Two for the dough

Chapter Twelve

All right, so Morelli didn't tell me about Andy Roche. What's new. Morelli played his cards close to his vest. That was his style. He didn't show his whole hand to anyone. Not to his boss, not to his partners, and certainly not to me. Nothing personal. After all, the goal was to catch Kenny. I no longer cared how it was accomplished.

I backed off from Roche and had a few words with Spiro. Yes, Spiro wanted me to tuck him in. And no, he hadn't heard from Kenny.

I used the ladies' room and returned to the Buick. At five o'clock I packed it in, not able to shake the visions of Grandma Mazur getting stuck with an ice pick. I drove back to my apartment, threw some clothes in a laundry basket, added makeup, hair gel, and hair dryer, and dragged the basket out to the car. I went back and fetched Rex, set the answering machine, left the kitchen light burning, and locked the door behind me. The only way I knew to protect Grandma Mazur was to move back home.

"What's this?" my mother said when she saw the glass hamster cage.

"I'm moving in for a few days."

"You quit that job. Thank God! I always thought you could do better."

"I didn't quit my job. I just need a change."

"I have the sewing machine and the ironing board in your room. You said you'd never come home."

I had both arms wrapped around the hamster cage. "I was wrong. I'm home. I'll make do."

"Frank," my mother yelled. "Come help Stephanie, she's moving in with us again." I nudged my way past her and started up the stairs. "Only for a few days. It's temporary."

"Stella Lombardi's daughter said that same thing, and three years later she's still living with them."

I felt a scream starting somewhere deep inside.

"If you'd given me some notice, I'd have cleaned," my mother said. "I'd have gotten a new bedspread."

I pushed the door open with my knee. "I don't need a new bedspread. This one is fine." I maneuvered around the clutter in the small room and set Rex on the bed while I cleaned off the top of the single dresser. "How's Grandma?"

"She's taking a nap."

"Not no more I'm not," Grandma said from inside her room. "There's enough noise out there to wake the dead. What's going on?"

"Stephanie's moving back home."

"Why'd she want to do a thing like that? It's damn boring here." Grandma peeked into my room. "You aren't pregnant, are you?"

Grandma Mazur got her hair curled once a week. In between sets she must have slept with her head hanging over the side of the bed because the tight little rolls lost some precision as the week marched on, but never seemed totally disturbed. Today she looked like she'd spray-starched her hair and been put through a wind tunnel. Her dress was rumpled from sleep, she was wearing pink velour bedroom slippers, and her left hand was encased in bandage.

"How's your hand?" I asked.

"Starting to throb. Think I must need some more of them pills." Even with the ironing board and sewing machine occupying space, my room hadn't changed much in the past ten years. It was a small room with one window. The curtains were white with a rubberized backing. The first week in May they were exchanged for sheers. The walls were painted dusty rose. The trim was white. The double bed was covered with a quilted, pink-flowered bedspread, softened in texture and color by age and the spin cycle. I had a small closet, which was filled with seasonal clothes, a single maple dresser, and a maple nightstand with a milk-glass lamp. My high school graduation picture still hung on the wall. And a picture of me in my majorette uniform. I had never completely mastered the art of baton twirling, but I'd been perfection in boots when I'd strutted onto a football field. Once during a half-time show I'd lost control of my baton and flipped it into the trombone section. A shudder ripped through me at the memory.

I hauled the laundry basket up and stashed it in a corner, clothes and all. The house was filled with food smells and the clank of flatware being set. My father channel-surfed in the living room, raising the volume to compete with the kitchen activity.

"Shut it down," my mother shouted at my father. "You'll make us all deaf." My father concentrated on the screen, pretending oblivion.

By the time I sat down to dinner my fillings were vibrating, and I'd developed a twitch in my left eye.

"Isn't this nice?" my mother said. "Everyone sitting down to dinner together. Too bad Valerie isn't here."

My sister, Valerie, had been married to the same man for a hundred years and had two children. Valerie was the normal daughter.

Grandma Mazur was directly across from me and was downright frightening, with her hair still uncombed and her eyes focused inward. As my father would put it, her lights were on, but there was no one home.

"How much of that codeine has Grandma taken so far?" I asked my mother.

"Just one pill that I know of," my mother said.

I felt my eye jump and put my finger to it. "She seems to be . . . disconnected." My father stopped buttering his bread and looked up. His mouth opened to say something, but he thought better of it and went back to buttering his bread.

"Mom," my mother called out, "how many pills have you taken?" Grandma's head rotated in my mother's direction. "Pills?"

"It's a terrible thing that an old lady can't be safe on the streets," my mother said. "You'd think we lived in Washington, D.C. Next thing we'll have drive-by shootings. The burg was never like this in the old days."

I didn't want to burst her bubble about the old days, but in the old days the burg had a Mafia staff car parked in every third driveway. Men were walked out of their homes, still in pajamas, and taken at gunpoint to the Meadowlands or the Camden landfill for ceremonial dispatch. Usually families and neighbors weren't at risk, but there'd always been the possibility that a stray bullet would embed itself in the wrong body. And the burg was never safe from the Mancuso and Morelli men. Kenny was crazier and more brazen than most, but I suspected he wasn't the first of the Mancusos to leave a scar on a woman's body. To my knowledge none of them had ever ice-picked an old woman, but the Mancusos and Morellis were notorious for their violent, alcohol-fueled tempers and for their ability to sweet-talk a woman into an abusive relationship. I knew some of this firsthand. When Morelli had charmed the pants off me fourteen years ago, he hadn't been abusive, but he hadn't been kind, either.

Grandma was sound asleep by seven o'clock, snoring like a drunken lumberjack. I slipped into my jacket and grabbed my pocketbook.

"Where are you going?" my mother wanted to know.

"To Stiva's. He's hired me to help him close."

"Now that's a job," my mother said. "You could do a lot worse than to work for Stiva." I closed the front door behind me, and took a deep, cleansing breath. The air felt cool on my face. My eye relaxed under the dark night sky.

I drove to Stiva's and parked in the lot. Inside, Andy Roche had reclaimed his position at the tea table.

"How's it going?" I asked.

"Some old lady just told me I looked like Harrison Ford." I selected a cookie from the plate behind him. "Shouldn't you be with your brother?"

"We weren't all that close."

"Where's Morelli?"

Roche casually scanned the room. "No one ever knows the answer to that question." I returned to my car and had just settled in when the phone rang.

"How's Grandma Mazur?" Morelli asked.

"She's sleeping."

"I hope this move to your parents' house is temporary. I had plans for those purple shoes." This caught me by surprise. I'd expected Morelli to keep watching Spiro, but he'd followed me instead. And I hadn't spotted him. I pressed my lips together. I was a dismal bounty hunter. "I didn't see any other good alternatives. I'm worried about Grandma Mazur."

"You have a terrific family, but they'll have you on Valium in forty-eight hours."

"Plums don't do Valium. We mainline cheesecake."

"Whatever works," Morelli said, and hung up.

At ten of ten I pulled into the mortuary driveway, and parked to one side, leaving room for Spiro to squeeze past. I locked the Buick and entered the funeral home through the side door.

Spiro was looking nervous, saying good-byes. Louie Moon was nowhere to be seen. And Andy had disappeared. I slipped into the kitchen and clipped a holster to my belt. I loaded the fifth round into my .38 and shoved the gun into the holster. I clipped on a second holster for my pepper spray, and a third for a flashlight. I figured at $100 a shot, Spiro deserved the full treatment. I'd have heart palpitations if I had to use the gun, but that was my little secret.

I was wearing a hip-length jacket that for the most part hid my paraphernalia. Technically this meant I was carrying concealed, which was a legal no-no. Unfortunately, the alternative would generate instant phone calls all over the burg that I was packing at Stiva's. The threat of arrest seemed pale by comparison.

When the last of the mourners cleared the front porch I walked Spiro through the public areas on the top two floors of the house, securing windows and doors. Only two rooms were occupied. One by the bogus brother.

The silence was eerie, and my discomfort with death was enhanced by Spiro's presence. Spiro Stiva, Demonic Mortician. I had my hand on the butt of the little S & W, thinking it wouldn't have hurt to load up with silver bullets.

We paced through the kitchen, into the back hall. Spiro opened the door to the cellar.

"Hold it," I said. "Where are you going?"

"We need to check the cellar door."

"We?"

"Yeah, we. Like in me and my fucking bodyguard."

"I don't think so."

"You want to get paid?"

Not that bad. "Are there bodies down there?"

"Sorry, we're fresh out of bodies."

"So what's down there?"

"The furnace, for Chrissake!"

I unholstered my gun. "I'll be right behind you."

Spiro looked at the five-shot Smith & Wesson. "Cripes, that's a goddamn sissy gun."

"I bet you wouldn't say that if I shot you in the foot with it." His obsidian eyes locked with mine. "I hear you killed a man with that gun." Not something I wanted to rap about with Spiro. "Are we going downstairs, or what?" The basement was basically one large room, and pretty much what you'd expect from a basement. With the possible exception of caskets stacked in one of the corners. The outside door was just to the right at the foot of the stairs. I checked the door to make sure the bolt was thrown. "Nobody here," I said to Spiro, holstering my gun. I'm not sure whom I'd expected to shoot. Kenny, I suppose. Maybe Spiro. Maybe ghosts. We returned to the first floor, and I waited in the hall while Spiro bumbled around in his office, finally emerging wearing a top coat, carrying a gym bag.

I followed him to the back door and held the door open, watching him activate the alarm and hit the light switch. The lights inside dimmed. The exterior lights remained on. Spiro shut the door and pulled car keys from his coat pocket. "We'll take my car. You ride shotgun."

"How about you take your car, I take my car."

"No way. I pay a hundred bucks, I want my gunny sitting next to me. You can take the car home with you and pick me up in the morning."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"You were out there anyway. I saw you in the lot this morning, waiting for Kenny to make a move, so you could haul his ass back to jail. What's the big deal, so you drive me to work." Spiro's Lincoln was parked close to the door. He aimed his remote at the car, and the alarm chirped off. He lit up when we were safely inside.

We were sitting in a pool of light on a deserted patch of driveway. Not a good spot to linger. Especially if Morelli wasn't in a position to see this part of the property.

"Put it in gear," I said to Spiro. "It's too easy for Kenny to get to us here." He rolled the engine over, but he didn't move forward. "What would you do if all of a sudden Kenny jumped up alongside the car and pointed a gun at you?"

"I don't know. You never really know what you'll do in a situation like that until you do it." Spiro thought about that for a moment. He took another drag on his cigarette and shifted to drive.

We stopped for a light at Hamilton and Gross. Spiro's head didn't move, but his eyes cut to Delio's Exxon. The pumps were lit, and there was a light on in the office. The bays were dark and closed. Several cars and a truck had been parked in front of the end bay. Dropoffs to be serviced first thing in the morning. Spiro stared in silence, his face devoid of emotion, and I couldn't guess at his thoughts. The light changed, and we motored through the intersection. We were halfway down the block when my brain kicked in. "Oh my God," I said. "Go back to the gas station." Spiro braked and pulled to the side. "You didn't see Kenny, did you?"

"No. I saw a truck! A big white truck with black lettering on the side!"

"You're gonna have to do better than that."

"When I talked to the woman who managed the storage lockers she said she remembered seeing a white truck with black lettering make several passes in the area of your locker. It was too vague to mean anything at the time."

Spiro waited for a break in traffic and wheeled a U-turn. He parked at the edge of the macadam apron, behind the drop-offs. Chances of Sandeman still being at the station were slim, but I strained to see in the office all the same. I didn't want a confrontation with Sandeman if I could avoid it.

We got out and took a look at the truck. It belonged to Macko Furniture. I knew the store. It was a small family-owned business that had steadfastly stayed with a downtown location when others were moving to highway strip malls.

"This mean anything to you?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. Don't know anybody at Macko Furniture."

"It's the right size for caskets."

"There must be fifty trucks in Trenton that fit this description."

"Yes, but this one is at the garage where Moogey worked. And Moogey knew about the caskets. He went down to Braddock and drove them back for you." Dumb chick feeds information to slimy guy. Come on, slimy guy, I thought. Get careless. Give me some information in return.

"So you think Moogey was tight with someone from Macko Furniture, and they decided to steal my caskets," Spiro said.

"It's possible. Or maybe while the truck was being serviced, Moogey borrowed it."

"What would Moogey want with twenty-four caskets?"

"You tell me."

"Even with the hydraulic tailgate, you'd need at least two guys to move those caskets."

"Doesn't seem like a problem to me. You find some big oaf, pay him minimum wage. He helps you move caskets."

Spiro had his hands in his pockets. "I don't know," he said. "It's just hard to believe Moogey'd do something like that. There were two things you could always count on from Moogey. He was loyal, and he was dumb. Moogey was a big, dumb shit. Kenny and me let him hang out with us because he was good for laughs. He'd do anything we told him. We'd say, hey, Moogey, how about you run over your dick with a lawn mower. And he'd say, sure, you want me to get a hard-on first?"

"Maybe he wasn't as dumb as you thought."

Spiro didn't say anything for a couple beats, then he turned on his heel and walked back to the Lincoln. We kept quiet for the rest of the trip. When we reached Spiro's parking lot I couldn't resist another shot with the caskets.

"Kind of funny about you and Kenny and Moogey. Kenny thinks you've got something that belongs to him. And now we think maybe Moogey had something that belonged to you." Spiro slid into a space, put the car in park, and swiveled his body in my direction. He draped his left arm over the wheel, his top coat gaped, and I caught a glimpse of a gun butt and shoulder holster.

"What are you getting at?" Spiro asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Thinking that you and Kenny have a lot in common." Our eyes held, and cold fear ran the length of my spine and crawled through my stomach. Morelli was right about Spiro. He'd eat his young, and he wouldn't think twice about putting a bullet in my worthless brain. I hoped I hadn't pushed too hard.

"Maybe you should stop thinking out loud. Maybe you should stop thinking altogether," Spiro said.

"I'm going to raise my rates if you're going to get cranky."

"Christ," Spiro said, "you're already fucking overpaid. For a hundred dollars a night, the least you could do is throw in a blow job."

What I was going to throw in was a nice long time behind bars. It was a comforting thought, and it kept me going while I did my bodyguard thing in his apartment, flipping on lights, scoping out closets, counting dustballs under his bed, and gagging at the soap scum behind his shower curtain.

I gave his place a green light, drove the Lincoln back to the funeral home, and exchanged it for my Buick.

I caught Morelli in my rearview mirror half a block from my parents' house. He idled in front of the Smullenses' until I parked the Buick. When I stepped out of the car, he crept forward and parked behind me. I suppose I couldn't blame him for being cautious.

"What were you doing at Delio's?" Morelli wanted to know. "I assume you were baiting Spiro about the truck."

"You assume right."

"Anything come of it?"

"He said he didn't know anyone from Macko Furniture. And he discounted the possibility that Moogey might have taken the caskets. Apparently Moogey was the group idiot. I'm not even sure Moogey was involved."

"Moogey drove the caskets to New Jersey."

I leaned back against the Buick. "Maybe Kenny and Spiro didn't include Moogey in the master plan, but somewhere along the line Moogey found out and decided to cut himself in."

"And you think he borrowed the furniture truck to move the caskets."

"It would be one theory." I pushed off from the Buick and hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder. "I'm picking Spiro up at eight tomorrow to take him to work."

"I'll catch up with you in his lot."

I let myself into the darkened house and paused for a moment in the front hall. The house was always at its best when it was asleep. There was an air of satisfaction to the house at the end of the day. Maybe the day hadn't gone exactly right, but the day had been lived and the house had been there for its family.

I hung my jacket in the hall closet and tiptoed into the kitchen. Finding food in my kitchen was always hit or miss. Finding food in my mother's kitchen was a sure thing. I heard the stairs creak and knew from the tread that it was my mother.

"How did it go at Stiva's?" she asked.

"It went okay. I helped him lock up, and then I drove him home."

"I guess it's hard for him to drive with his wrist. I hear he got twenty-three stitches." I pulled out some ham and provolone cheese.

"Here, let me," my mother said, taking the ham and cheese, reaching for the loaf of rye bread on the counter.

"I can do it," I said.

My mother took her good carving knife from the knife drawer. "You don't slice the ham thin enough."

When she'd made each of us a sandwich, she poured two glasses of milk and set it all on the kitchen table. "You could have invited him in for a sandwich," she said.

"Spiro?"

"Joe Morelli."

My mother never ceased to amaze me. "There was a time when you would have chased him out of the house with that carving knife."

"He's changed."

I tore into the sandwich. "So he tells me."

"I hear he's a good cop."

"A good cop is different from a good person."

I woke up disoriented, staring at a ceiling from a previous life. Grandma Mazur's voice snapped me back to the present.

"If I don't get into that bathroom there's gonna be a big mess in the hall," she yelled. "Last night's supper's going through me like goose grease."

I heard the door open. Heard my father mumble something indiscernible. My eye started to twitch, and I squinched it closed. I focused my other eye on the bedside clock. Seventhirty. Damn. I'd wanted to get to Spiro's early. I jumped out of bed and rummaged through the laundry basket for clean jeans and a shirt. I ran a brush through my hair, grabbed my pocketbook, and rushed into the hall.

"Grandma," I hollered through the door. "Are you going to be long?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?" she yelled back.

All right, I could postpone the bathroom for half an hour. After all, if I'd gotten up at nine I wouldn't have used the bathroom for another hour and a half.

My mother caught me with my jacket in hand. "Where are you going?" she asked. "You haven't had breakfast."

"I told Spiro I'd pick him up."

"Spiro can wait. The dead people won't mind if he's fifteen minutes late. Come eat your breakfast."

"I don't have time for breakfast."

"I made some nice oatmeal. It's on the table. I poured your juice." She looked down at my shoes. "What kind of shoes are they?"

"They're Doc Martens."

"Your father wore shoes like that when he was in the army."

"These are great shoes," I said. "I love these shoes. Everyone wears shoes like this."

"Women interested in getting married to a nice man do not wear shoes like that. Women who like other women wear shoes like that. You don't have any funny ideas about women, do you?"

I clapped my hand over my eye.

"What's wrong with your eye?" my mother asked.

"It's twitching."

"You're too nervous. It's that job. Look at you rushing out of the house. And what's that on your belt?"

"Pepper spray."

"Your sister, Valerie, doesn't wear such things on her belt." I looked at my watch. If I ate real fast, I could still get to Spiro by eight. My father was at the table, reading his paper, drinking coffee. "How's the Buick?" he asked. "You giving it high-test?"

"The Buick's fine. No problems."

I chugged the juice and tried the oatmeal. It needed something. Chocolate, maybe. Or ice cream. I added three spoons of sugar and some milk.

Grandma Mazur took her seat at the table. "My hand feels better," she said, "but I got the devil of a headache."

"You should stay at home today," I said. "Take it easy."

"I'm going to take it easy at Clara's. I look a fright. Don't know how my hair got like this."

"No one will see you if you don't go out of the house," I argued.

"Suppose someone comes over. Suppose that good-looking Morelli boy comes to visit again? You think I want him seeing me like this? Besides, I got to go while I still got the bandage on and I'm big news. Not every day a person gets attacked at the bakery."

"I have things to do first thing this morning, but then I'll be back, and I'l take you to Clara's," I told Grandma. "Don't go without me!"

I wolfed down the rest of the oatmeal and had a fast half cup of coffee. I grabbed my jacket and pocketbook and took off. I had my hand on the door when the phone rang.

"It's for you," my mother said. "It's Vinnie."

"I don't want to talk to him. Tell him I've already left." The cell phone rang just as I hit Hamilton.

"You should have talked to me at home," Vinnie said. "It would have been cheaper."

"You're breaking up . . . lousy connection."

"Don't give me that lousy connection crap."

I made some static sounds.

"And I'm not going to fall for that phony static, either. Make sure you get your keester in here this morning."

I didn't see Morelli lurking in Spiro's parking lot, but I assumed he was there. There were two vans and a truck with a cap. Both good possibilities.

I collected Spiro and headed for the funeral home. When I stopped for the light at Hamilton and Gross, we both turned our attention to the Exxon station.

"Maybe we should stop in and ask a few questions," Spiro said.

"What kind of questions?"

"Questions about the furniture truck. Just for the hell of it. I guess it would be interesting to see if Moogey was the one who took the caskets."

I figured I had a couple choices. I could torture him by saying, what's the point? Let's just get on with our lives. And then I'd drive right on by. Or I could play along to see how it goes. There was definitely some merit to torturing Spiro, but my best instincts told me to let him run with the ball and tag along.

The bays were open. Most likely Sandeman was there. Big deal. Compared to Kenny, Sandeman was starting to look small-time. Cubby Delio was working the office. Spiro and I ambled in together.

Cubby snapped to attention at the sight of Spiro. Little prick that he was, Spiro still represented Stiva's mortuary, and Stiva threw a lot of business to the station. All of Stiva's cars were serviced and gassed here.

"I heard about your arm," Cubby said to Spiro. "Damn shame. I know you and Kenny used to be friends. I guess he just went crazy. That's what everyone says." Spiro passed it off with a wave of his hand that implied it was nothing more than an annoyance. He pivoted on his heel and looked out the office window at the truck, still parked in front of the bay. "I wanted to ask you about the Macko truck. Do you always service that truck? Does it come in regularly?"

"Yep. Macko has an account, just like you. They've got two trucks, and we do both of them."

"Who usually brings them in? Usually the same guy?"

"Usually it's Bucky or Biggy. They've been driving for Macko for a lot of years. Is there a problem? You looking to get some furniture?"

"Thinking about it," Spiro said.

"It's a good company. Family run. Keep their trucks in real good condition." Spiro stuck his injured arm in his jacket. Smal man imitates Napoleon. "Looks like you haven't found a replacement for Moogey."

"Thought I had a guy, but he didn't work out. Hard to replace Moogey. When Moogey was running the station I hardly had to be here. Could take a day off once a week to go to the track. Even after he got shot in the knee, he was still reliable. Still came to work." I suspected Spiro and I had parallel thoughts, and I was thinking that maybe Moogey borrowed the truck on one of those track days. Of course, if he borrowed the truck, someone else would have to be minding the store. Or someone else would have to be driving the truck.

"It's hard to get good help," Spiro said. "I have the same problem."

"I've got a good mechanic," Cubby said. "Sandeman's got his own ways, but he's a damn good mechanic. The rest of the people come and go. Don't need a rocket scientist to pump gas or change a tire. If I could find someone to work full time in the office, I'd be set."

Spiro did some oily chitchat and oozed himself out of the office.

"You know any of the guys who work here?" he asked me.

"I've spoken to Sandeman. He has an attitude. Does a little recreational drug use."

"You tight with him?"

"I'm not his favorite person."

Spiro's gaze dropped to my feet. "Maybe it's the shoes." I wrenched the car door open. "Anything else you want to comment on? Maybe you have a few words to say about my car?"

Spiro angled onto the seat. "Hell, the car is awesome. At least you know how to pick out a car."

I squired Spiro into the funeral parlor, where all security systems seemed intact. We did a superficial examination of his two customers and felt fairly certain no one had relieved them of any obvious body parts. I told Spiro I'd return for the night run and that he should beep me if he needed me sooner.

I would have liked to keep Spiro under surveillance. I figured he'd keep picking at the lead I'd given him, and who knows what he'd find? And even more important, if Spiro started moving around, maybe Kenny would move with him. Unfortunately, I couldn't conduct any meaningful surveillance in Big Blue. I'd have to find a different car if I wanted to tail Spiro. The half cup of coffee I'd gulped at breakfast was working its way through my system, so I decided to go back to my parents' house, where I could use the bathroom. I could take a shower and give some thought to my car problem. At ten I'd chauffeur Grandma Mazur over to Clara's for an overhaul.

When I got home my father was in the bathroom, and my mother was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for minestrone.

"I have to use the bathroom," I said. "Do you think Daddy will be long?" My mother rolled her eyes. "I don't know what he does in there. Takes the paper in with him, and we don't see him for hours."

I snitched a chunk of carrot and a chunk of celery for Rex and hustled up the stairs. I knocked on the bathroom door. "How much longer?" I yelled. There was no answer.

I knocked louder. "Are you okay in there?"

"Christ," was the muttered reply. "A man can't even take a crap in this house . . ." I went back to my room. My mother had made my bed and folded all my clothes. I told myself it was nice to be back home and have someone doing little favors for me. I should be grateful. I should enjoy the luxury.

"Isn't this fun?" I said to a sleeping Rex. "It's not every day we get to visit Grandmom and Grandpop." I lifted the lid to give him his breakfast, but my eye was twitching so badly I missed the cage entirely and dropped his carrot chunk on the floor. By ten o'clock my father still hadn't come out of the bathroom, and I was dancing in the hall. "Hurry up," I said to Grandma Mazur. "I'm going to explode if I don't get to a bathroom soon."

"Clara has a nice bathroom. She keeps potpourri in it, and she's got a crocheted dol that sits on the extra roll of toilet paper. She'll let you use her bathroom."

"I know, I know. Get a move on, will you?"

She was wearing her blue wool coat and had a gray wool scarf wrapped around her head.

"You're going to be hot in that coat," I told her. "It's not very cold out."

"Haven't got anything else," she said. "Everything's gone to rags. I thought maybe after Clara's we could go shopping. I got my Social Security check."

"You sure your hand feels okay to go shopping?"

She held her hand in front of her face and stared at the bandage. "Feels okay so far. The hole wasn't real big. Tell you the truth, I didn't even know how deep it was until I got to the hospital. It happened so fast.

"I always thought I was pretty good at taking care of myself, but I don't know anymore. I don't move like I used to. I just stood there like a damn fool and let him stick me in the hand."

"I'm sure there wasn't anything you could do, Grandma. Kenny's a lot bigger than you, and you were unarmed."

Her eyes clouded behind a film of tears. "He made me feel like a silly old woman."

Morelli was slouched against the Buick when I came out of Clara's. "Whose idea was it to talk to Cubby Delio?"

"Spiro's. And I don't think he's going to stop with Delio. He needs to find those guns so he can get Kenny off his back."

"You learn anything interesting?"

I repeated the conversation for Morelli.

"I know Bucky and Biggy," he said. "They wouldn't get mixed up in something like this."

"Maybe we've jumped to the wrong conclusion about the furniture truck."

"I don't think so. I stopped by the Exxon station first thing this morning and took some pictures. Roberta says she thinks it's the same truck."

"I thought you were supposed to be following me! What if I was attacked? What if Kenny came after me with the ice pick?"

"I followed you part of the time. Anyway, Kenny likes to sleep in."

"That's no excuse! The least you could have done was let me know I was on my own!"

"What's the plan here?" Morelli wanted to know.

"Grandma will be done in an hour. I promised I'd take her shopping. And sometime today I have to stop in to see Vinnie."

"He going to yank you off the case?"

"No. I'll take Grandma Mazur with me. She'll straighten him out."

"I've been thinking about Sandeman . . ."

"Yeah," I said. "I've been thinking about Sandeman, too. Initially I thought he might be hiding Kenny. Maybe it's just the opposite. Maybe he screwed Kenny over."

"You think Moogey threw in with Sandeman?"

I shrugged. "It makes some sense. Whoever stole the guns had street contacts."

"You said Sandeman didn't show any signs of sudden wealth."

"I think Sandeman's wealth goes up his nose."