Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

ELEVEN

MY MOTHER AND Grandma Mazur were in the kitchen. My mother was at the stove, stirring red sauce, and Grandma was at the sink, drying pots stacked in the Rubbermaid dish drainer.

“I made up the recipe just like you said,” Grandma told Lula. “And then I put the sauce on some pulled pork. It’s in the casserole dish in the refrigerator.”

“How does it taste?” Lula asked. “What do you think of it?”

“It tastes okay, but I got the trots as soon as I ate it. I’ve been in the bathroom ever since. I got hemorrhoids on hemorrhoids.”

“Get it out of the refrigerator before your father gets hold of it,” my mother said to me. “Bad enough I’ve got your grandmother running upstairs every ten minutes. I don’t want to have to listen to the two of them fighting over who gets in first.”

I took the casserole dish out of the refrigerator and lifted the lid. It looked good, and it smelled great.

“Do you want to try some?” I asked Lula.

“Ordinarily,” Lula said. “But I’m on a diet. Maybe you should taste it.”

“Not in a hundred years,” I told her.

“It could just be a fluke that your granny got the trots,” Lula said. “It could be one of them anemones.”

“I think you mean anomaly.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“We’re having ham tonight,” my mother said to me. “And pineapple upside-down cake. You should bring Joseph to dinner.”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Since weeks ago.”

“Do you have a new boyfriend?”

“No. I’m done with men. I have a hamster. That’s all I need.”

“That’s a shame,” my mother said. “It’s a big ham.”

“I’ll come to dinner,” I said. “I love ham.”

“No Joseph?”

“No Joseph. I’ll take his share home and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

“I know what we can do with this casserole,” Lula said. “We can take it to the office and feed it to Vinnie. He don’t care what he puts in his mouth.”

I thought that sounded like a decent idea, so I carted the pulled pork out to Ranger’s Porsche and carefully set it on the floor in the back. Lula and I buckled ourselves in, and I headed for Hamilton Avenue.

“Holy cats,” Lula said, half a block away from the office. “You see that car parked on the other side of the street? It’s the bushy-headed killer. It’s Marco the Maniac. He’s sitting there waiting to kill me.”

“Don’t panic,” I said. “Get his license plate. I’m dialing Morelli.”

“It’s them or me,” she said, launching herself over the consul onto the backseat, powering the side window down. “This is war.”

“Stay calm! Are you getting the license number?”

“Calm, my ass.” And she stuck her Glock out the window and squeezed off about fifteen shots at the two guys in the car. “Eat lead,” she yelled, “you sons of bitches!”

Bullets ricocheted off metal wheel covers and bit into fiberglass, but clearly none hit their intended mark because the car took off and was doing about eighty miles an hour before it even got to the corner. I hung a U-turn in front of the bonds office, sending oncoming cars scrambling onto curbs, screeching to a stop.

Lula had discarded the flak vest, rammed herself through the side window, and was half in and half out, still shooting at the car in front of us.

“Stop shooting,” I yelled at her. “You’re going to kill someone.”

The car turned left onto Olden, and I was prevented from following by heavy traffic.

“Get back into the car,” I said to Lula. “I’ve lost them.”

“I can’t get back,” Lula said. “I’m stuck.”

I looked over my shoulder at Lula. All I could see was bright yellow ass. The rest of her was out the window.

“Stop fooling around,” I told her.

“I’m not fooling. I’m stuck!”

Cars were passing and honking.

“Your ass,” Lula said to the cars.

I checked her out in my side mirror and saw that not only was she stuck, but her boobs had fallen out of the scoop-neck sweater and were blowing in the wind. I turned onto a side street and pulled to the curb to take a look. By the time I got out of the car, I was laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks and I could hardly see.

“I don’t see where this is so funny,” Lula said. “Get me out of the window. I’m about freezing my nipples off. It’s not like it’s summer or somethin’.”

Short of lubing Lula up with goose grease, I didn’t know where to begin.

“Do you think it’s better if I pull or push?” I asked her.

“I think you should pull. I don’t think I’m gonna get my titties and my belly back through the window. I think my ass is smaller. And I don’t want no wisecrackin’ comment on that, neither.”

I latched on to her wrists, planted my feet, and pulled, but she didn’t budge.

“I’m losing circulation in my legs,” Lula said. “You don’t get me out of here soon, I’m gonna need amputation.”

I went around to the other side, got into the backseat, and almost fainted at the sight of the big yellow butt in front of me. I broke into a nervous giggle and instantly squashed it. Get it together, I told myself. This is serious stuff. She could lose the use of her legs.

I put my hands on her ass and shoved. Nothing. No progress. I put my shoulder to her and leaned into it. Ditto. Still stuck. I got out of the Porsche and went around to take another look from the front.

“Maybe I should call roadside assistance,” I said to Lula. “Or the fire department.”

“I don’t feel so good,” Lula said. And she farted.

“Jeez Louise,” I said. “Could you control yourself? This is Ranger’s Porsche.”

“I can’t help it. I’m just a big gasbag. I still got leftover barbecue gas.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and did a full minute-long fart. “Excuse me,” she said.

I was horrified and impressed all at the same time. It was a record-breaking fart. On my best day, I couldn’t come near to farting like that.

“I feel a lot better,” Lula said. “Look at me. I got room in the window opening.” She wriggled a little and eased herself back into the SUV. “I’m not so fat after all,” she said. “I was just all swelled up.”

My cell phone buzzed, and I saw from the screen that it was Morelli.

“Did I miss a call from you?” he asked.

“Yeah. Marco and his partner were parked in front of the bonds office. They were in a black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t get their license. I followed them to Olden and then lost them.”

“I’ll put it on the air.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes later, Lula and I trudged into the office with the casserole and came face-to-face with Joyce Barnhardt.

Joyce had been a pudge when she was a kid, but over the years the fat had shifted to all the right places. Plus, she’d had some sucked out and added some here and there. Truth is, most of the original equipment had been altered one way or another, but even I had to admit the end result was annoyingly spectacular. She had a lot of flame-red hair that she did up in waves and curls. Hard to tell which of it was hers and which was bought. Not that it mattered when she swung her ass down the street in spike-heeled boots, skintight low-rider jeans, and a black satin bustier. She wore more eye makeup than Tammy Faye and had lips that were inflated to bursting.

“Hello, Joyce,” I said. “Long time no see.”

“I guess you could say that to Morelli, too,” Joyce said.

Lula cut her eyes to me. “You want me to shoot her? ’Cause I’d really like to do that. I still got a few bullets left in my gun.”

“Thanks, but not today,” I said to Lula. “Some other time.”

“Just let me know when.”

“So what are you doing here in the slums?” I asked her.

“Ask Connie.”

“Vinnie hired her again,” Connie said. “He decided you weren’t bringing the skips in fast enough, so he brought Joyce in to take up the slack.”

“I don’t take up slack,” Joyce said. “I take the cream off the top.”

From time to time, Joyce had worked for Vinnie, mostly because she was good with a whip and once in a while Vinnie felt like a very bad boy.

“What’s in the casserole?” Joyce asked.

I opened the lid. “It’s barbecue. Grandma Mazur made it for me for dinner. She knows how I love this recipe.”

Joyce spit on the pulled pork. “Just like old times,” she said. “Remember when I used to spit on your lunch in school?”

“How about now?” Lula asked. “Can I shoot her now?”

“No!”

Joyce took the casserole dish from me. “Yum,” she said. “Dinner.” And then she sashayed out of the bonds office, got into her black Mercedes, and roared off down the street with the barbecue.

“I got a dilemma here now,” Lula said. “I don’t know whether I want her to like my barbecue sauce or get the squirts from it.”

Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “Where is she? Did she leave? Christ, she scares the crap out of me. Still, there’s no getting around it. She’s a man-eater. She’ll clean up the list.”

Connie and Lula and I did a collective eye roll because Joyce had tried her hand at bounty hunting before and the only man she ate was Vinnie.

“Am I fired?” I asked Vinnie.

“No. You’re the B team.”

“You can’t have an A team and a B team going after the same skips. It doesn’t work.”

“Make it work,” Vinnie said.

“We should have saved the barbecue for Vinnie,” I said to Lula.

“Wasn’t me that gave Barnhardt the barbecue,” Lula said. “I wanted to shoot her.”

I hiked my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m out of here. I’m going to see if Myron Kaplan is home.”

“I’m with you,” Lula said. “I’m not staying here with this Barnhardt-hiring idiot.”

“What about the filing?” Vinnie yelled at Lula. “There’s stacks of files everywhere.”

“File my ass,” Lula said.

ACCORDING TO THE information Connie had given me, Myron Kaplan was seventy-eight years old, lived alone, was a retired pharmacist, and two months ago, he robbed his dentist at gunpoint. Myron’s booking photo was mostly nose. Several other photos taken when bail was written showed Myron to be slightly stooped, with sparse, wild gray hair.

“There it is,” Lula said, checking house numbers while I crept down Carmichael Street. “That’s his house with the red door.”

Carmichael was a quiet little side street in the center of the city. Residents could walk to shops, restaurants, coffeehouses, corner groceries, and in Myron’s case… his dentist. The street was entirely residential, with narrow brick-faced two-story row houses.

I parked at the curb, and Lula and I walked to the small front stoop. I rang the bell, and we both stepped aside in case Myron decided to shoot through his door. He was old, but he was known to be armed, and we’d been shot at a lot lately.

The door opened, and Myron looked at me and then focused on Lula in the yellow stretch suit and black flak vest.

“What the heck?” Myron asked.

“Don’t mess with me,” Lula said. “I’m off doughnuts, and I feel mean as a snake.”

“You look like a big bumblebee,” Myron said. “I thought I slept through October, and it was Halloween.”

I introduced myself and explained to Myron he’d missed his court date.

“I’m not going to court,” Myron said. “I already told that to the lady who called on the phone. I got better things to do.”

“Like what?” Lula wanted to know.

“Like watch television.”

Myron had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was gumming it around, sucking in smoke and blowing it out, all at the same time.

“That’s disgustin’,” Lula said. “You shouldn’t be smoking. Didn’t your doctor tell you not to smoke?”

“My doctor’s dead,” Myron said. “Everybody I know is dead.”

“I’m not,” Lula said.

Myron considered that. “You’re right. You want to do knicky-knacky with me? It’s been a while, but I think I can still do it.”

“You better be talkin’ about some kind of card game,” Lula told him.

“We need to go now,” I said. “I’m kind of on a schedule.”

“Listen, missy,” Myron said. “I’m not going. What part of not going don’t you understand?”

I hated capturing old people. If they didn’t cooperate, there was no good way to bring them in. No matter how professional and respectful I tried to act, I always looked like a jerk when I dragged their carcass out the door.

“It’s the law,” I said. “You’re accused of a crime, and you have to go before a judge.”

“I didn’t commit a crime,” Myron said. “I just got a refund. This quack dentist made me false teeth. They didn’t fit. I wanted my money back.”

“Yes, but you got it back at gunpoint.”

“That’s because I couldn’t get an appointment to see him until January. Couldn’t get past his snippy receptionist. When I went in with the gun, I got to see him right away. It’s not like I have forever to wait for money. I’m old.”

“What about the teeth?” Lula asked him. “Where’s the teeth?”

“I left them with the dentist. I got my money back, and he got his teeth back.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Lula said.

“The court decides what’s fair,” I said. “You have to go to court.”

Myron crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Make me.”

“This is gonna get ugly,” Lula said. “We should have left this for Barnhardt.”

“I’ll make a deal,” I said to Myron. “If you come with me, I’ll get you a date with my grandmother. She’s real cute.”

“Does she put out for knicky-knacky?”

“No!”

“Criminy,” Lula said to Myron. “What’s with you and the knicky-knacky? Do it by yourself and get it over with just like the rest of us.”

“He’s not real big,” I said to Lula. “Probably about a hundred and sixty pounds. If we hog-tie him, we should be able to cart him out to the car.”

“Yeah, and he don’t have no teeth, so we don’t have to worry about him biting us.”

“You can’t do that to me,” Myron said. “I’m old. I’ll have a heart attack. I’ll pee my pants.”

Lula was hands on hips. “I hate when they pee their pants. It’s a humiliating experience. And it ruins the upholstery.”

I cut my eyes to Myron. “Well? How do you want us to do this?”

“I gotta go to the bathroom before you hog-tie me,” Myron said. “Or else I’ll pee for sure.”

“You’ve got three minutes,” I said to him.

“I can’t go in three minutes. I’m old. I’ve got a prostate the size of a basketball.”

“Just go!”

Myron trotted off to the bathroom, and Lula and I waited in the front room. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I went to the bathroom door and knocked. No answer.

“Myron?”

Nothing. I tried the door. Locked. I called again and rapped louder. Shit!

“I need something to pop the lock,” I said to Lula. “Do you have a safety pin? Chicken skewer? Knitting needle?”

“I got a bobby pin.”

Lula bent the pin open, shoved it in the little hole in the knob, and the door unlocked and we peeked in. No Myron in the bathroom. Open window.

“He gets around, for bein’ he’s so old,” Lula said, looking out the window.

This was the second time today I’d lost a skip through a window. I couldn’t even categorize myself as incompetent. I had to go with pathetically stupid.

“Now what are we gonna do?” Lula asked.

Ordinarily, I’d walk the neighborhood and try to ferret out my skip. Problem was, I had Lula in her yellow spandex, and we were way too visible. You could probably see Lula from the space shuttle.

“I’m going to drop you at the office, and I’m going back to work for Ranger,” I said. “Morelli told me the crime lab was done with your apartment. Is your landlord replacing your door?”

“I don’t know. I gotta call and find out.”

I DROVE PAST the bonds office twice before pulling to the curb to let Lula out.

“I don’t see anything suspicious,” I said to her. “I think you’re safe.”

“This has been another disturbin’ day, what with those two assholes lookin’ to kill me, and findin’ out that I’m fat. I might go back on that bacon diet.”

“The bacon diet is unhealthy. And you had packs of dogs chasing you down the street when you were on the bacon diet. All you need to do is control your portions. Stay away from the doughnuts and only eat one piece of chicken or one pork chop or one hamburger at a meal.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lula said. “Nobody eats just one pork chop. I’d get weak and die.”

“Lots of people only eat one pork chop.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “That’s un-American. How am I supposed to stimulate the economy when I’m only eating one plain-ass pork chop? Probably I can’t even have gravy on that pork chop.”

I made sure Lula got into the office without getting shot or decapitated, and then I pulled my map out of my handbag and started another run through Ranger’s accounts.

Morelli called a little after four. “We found the Town Car,” he said. “It was parked on a side street near the Bank Center. Easy to spot, since it had a bunch of bullet holes in it. No blood inside. I don’t know how she always manages to miss her target. It’s uncanny.”

“Owner?”

“It was stolen from a car service last night. The lab guys are doing their thing, but that car has been handled by half of New Jersey.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass this on to Lula.”

“Is she with you?”

“No. I dropped her at the bonds office. I’m riding a circuit for Ranger right now.”

“Word around town is that he’s losing accounts. Having a Rangeman security system has turned into a liability.”

“He’s working on it.”

I WAS HALFWAY through my account route, and I realized it was almost six o’clock. I took Olden to Hamilton, turned into the Burg, and slid to a stop in front of my parents’ house precisely on time.

I could smell the ham the minute I stepped into the foyer. It was an intoxicating aroma of warm, salty goodness and special occasions. My father was already at the table, waiting to stab into the first piece of ham. My grandmother was also seated. And a strange man sat beside Grandma.

“This is Madelyn Mooney’s boy, Milton,” my mother said to me, setting the green bean casserole on the table. “He just moved back to Trenton.”

“Yep,” Grandma said. “We thought we’d fix you up with some hotties since it’s kaput with Morelli.”

“I’m not interested in getting fixed up,” I said.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Grandma said. “You wait too long, and all the good ones get taken.”

I looked over at Milton. He was a sandbag. Overweight, slumped in his chair, pasty white skin, bad complexion, balding orange hair. I was guessing mid-thirties. Not to be judgmental, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when God was handing stuff out.

“Milton used to work in the auto industry,” Grandma said. “He had a real good job on the line at the factory.”

“Yeah,” Milton said. “It was sweet until I got fired. And then the bank foreclosed on my house, and my wife left me and took the dog. And now I’m hounded by collection agencies.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “So what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s living with his mother,” Grandma said. “Until he gets on his feet.”

“I guess it’s hard to get a job these days.”

“I’m not actually looking for a job,” Milton said. “The doctor who treated me after I had the nervous breakdown and set fire to my house said I should take it easy for a while.”

“You set fire to your house?”

“Technically, it wasn’t my house anymore. It was the bank’s house, and between you and me, I think they were happy I burned it down. They were real nice to me while I was in the mental hospital.” He speared a piece of ham, studied it, and turned his attention back to me. “My outpatient advisor tells me I need to get out of my mother’s house, so that’s why I’m considering marrying you. I was told you have your own apartment.”

My father picked his head up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Good God,” he said.

“I bet a big, strapping young guy like you has a lot of special talents,” Grandma said to Milton.

“I can make French toast,” Milton said. “And I can whistle.”

“Isn’t that something,” Grandma said. “Whistling’s a lost art. You don’t find many whistlers anymore.”

Milton whistled “Camptown Races” and “Danny Boy.”

“That’s pretty good,” Grandma said. “I wish I could whistle like that.”

My father shot my mother a look like he was in intense pain.

“Pass the potatoes to your father,” my mother said to me. “And give him more ham.”

I tried to sneak an inconspicuous peek at my watch.

“Don’t even think about it,” my mother said. “You leave now, and you don’t get dessert… ever.”