Four to Score

7

"OTHER MOTHERS have daughters who get married and have children," my mother said. "I have a daughter who blows up cars. How did this happen? This doesn't come from my side of the family."

We were at the table, eating dinner, and my father had his head bent over his plate, and his shoulders were shaking.

"What?" my mother said to him.

"I don't know. It just struck me funny. Some men could go a lifetime and never have their kid blow up a car, but I have a daughter who's knocked off three cars and burned down a funeral home. Maybe that's some kind of record."

Everyone sat in shocked silence because that was the longest speech my father had made in fifteen years.

"Your Uncle Lou used to blow up cars," my father said to me. "You don't know that, but it's true. When Louie was young he worked for Joey the Squid. Joey owned car lots back then, and he was in a war with the Grinaldi brothers, who also owned car lots. And Joey would pay Louie to blow up Grinaldi cars. Louie got paid by the car. Fifty dollars a car. That was big money in those days."

"You've been to the lodge, drinking," my mother said to my father. "I thought you were supposed to be out with the cab?"

My father forked in some potatoes. "Nobody wanted to take a cab. Slow day."

"Did Uncle Lou ever get caught?"

"Never. Lou was good. The Grinaldi brothers never suspected Lou. They thought Joey was sending out Willy Fuchs. One day they clipped Willy, and then Lou stopped blowing up Grinaldi cars."

"Ommigod."

"Worked out okay," my father said. "Lou went into the wholesale fruit business after that and did pretty good."

"Funky bracelet you got on your arm," Grandma said. "Is it new?"

"Actually, it's half of a pair of cuffs. I accidentally locked myself into them and then couldn't find the key. So I had to hacksaw one of them off. I need to go to a locksmith to get this half opened, but I haven't had the time."

"Muriel Slickowsky's son is a locksmith," my mother said. "I could call Muriel."

"Maybe tomorrow. I have to go to Atlantic City tonight. I'm checking out a lead on Maxine."

"I should go along," Grandma said, jumping out of her chair, heading for the stairs. "I could help. I blend right in there. Atlantic City's full of old babes like me. Let me change my dress. I'll be ready in a jiffy!"

"Wait! I don't think . . ."

"Wasn't nothing good on TV tonight anyway," Grandma called from the second floor. "And don't worry, I'll come prepared."

That brought me out of my seat. "No guns!" I looked over at my mother. "She doesn't still have that forty-five, does she?"

"I looked all over in her room, and I couldn't find it."

"I want her strip-searched before she gets in my car."

"Not enough money in the universe," my father said. "Not under threat of death would I look at that woman naked."

* * * * *

LULA, Grandma Mazur and I stood in the hall, waiting for Sally to answer his doorbell. I was wearing a short denim skirt, white T-shirt and sandals. Grandma was wearing a red-and-blue print dress with white sneakers. Lula was wearing a low-cut red knit dress that hiked up about three inches below her ass, red-tinted hose and red satin sling-back heels.

And Sally opened the door in full drag. Black bitch queen wig, skin-tight silver-sequined sheath that stopped three inches below his ass, and strappy silver platform heels that put him at a startling 6'8" without the hair.

Sally gave me the once-over. "I thought we were supposed to be in disguise."

"I' m disguised as a fox," Lula said.

"Yeah, and I'm disguised as an old lady," Grandma said.

"My mother wouldn't let me go if I was disguised as somebody," I said.

Sally tugged at his dress. "I'm disguised as Sheba."

"Girlfriend," Lula said to him, "you are the shit."

"Sally's a drag queen," I explained to Grandma.

"No kidding," Grandma said. "I always wanted to meet a drag queen. I always wanted to know what you do with your dingdong when you wear girl's clothes."

"You're supposed to wear special underpants that tuck you under."

We all looked down at the crotch-level bulge in the front of Sally's dress.

"So sue me," Sally said. "They give me a rash."

Lula tipped her nose in the air. "What's that smell? Mmmmmm, I smell something baking."

Sally rolled his eyes. "It's Sugar. He's in a fucking frenzy. He must have gone through ten pounds of flour in the last two hours."

Lula muscled past Sally into the kitchen. "Lord," she said, "will you look at this . . . cakes as far as the eye could see."

Sugar was at the counter, kneading bread dough. He looked up when we came in and gave us an embarrassed smile. "You probably think I'm weird to be doing all this baking."

"Honey, I think you're cute as a button," Lula said. "You ever want a new roommate you give me a call."

"I like the way it smells when you have something in the oven," Sugar said. "Like home."

"We're going to Atlantic City," I said to Sugar. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks, but I have a pie ready to go in, and this dough has to rise, and then I have some ironing . . . "

"Damn," Lula said, "you sound like Cinderella."

Sugar poked at his dough. "I'm not much of a gambler."

We each took a cookie from a plate on the counter and herded ourselves out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the elevator.

"What a sad little guy," Lula said. "He don't look like he has much fun."

"He's a lot more fun when he's in a dress," Sally said. "You put him in a dress and his whole personality changes."

"Then why don't he always wear a dress?" Lula wanted to know.

Sally shrugged. "I don't know. Guess that doesn't feel right, either."

We crossed the sleek marble lobby and walked the flower-bordered path to the lot.

"Over here," I said to Sally. "The blue-and-white Buick."

Sally's mascared lashes snapped open. "The Buick? Holy shit, is this your car? It's got portholes. Fucking portholes! What's under the hood."

"A V-eight."

"Yow! A V-eight! A fucking V-eight!"

"Good thing he don't have them tuck underpants on," Lula said. "He'd rupture himself."

The Buick was a man thing. Women hated it. Men loved it. I thought it must have something to do with the size of the tires. Or maybe it was the bulbous, egglike shape . . . sort of like a Porsche on steroids.

"We'd better get going," I said to Sally.

He took the keys out of my hand and slid behind the wheel.

"Excuse me," I said. "This is my car. I get to drive."

"You need someone with balls to drive this car," Sally said.

Lula stood hip stuck out, hand on hip. "Hah! And you think we don't have balls? Look again, Tiny Tim."

Sally held tight to the wheel. "Okay, what'll it take? I'll give you fifty bucks if you let me drive."

"I don't want money," I said. "If you want to drive the car, all you have to do is ask."

"Yeah, you just don't go pulling this macho shit on us," Lula said. "We don't stand for none of that. We don't take that bus."

"This is gonna be great," Sally said. "I always wanted to drive one of these."

Grandma and Lula piled in back, and I got in front.

Sally pulled a slip of paper from his purse. "Before I forget, here's the latest clue."

I read it aloud. " 'Last clue. Last chance. Blue Moon Bar. Saturday at nine.' "

Maxine was getting ready to bolt. She was setting Eddie up one last time. And what about me? I thought she might be setting me up one last time, too, by sending me on a wild-goose chase to Atlantic City.

* * * * *

THE FIRST THING I always notice about Atlantic City is that it's not Las Vegas. Vegas is all splash from the outside to the inside. Atlantic City is not so much about neon lights as about good parking. The casinos are built on the boardwalk, but truth is, nobody gives a damn about the boardwalk. A.C. is not about ocean. A.C. is about letting it ride. And if you're a senior citizen, so much the better. This is the Last Chance Saloon.

The city's slums sit butt-flush with the casinos' back doors. Since Jersey is not about perfection this isn't a problem. For me, Jersey is about finding the brass ring and grabbing hold, and if you have to go through some slums to get to the slots . . . fuck it. Crank up your car window, lock your door and roll past the pushers and pimps to valet parking.

It's all very exhilarating.

And while it's not Vegas, it's also not Monte Carlo. You don't see a lot of Versace gowns in Atlantic City. There are always some guys at the craps table with slicked-back hair and pinkie rings. And there are always some women dressed up like bar singers standing next to the oily, pinkie ring guys. But mostly what you see in Atlantic City is sixty-five-year-old women wearing polyester warm-up suits, toting buckets of quarters, heading for the poker machines.

I could go to New York or Vegas with Lula and Sally and never be noticed. In Atlantic City it was like trying to blend in with Sigfried and Roy and five of their tigers.

We came onto the floor, four abreast, letting the noise wash over us, taking it all in . . . the mirrored ceiling, the 3-D carpet, the flashing lights, and hustling, swirling crowds of people. We moved through the room and old men walked into walls, pit bosses turned silent, waitresses stopped in their tracks, chips were dropped on the floor and women stared with the sort of open-mouthed curiosity usually reserved for train wrecks. As if they'd never seen a seven-foot transvestite and a two-hundred-pound black woman with blond baloney curls all dressed up like Cher on a bad day.

Do I know how to conduct an undercover operation, or what?

"Good thing I got my Social Security check yesterday," Grandma said, eyeing the slots. "I feel lucky."

"Pick your poison," Lula said to Sally.

"Blackjack!"

And off they all went.

"Keep your eyes open for Maxine," I said to their departing backs.

I walked the room for an hour, lost $40 shooting craps, but got a free beer for a $5 tip. I hadn't run across Maxine, but then that wasn't a surprise. I found a sectional with good visibility and settled in to watch the people.

At eleven-thirty Grandma appeared and sank down next to me. "Won twenty bucks on my first machine, and then it turned on me," she said. "Bad luck all night after that."

"Got any money left?"

"None. Still, it wasn't all wasted. I met a real looker. He picked me up at the two-dollar poker machines, so you know he's no cheapskate."

I raised my eyebrows.

"You should have stayed with me. I could have gotten you fixed up, too."

Oh boy.

A small white-haired man approached us. "Here's your Manhattan," he said to Grandma, handing her a drink. "And who's this?" he asked, turning to me. "This must be your granddaughter."

"This here's Harry Meaker," Grandma said to me. "Harry's from Mercerville, and he had bum luck tonight, too."

"I always got bum luck," Harry said. "Had bum luck all my life. Been married two times, and both wives died. Had a double bypass last year, and now I'm clogging up again. I can feel it. And look at this. See this red scaly patch on my nose? Skin cancer. Gonna have it cut out next week."

"Harry came down on the bus," Grandma said.

"Prostate problems," Harry said. "Need a bus with a toilet on it." He looked at his watch. "I gotta go. Bus leaves in a half hour. Don't want to miss it."

Grandma watched him walk away. "What do you think? He's a live one, huh? For a while, anyway."

Lula and Sally trudged over and plopped down on the couch next to me.

"Didn't hear no gunfire, so I guess no one saw Maxine," Lula said.

"Maxine was the smart one," Sally said. "She stayed home."

I looked at him. "Not a good night?"

"Cleaned me out. I'm going to have to do my own nails this week."

"I could do them for you," Lula said. "I'm real good at nails. See those little palm trees on my nails? I put them on myself."

"Hold it," I said, getting to my feet. "Look at that woman in the turquoise slacks by the craps table. The one with all the yellow hair . . ."

The woman had her back to me, but she'd turned a moment ago, giving me a good look at her face. And she looked a lot like Maxine.

I started walking toward her when she turned again and stared directly at me. Recognition registered simultaneously for both of us. She pivoted on her heel and disappeared into a crush of people at the far side of the table.

"I see her!" Lula said, one step behind me. "Don't lose sight!"

But I had lost sight. The room was crowded, and Maxine wasn't dressed in red spangles like Lula. Maxine blended right in.

"I got my eye on her," Grandma yelled. "She's going for the boardwalk."

Grandma had climbed onto a blackjack table and was standing, sneakered feet planted wide. The dealer made a grab for her, and Grandma hit him on the head with her purse. "Don't be rude," she said to the dealer. "I just come up here to get a good look on account of the osteoporosis shrunk me and now I'm too short."

I took off at a run for the boardwalk entrance, weaving between clusters of gamblers, trying not to mow anyone over. In two heartbeats I was out of the game room, into the wide hallway leading to the door. I caught a glimpse of big straw hair in front of me, saw it bob through the double glass door. I was pushing people away and yelling "Excuse me" and I was breathing heavy. Too many doughnuts, not enough exercise.

I swung through the door and saw Maxine ahead of me, running for all she was worth. I kicked it up a notch, and I heard Lula and Sally clattering and swearing half a block back.

Maxine made a sharp turn off the boardwalk, down a side street. I made the same turn just as a car door slammed and an engine caught. I ran to the car, reached it just as its wheels spun. And then the car was gone. And since Maxine was nowhere to be seen, I supposed Maxine was gone, too.

Sally slid to a stop and bent at the waist to catch his breath. "That's it for me, man. From now on fuck the heels."

Lula crashed into him. "Heart attack. Heart attack."

We were all walking around, gasping for breath, and Grandma trotted up. "What happened? What'd I miss? Where is she?"

"Got away," I said.

"Dang!"

Three guys came out of the shadows at us. They looked to be late teens, wearing baggy homey pants and unlaced court shoes.

"Hey, momma," one said. "What's happening?"

"Give me a break," Sally said.

"Whoa," the kid said. "Big bitch!"

Sally straightened his wig. "Thanks."

The kid pulled a Buck knife out of his pants pocket. "How about giving me your purse, bitch?"

Sally hiked up his skirt, reached into his briefs and pulled out a Glock. "How about using that knife to slice off your balls?"

Lula whipped a gun out of her red satin purse and Grandma hauled out her .45 long-barrel.

"Day my make, punk," Grandma said.

"Hey, I don't want any trouble," the kid said. "We were just having some fun."

"I want to shoot him," Sally said. "Nobody'll tell, right?"

"No fair," Lula said. "I want to shoot him."

"Okay," Grandma said. "On the count of three, we'll all shoot him."

"No shooting!" I said.

"Then how about if I kick the shit out of him?" Sally said.

"You're all nuts," the kid said, backing away. "What kind of women are you?" His friends took off, and he ran after them.

Sally put his gun back in his pants. "Guess I flunked the estrogen test."

We all stared at his crotch, and Grandma said what Lula and I were thinking.

"I thought that bulge was your dingdong," Grandma said.

"Jesus," Sally said, "who do you think I am, Thunder the Wonder Horse? My gun wouldn't fit in my purse."

"You need to get a smaller gun," Lula said. "Ruins your lines with that big old Glock in your drawers."

* * * * *

GRANDMA, Lula and Sally were asleep fifteen minutes out of Atlantic City. I drove the big car in the dark and the quiet, thinking about Maxine. I still wasn't convinced this was anything other than a wild-goose chase. True, I'd seen Maxine, just as her mother had said but she'd gotten away a little too easily. And she hadn't looked all that surprised to see me. Her car had been parked on a dark side street. Not the sort of thing a lone woman would do. It was safer and more convenient to park in the parking garage. She'd taken off in a black Acura. And while I didn't actually see her get in the car, I suspected she wasn't driving. It had all been too fast. The motor had caught the instant I heard the car door slam shut.

So I was thinking maybe she wanted to throw me off. Maybe she was still in Point Pleasant. Maybe she'd paid her rent for the month and didn't want to move. So when she discovered her mother had informed on her, she concocted this scenario to keep me away from Point Pleasant. Or maybe this was another game. Maybe Eddie Kuntz had been right about Maxine's fascination with James Bond.

I dropped Sally off first, then Lula, and Grandma last.

"Mom thinks you've gotten rid of that gun," I said to Grandma.

"Hunh," Grandma said. "Imagine that."

My mother was at the front door, standing arms crossed, looking out at us. If I was a good daughter I'd go in and have some cookies. But I wasn't that good a daughter. I loved my mother, but love only goes so far when you're trying to explain how your grandmother ended up standing on a blackjack table in a packed casino.

I waited for Grandma to successfully negotiate the steps, then I waved goodbye and drove away in the big blue car. I made every light on Hamilton, turned at St. James and felt a nervous flutter in my stomach at the sight of emergency vehicles at the corner. Cop cars, fire trucks, EMTs. The parking lot to my building was filled with them. Lights were blazing, and the squawk of loudspeakers carried back to me. Sooty water ran in the gutter, and people dressed in bathrobes and hastily put together outfits milled about on the sidewalks. Whatever it was, it seemed to be over. Firefighters were packing up. Some of the curious were dispersing.

Fear arrowed into me. Next time I'll strike a match.

The street was blocked, so I parked where I was and ran across the small patch of grass that bordered the lot. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the lights and squinted through a haze of smoke and diesel fumes, counting windows to locate the fire. Second floor, two apartments over. The fire was in my apartment. The window glass was broken and the surrounding brick was blackened. No other apartment showed any damage.

My only coherent thought was of Rex. Rex was trapped in a glass aquarium in the middle of all that ruin. I stumbled to the building's back door, begging for a miracle, not sure if I was screaming or crying, focused only on Rex. I was dragging in air that felt thick and unbreathable. Like swimming through Jell-O. Vision and sound distorted. Hands pulling at me as I struggled to cross the crowded lobby. I heard my name being called.

"Here!" Mr. Kleinschmidt shouted. "Over here!"

He was with Mrs. Karwatt, and Mrs. Karwatt had both arms wrapped around Rex's glass aquarium.

I shoved my way through to them, barely able to believe Rex had been saved. "Is he okay? Is Rex okay?" I asked, raising the lid to see for myself, tilting the soup can to look at a startled Rex.

Probably it's silly to feel so much affection for a hamster, but Rex is my roommate. Rex keeps my apartment from feeling empty. And besides that, he likes me. I'm almost sure of it.

"He's fine," Mrs. Karwatt said. "We got him out right away. Thank goodness you gave me a key to your apartment. I heard the explosion and went right in. Lucky the fire started in your bedroom."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No one was hurt. It was all in your apartment. Mrs. Stinkowski below you has some water damage, and we all smell smoky, but that's it."

"This must be a doozy of a case you're on," Mr. Kleinschmidt said. "Someone blew up your car and your apartment all in one day."

Kenny Zale clomped over to me. I went to grade school with Kenny, and for a while in high school dated his older brother, Mickey. Kenny was a fireman now. He was dressed in boots and black bunker pants, and his face was grimy with sweat and soot.

"Looks like you visited my apartment," I said to Kenny.

"Maybe you should think about getting a different job."

"How bad is it?"

"The bedroom's gone. That's where it started. Looks to me like someone pitched a firebomb through your window. The bathroom is salvageable. The living room is pretty much trashed. The kitchen will probably be okay when it gets cleaned up. You'll need new flooring. Probably have to paint. There's a lot of water damage."

"Can I get in?"

"Yeah. This would be a good time. The fire marshal's up there now. He'll probably walk you through to let you get what you can, and then he'll seal it until the investigation's over and he's sure it's safe."

"John Petrucci still the fire marshal?"

"Yeah. You're probably on intimate terms."

"We've spent some time together. I wouldn't say we were intimate."

He grinned and ruffled my hair. "I'm glad you weren't in bed when this happened. You'd be toast."

I left Rex with Mrs. Karwatt, ran the stairs and worked my way through the crush of people in the hall. The area around my apartment was water soaked and sooty. The air was acrid. I looked through the door and my heart contracted. The destruction was numbing. The walls were black, the windows broken, the furniture unrecognizable as anything other than drenched, charred rubble.

I'm a firm believer in denial. My reasoning is why deal with unpleasantness today when you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. And if you procrastinate long enough, maybe the issue will go away. Unfortunately, this issue wasn't going away. This issue was beyond denial. This issue was fucking depressing.

"Shit!" I shrieked. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!"

Everyone on the floor stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

"Okay," I said. "I feel better now." It was a lie, of course, but it felt good to say.

Petrucci walked over. "You got any idea who did this?"

"No. Do you?" Another lie. I had a few ideas.

"Somebody with a pretty good arm."

That could be Maxine. The softball star. But it still felt wrong. It felt more like mob . . . like Joe's pal, Terry.

I gingerly stepped into the kitchen. The brown bear cookie jar was untouched. The phone looked okay. The soot and water were pervasive and depressing. I bit down hard on my lip. I wasn't going to cry. Rex was safe. Everything else was replaceable, I told myself.

We went room by room, and not much was salvageable. A few cosmetics that had been in the bathroom and a hair dryer. I put them in a bag from the kitchen.

"Well, this isn't so bad," I said to Petrucci. "I've been wanting to redecorate. I just wish the bathroom had gone."

"What, you don't like orange and brown?"

"Do you think it's too late to burn the bathroom?"

Petrucci looked pained. Like I'd asked him to fart in public "You have insurance for all your stuff?"

"Yes." Maybe.

Mrs. Karwatt was waiting in the hall with Rex. "Are you okay? Do you have some place to stay? You could sleep on my couch tonight."

I took the cage from her. "That's nice of you to offer, but I'll probably go home to my parents. They have a spare bedroom."

Old Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator. "Going down," she said, leaning on her walker. "First floor, ladies' handbags."

The doors opened to the lobby, and the first person I saw was Dillon in his superintendent coveralls.

"I was just going up to take a look," he said. "Guess I'll have to get the paintbrush out."

"Gonna take a lot of paint." My lip was trembling again.

"Hey, don't worry about it. Remember when Mrs. Baumgarten set fire to her Christmas tree? The whole apartment was burned to a crisp. Nothing left but ashes. And now look . . . good as new."

"It's worth a case of Guinness for you to take a sledgehammer to the bathroom."

"What, you don't like orange and brown?"

* * * * *

I WAS GLAD I'd parked the Buick on the street, out of sight of the fire-blackened building. Out of sight, out of mind. Sort of. The Buick was quiet and womblike. Nice and insulating against the outside world. The doors were locked, and the activity was all in front of me, half a block away.

Rex and I sat in the car and tried to collect our thoughts. After a while Rex started running on his wheel, and I assumed his thoughts were all collected. My thoughts were taking longer to come together. My thoughts were running in frightening directions. Someone wanted me scared and maybe dead. There was a remote possibility it was the same someone who was chopping off fingers and whacking off scalps, and I didn't like the idea that this was in my future.

I rested my head on the steering wheel. I was exhausted, and I was on the brink of tears. And I was afraid if I started crying I wouldn't stop for a long, long time.

I looked at my watch. It was two A.M. I needed to get some sleep. Where? The most obvious solution was to go home to my parents, but I didn't want to put their lives in jeopardy. I didn't want the next target for a firebomb to be their house on High Street. So where could I go? A hotel? There are no hotels in Trenton. There are some in Princeton, but they were forty minutes away, and I was reluctant to spend the money. I could call Ranger, but no one knows where Ranger lives. If Ranger took me in for the night, he'd probably have to kill me in the morning to make sure his secret was safe. Lula? That was sort of a scary idea. Better to face the scalper than sleep with Lula. There was my best friend, Mary Lou, and there was my sister, Valerie, but I didn't want to endanger them, either. I needed someone who was expendable. Someone I didn't have to worry about. Someone who had extra room.

"Oh boy," I said to Rex. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

I sat for another five minutes, but I couldn't come up with a better solution to my problem, so I turned the key in the ignition and slowly drove past the lone fire truck at the end of the street. I tried not to look at my apartment, but I caught a glance of the fire escape from the corner of my eye. My chest gave a painful constriction. My poor apartment.

I took a deep breath. I didn't want to die. And I didn't want someone to hate me. And I absolutely did not want to cry.

"Don't worry about a thing," I said to Rex. "This will all work out. We've had bad times before, right?"

I took Hamilton to Chambers and followed Chambers to Slater. Two blocks down Slater I found the house I was looking for. It was a modest brown-shingled row house. All lights were off. I closed my eyes. I was dog tired, and I didn't want to do this.

"Maybe we should sleep in the car tonight," I said to Rex. "Then tomorrow we can get something more permanent."

Rex was doing a four-minute mile on the wheel. He blinked at me once, and that was it. The mental message was, You're on your own, kid.

Truth is, I didn't want to stay in my car. The crazy person could come and get me while I slept. He could jimmy the window, and he could cut off all my fingers. I looked at the house again. This was the one place I could feel safe and not be completely freaked out if the house was destroyed. This house belonged to Joe Morelli.

I hauled my cell phone out of my bag and dialed.

The phone rang six times before Joe answered with a mumbled hello.

"Joe?" I said. "It's Stephanie."

"Does this involve death?"

"Not yet."

"Does it involve sex?"

"Not yet."

"I can't imagine why else you'd be calling me."

"Someone firebombed my apartment tonight, and I need a place to stay."

"Where are you?"

"In front of your house."

An upstairs curtain was pulled aside.

"I'll be right down," Joe said. "Don't get out of your car until I open my door."