

“So your grandma Bella doesn't scare you?”

“You're the only one who scares me,” Morelli said. “You want to dance?”

“You dance?”

“When I have to.”

We were sitting close, with our knees touching. He leaned forward and took my hand and kissed the inside, and I felt my bones heat up and start to liquefy.

I heard the click of stiletto heels approaching and caught a flash of gold in my peripheral vision.

“Am I disturbing something?” Terry Gilman said, all glossy lipstick and carnivorous, perfect white teeth.

“Hello, Terry,” Joe said. “What's going on?”

“Frankie Russo's taking the men's room apart. Something about his wife eating potato salad off Hector Santiago's fork.”

“And you want me to talk to him?”

“Either that or shoot him. You're the only one with a legal piece. He's racking up a hell of a bill in there.”

Morelli gave my hand another kiss. “Don't go anywhere.”

They walked off together, and I had a moment of doubt that they might not be going to the men's room. That's dumb, I told myself. Joe isn't like that anymore.

Five minutes later he still hadn't returned, and I was having a hard time controlling my blood pressure. I was distracted by ringing, far off in the distance. I realized with a start that it wasn't far off at all—it was my cell phone, the ringing smothered in my purse.

It was Sandy. “He's here!” she said. “I was just walking the dog, and I looked in the Ruzicks' windows, and there he was, watching television. It was easy to see because the lights are all on, and Mrs. Ruzick never pulls her shades.”

I thanked Sandy and dialed Ranger. No answer, so I left a message on his machine. I tried his car phone and cell phone. No answer at those numbers either. I called his pager and left my cell phone number. I tapped my finger on the table for five minutes while I waited for a call back. No call back. No Joe. Little wisps of smoke were starting to escape from my hairline.

The Ruzicks' house was three blocks away. I wanted to go over and keep my eye on things, but I didn't want to walk out on Joe. No problem, I told myself. Just go find him. He's in the men's room. Only he wasn't in the men's room. No one was in the men's room. I asked a few people if they knew where I could find Joe. Nope. No one knew where I could find Joe. Still no call from Ranger.

The steam was coming out my ears now. If this kept up I'd start whistling like a teakettle. Wouldn't that be embarrassing?

Okay, I'll leave him a note, I decided. I had a pen but no paper, so I wrote on a napkin. “Be right back,” I wrote. “I have to check on an FTA for Ranger.” I propped the napkin up against Joe's drink and left.

I power-walked the three blocks and pulled up across from the Ruzick house. Sure enough, Alphonse was there, big as life, watching television. I could see him crystal clear through the living room window. No one had ever accused Alphonse of being smart. You might say that about me too, because I'd remembered to take my purse, but I'd left my sweater and cell phone at Angio's. And now that I was standing still, I was freezing. No problem, I told myself. Go to Angio's, get your stuff, and come back.

It would have been a good plan, except at that moment Alphonse stood, scratched his belly, hiked up his pants, and walked out of the room. Damn. Now what?

I was across the street from the Ruzicks', crouched between two parked cars. I had good line of sight to the living room and front of the house, but all else was lost to me. I was contemplating this problem when I heard the back door open and close. Shit. He was leaving. He'd probably parked his car in the alley behind the house.

I ran across the street and hugged the shadows on the side of the house. Sure enough, I could see the hulking outline of Alphonse Ruzick making his way to the alley, carrying a bag. He was charged with armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He was forty-six, and he weighed in at 230 pounds, with the bulk of his weight in his gut. He had a little pinhead and a brain to match. And he was getting away. Damn Ranger. Where the hell was he?

Alphonse was halfway down the yard when I yelled. I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have cuffs. I didn't have anything, but I yelled, anyway. It was all I could think to do.

“Stop!” I yelled. “Bail Enforcement Agent! Drop to the ground.”

Alphonse didn't even turn to look. He just took off, cutting across yards, rather than going for the alley. He ran for all he was worth, handicapped by his lard butt and beer gut, hanging on to the bag in his right hand. Dogs barked, porch lights flashed, and back doors were thrown open all down the block.

“Call the police,” I yelled, chasing after Alphonse, my skirt up around my neck. “Fire, fire. Help. Help.”

We reached the end of the block, and I was within an arm's length when he whirled around and hit me with the bag. The impact burst the bag and knocked me off my feet. I was flat on my back, covered in garbage. Alphonse hadn't been leaving at all. He'd been taking the garbage out for his mother.

I scrambled to my feet and charged after Alphonse. He'd rounded the block and was running back to his mother's. He had half a house length on me when he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, pointed at a Ford Explorer parked at the curb, and I heard the alarm system chirp off.

“Stop!” I yelled. “You're under arrest! Stop or I'll shoot!”

It was a stupid thing to say because I didn't have a gun. And even if I had a gun I certainly wouldn't shoot him. Alphonse looked over his shoulder to check me out, and it was enough to uncoordinate the forward momentum of his blubber. The result was that he started to stumble, and I inadvertently plowed into his gelatinous body.

We both went down to the sidewalk, where I hung on for dear life. Alphonse was trying to get to his feet, and I was trying to keep him on the ground. I could hear sirens in the distance and people yelling and running toward us. And I was thinking I just had to wrestle around with him long enough for help to get to me. He was on his knees, and I had a fistful of his shirt in my hand, and he batted me away like I was a bug.

“Dumb cunt,” he said, getting to his feet. “You haven't got a gun.”

I get called lots of names. That's not one of my favorites. I latched onto his cuff and pulled his feet out from under him. He seemed suspended in air for a fraction of a second, and then he crash-landed with a loud
whump
that shook the ground and hit about 6.7 on the Richter scale.

“I'm gonna kill you,” he said, sweating and panting, rolling on top of me, hands to my neck. “I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.”

I squirmed under him and sunk my teeth into his shoulder.

“Yow!” he yelled. “Sonovabitch. What are you, a goddamn vampire?”

We rolled around for what seemed like hours, locked onto each other. Him trying to kill me, and me just hanging on like a tick on a dog's back, oblivious to my surroundings and the state of my skirt, afraid if I let go he'd beat me to death. I was exhausted, and I was thinking I was about at the end of the line when I was hit with a splash of ice-cold water.

We both instantly unlocked and flopped onto our backs, sputtering.

“What?” I said. “What?” I blinked my eyes and saw there were lots of people around us. Morelli and Ranger, a couple uniformed cops, and some people from the neighborhood. Plus Mrs. Ruzick was there, holding a big empty pot.

“Works every time,” Mrs. Ruzick said. “Except usually I hose down cats. This neighborhood has too many cats.”

Ranger grinned down at me. “Good bust, Tiger.”

I got to my feet and took stock of myself. No broken bones. No bullet holes. No knife wounds. Ruined manicure. Soaking wet hair and dress. What looked like vegetable soup clinging to my skirt.

Morelli and Ranger were staring at my breasts and smiling at the wet dress that was plastered to my skin.

“So I have nipples,” I snapped. “Get over it.”

Morelli gave me his jacket. “What's with the vegetable soup on your skirt?”

“He hit me with a bag of garbage.”

Morelli and Ranger were smiling again.

“Don't say anything,” I told them. “And if you value your lives you'll stop grinning.”

“Hey, man,” Ranger said, grinning wider than ever. “I'm out of here. I've got to take Bluto for a ride.”

“Show's over,” Morelli said to the neighbors.

Sandy Polan was there. She gave Joe an appraising once-over, giggled, and left.

“What was that about?” Joe asked me.

I gave him a palms-up. “Go figure.”

I traded his jacket for my sweater when we got to his truck. “Out of morbid curiosity, how long were you standing there watching me wrestle with Ruzick?”

“Not long. A minute or two.”

“And Ranger?”

“The same.”

“You could have jumped in and helped me.”

“We were trying. We couldn't get hold of you the way you were tumbling around. Anyway, you looked like you were doing okay.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I talked to Ranger. He called your cell phone.”

I looked down at my dress. It was probably wrecked. Good thing I hadn't worn the little black number.

“Where were you? I went to the men's room, and it was empty.”

“Frankie needed some air.” Morelli stopped for a light and glanced over at me. “Whatever possessed you to go after Alphonse like that? You were unarmed.”

Charging after Alphonse wasn't what bothered me. Okay, so it hadn't been the bright thing to do. But it hadn't been as stupid as walking the streets, alone and unarmed, when Ramirez might have been stalking me.

Morelli parked the truck in the lot and walked me up to my apartment. He backed me against my door and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Do I get to come in?”

“I have coffee grounds in my hair.” And Randy Briggs in my apartment.

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “Makes you smell kind of homey.”

“I don't know if I'm up to being romantic tonight.”

“We don't have to be romantic,” Morelli said. “We could just have some really dirty sex.”

I rolled my eyes.

Morelli kissed me again. A good-night kiss this time. “Call me when you want some,” he said.

“Some what?” As if I didn't know.

“Some anything.”

I let myself into my apartment and tiptoed past Briggs, who was asleep on my couch.

S
UNDAY MORNING
I woke up to rain. It was coming down in a steady drone on my fire escape, spattering against my window. I opened the curtains and thought, ick. The world was gray. Beyond the parking lot, the world didn't exist at all. I looked at the bed. Very tempting. I could crawl into bed and stay there until the rain stopped, or the world came to an end, or until someone showed up with a bag of doughnuts.