Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
I dropped Lula off at the office, walked Bottles through the legal system, and brought him back to his house. I stopped at Giovichinni’s Deli, got a turkey club on a brioche roll, and took it to the office to eat.
“Looks like everything worked out with Bottles,” Lula said. “We saw that Vinnie bailed him out. So, Bottles must not have exposed himself to the judge.”
I dropped my messenger bag on the floor, pulled a chair up to Connie’s desk, and unwrapped my sandwich. “I was worried,” I said. “I kept him cuffed up to the last minute, and then I rushed him out of the building as soon as the judge set his bail bond.”
“I’ve been thinking about Bottles,” Lula said. “It doesn’t seem fair that he got stuck with a special penis. I can relate on account of some of my special things gotta stay covered up too. I’ve got world-class nipples, for instance, and my opportunities to get them appreciated are limited.”
Lula is a woman of generously proportioned, perfectly balanced-out booty and boob. Capping off her breasts, which were only slightly smaller than basketballs, were nipples as big as wine magnum corks. The two-sizes-too-small polyester and spandex scoop-neck top she was wearing was stretched to breaking point over the wine corks.
“News flash,” Connie said to Lula. “Your nipples aren’t exactly hidden.”
“Okay,” Lula said, “but my light’s under a bushel, so to speak. Anyway, that was just an obvious answer. There’s other things.”
“What other things?” Connie asked.
“Things about ourselves that we keep secret,” Lula said. “Don’t we all have those things?”
There were two issues to consider here. The first is that it’s easy to underestimate Lula. On the surface she’s multicolored hair, ho clothes, and say what? And then when you’re least expecting it, a crack appears in the surface and something profound leaks out. The second thing to consider is that I feared that, unlike Lula, I didn’t have anything below my surface. And equally disturbing, I didn’t have anything that was special about me, hidden or otherwise. I took some moments to think about it and came up with nothing.
“Anyway, I’m lucky that I got other possibilities going for me,” Lula said. “I could be anything I want to be. Someday I might want to be a lawyer or a supermodel or an astronaut. Bottles don’t seem to have anything on his agenda but being a plumber. Not that I’m downplaying the value of being a good plumber, but let’s face it… it don’t get the respect like a supermodel.”
I ate my sandwich while I read through the information on Jug that Connie had printed out for me. He’d been accused of a laundry list of crimes and convicted of none. Jurors, witnesses, and informants mysteriously died or had bouts of amnesia. Judges ignored evidence and ruled for acquittal.
“I’m surprised he went FTA,” I said to Connie. “There’s no history of him doing that for any of his other arrests.”
“He has a new wife,” Connie said. “He just got back from his honeymoon. I imagine the court date was inconvenient.”
“So, this might be an easy bust,” I said.
“Maybe,” Connie said. “I asked my mom about Jug, and she said there’s rumors he’s senile. Got dementia. Can’t remember anything. Combative. Dribbles.”
“And he just got married?”
“Yeah. She’s twenty-three years old. True love.”
“That’s nice,” Lula said. “He’s making the most of his golden years even if he can’t remember them.”
“Do we have an address for him?” I asked Connie.
“His address has been the same for forty years,” Connie said. “He has a house in North Trenton and an office downtown. It’s all in your report.”
“I’m going to do a drive-by on his house and his office,” I said. “Get the lay of the land.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lula said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll be out walking his dog, and we can snatch him up and drive him to get rebooked.”
“There’s no mention of a dog in any of the reports I pulled,” Connie said.
“Well, you said he’s rumored to be senile. It could be a pretend dog,” Lula said. “My aunt Bestie was senile, and she talked to an imaginary giraffe. She got arthritis in her neck from always looking up to the giraffe. She had to get a cortisone shot. And then there’s that Jimmy Stewart movie about a giant imaginary rabbit named Harvey. Except it’s not clear if Harvey is imaginary or real.”
I remember seeing that movie for the first time when I was a kid and the idea of a huge invisible rabbit scared the bejeezus out of me. I wasn’t comfortable about the Easter Bunny hopping around in our house either. As an adult I’ve come to love Harvey , but I’m still creeped out by the Easter Bunny.
I took North Olden Avenue, crossed the railroad tracks, and followed the GPS lady’s directions to Merrymaster Street.
“This here’s a nice neighborhood,” Lula said. “It’s real tidy and respectable with lots of big shade trees. I bet they hardly have any crime here. If I was married and had a kid and a real dog that was named Chardonnay, I would want to live here. Being that I don’t have any of those things, I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than live in one of these houses.”
Lula rented a small apartment in a house that was currently painted lavender and pink. It wasn’t in a high-crime, gang-controlled area, but there was enough crime to keep you on your toes and make life interesting.
“That’s Jug’s house with the black shutters and quality mahogany door,” Lula said. “Number twenty-one.”
It was similar to other houses on Merrymaster. Two stories. Nice-size front yard and backyard. Larger than the yards in the Burg, but not so big that you had to spend all day mowing the lawn. Single-car garage. Nothing fancy. Just a solidly built, practical box of a house.
“Connie’s report says Jug drives a black Volvo sedan and the Mrs. drives a silver Mercedes EQE sedan. That’s a nice car but you gotta plug that sucker in, so I’m guessing she gets the garage. Since I don’t see no Volvo in the driveway, I’m thinking Mr. isn’t home.”
“And I’m thinking you’re right. Next stop is his office.”
“We gotta go back to town. He’s on East Gilbert Street. Jug Produce. Looks like he’s got an office and a warehouse there. According to Connie, he’s one of the top produce wholesalers in Central Jersey.”
I retraced my steps back to North Olden and let the GPS lady take me to East Gilbert. I was approaching Jug Produce, and Ranger called.
“Just checking in,” he said. “Ella tells me you’ve moved out.”
Ranger has a small but perfect apartment on the top floor of his office building. Gourmet food, Bulgari shower gel, fluffy towels, heavenly pillows, freshly ironed expensive sheets, and other niceties are supplied by his housekeeper, Ella. The one-bedroom flat has a neutral, slightly masculine color palette with comfortable, clean-lined, softly modern furniture that Ranger didn’t even buy secondhand.
My hamster, Rex, and I had cohabitated with Ranger while my apartment was recovering from the firebombing. I moved out like a thief in the night when I went off the rails and got engaged to Morelli.
“Rex and I went back to my apartment,” I said. “I thought I’d take this time to organize since you’re out of town.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m in the car with Lula, and you’re on the speakerphone.”
“Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
“He’s a man of few words,” I said to Lula.
“Yeah, but he says babe like it’s an invitation to an orgasm.”
Jug Produce was housed in a two-story cement-block warehouse. There was a front door on East Gilbert Street that served as a visitors’ entrance with on-street parking. Windows on the second floor. Probably offices up there. Connie’s notes indicated that the Jug property fronted Gilbert and backed up to the street behind it. I drove around the block and found the back gate to Jug Produce.
“It looks like there’s a loading dock behind the building,” Lula said. “Everything’s nice and secure with chain-link fence. Guess you want to make sure no one’s stealing melons and such.”
I thought it probably was also handy for delivery of hijacked sneakers and human trafficking.
“I guess we’re coming back here tomorrow,” Lula said.
“I’d rather try to get him at home. I think it will be an easier apprehension.”
“That’s going to be early in the morning or at dinnertime,” Lula said.
“I’m thinking first thing in the morning. We’ll stake out the house, wait for lights to go on, and then we’ll go in.”
“How early is first thing?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Say what? In the morning? It takes half an hour just to drive there. That’s like out of the house at six thirty. I got a beauty routine. I gotta accessorize. Plus, I’ll miss my morning doughnuts at the office. It’s part of the start-my-day ritual. My body won’t know what to do without doughnuts. My body don’t like surprises like that.”
“I’ll bring doughnuts.”
“And coffee. Good coffee. Not the kind you make.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring good coffee.”
I dropped Lula off at the office and drove to my apartment building. Three floors of uninspired brick construction. Not new. Not old. Not luxury living. Not a slum. Affordable and moderately comfortable if you were willing to lower your standards. I parked in the lot and looked up at my second-floor windows. The brick around the windows was still smudged with soot from the fire. I bypassed the unreliable elevator and took the stairs. Men were working in the hall on the second floor, replacing the water-soaked carpet. Some good things come out of a fire, right? Like new carpet.
I let myself into my apartment and glanced into my kitchen. Apart from some smoke damage it was untouched by the fire. My hamster, Rex, was asleep in his aquarium on my kitchen counter. I called hello to him, dropped my messenger bag on my dining room table, and returned to the kitchen to give Rex a snack. Half a Ritz cracker and a peanut still in its shell. The bedding stirred in front of his soup-can den, and Rex poked his head out and twitched his nose. He rushed at the cracker and peanut, shoved them into his cheek pouch, and returned to his soup can. The perfect roommate. Quiet, nonjudgmental, small poop.
The fire had wiped out my bedroom and most of my living room. The fire restoration company had done a decent job, but I needed paint throughout, new carpet and furniture. So far, my redecorating efforts had gotten me a couch, a table lamp, a sleeping bag, and a pillow. I didn’t want to spend any more than was absolutely necessary on the essentials. They were temporary. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.
I sat at my dining room table/desk and opened my MacBook Air. After a half hour I had a queen mattress and frame, an end table, a nightstand, a second table lamp, a quilt, and a set of sheets getting delivered in forty-eight hours. If I brought Jug in, I would be able to pay for it all.
The obituaries were next up. I surfed funeral homes and hit gold right away. Larry Luger was having a viewing at the Burg’s premier funeral home. Larry was a big deal in the Knights of Columbus. He was going to draw a crowd. Grandma would be attending. Grandma and her girlfriends’ social life consisted of viewings, bingo at the firehouse, and an occasional visit to the Hunk-O-Mania All-Male Revue.
I changed into a navy skirt with a matching jacket and a simple white sweater. I retied my ponytail, swiped on some lip gloss, and I looked at myself in the mirror. “You’re supposed to have a glow when you’re pregnant,” I said to my reflection. I didn’t see a glow. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe I wasn’t glowing because I was a big fibber. Now I had to go to a viewing tonight with Grandma so I didn’t get caught in my fib. I sniffed at my jacket sleeve. Most of my clothes burned in the fire, but a few things, like the skirt and jacket, survived. The survivors smelled like campfire and cremated marshmallows. If Jo Malone could bottle it, I’d buy it. As it was, I had it for free.
I called my mom. “I need to go to the Luger viewing tonight,” I said. “I thought I’d mooch dinner off you first.”
“I’ll have Grandma set a plate. We’re having shells in red sauce, and your grandmother bought a chocolate cake at the bakery.”
“Great. I’m on my way.”
I slipped my phone into my handbag along with a canister of pepper spray and some flexi-cuffs. Just in case I ran into some bad guys. A girl can’t be too prepared. I had a gun, but it wouldn’t fit in my little bag, and anyway, I didn’t have any bullets.
My parents live in a modest two-story house that has a postage-stamp front yard and a backyard that’s only slightly larger. Hydrangea bushes border the small front porch. Trash and recycling receptacles border the small back stoop. The rooms inside are arranged shotgun. Living room, dining room, kitchen. The furniture is overstuffed and comfy. The end tables are cluttered with framed photos of family. The dining table seats six but has been known to feed twelve. The kitchen is the heart of the house and the sole domain of my mom and Grandma Mazur.
Dinner is always precisely at six o’clock. Everyone had just come to the table when I rolled in and took my seat.
Grandma leaned forward when I sat down. “Let me see!” she said to me. “I bet it’s a beauty.”
“What’s a beauty?” I asked.
“The ring. Let’s see the ring.”
“I don’t have a ring,” I said.
“Of course you have a ring. We heard you were engaged.”
I got a cramp in my stomach. “Who told you I’m engaged?”
“Everyone,” Grandma said.
“Who am I engaged to?” I asked.
“Joseph Morelli,” my mother said. “Is there a problem? Did you break up already?”
I shook my napkin out and took some shells and red sauce. “No,” I said. “Of course not. I just didn’t realize it was public knowledge. It just happened. And we didn’t pick out a ring yet.”
“How about a date?” Grandma asked. “Do you have a date set?”
“Green beans,” my father said. “I need the green beans.”
I passed him the green beans and spooned some grated cheese on my shells. “No date yet.”
“A Christmas wedding would be nice,” Grandma said. “The bridesmaids could wear red.”
I poured myself a glass of wine, raised it to my mouth, and stopped. Were you allowed to drink wine if you were preggers?
“Your mother said you’re going to the Luger viewing tonight,” Grandma said to me. “It’ll be a good one. They’re expecting a crowd. They’re putting him in slumber room number one. Emma Wasneski was going to pick me up, but I can ride with you now. We need to go early so we can get in when they open the doors. I want a seat up front on this one so I can get a good look at the widow. I heard she had some work done by that new cosmetic dermatologist on Hamilton. I’ve been thinking about giving her a try. They say she works miracles with Botox and fillers.”
But then, maybe I wasn’t preggers, I thought, my wineglass still poised in midair. I didn’t have the glow. And I only felt nauseous when I got a phone call from Morelli or Ranger. I mean, who wouldn’t under the circumstances.
“Red sauce,” my father said.
Grandma passed him the red sauce and I considered my glass of wine. It would be a shame to waste it.
“You only go to viewings when it’s business,” Grandma said to me. “Who is it this time? A serial rapist? One of those tattooed gang killers? Do I need my gun?”
My mother went rigid in her chair. “You aren’t taking your gun,” she said to Grandma. “No one is taking a gun.” She cut her eyes to me. “No one.”
“Not me,” I said. “No gun.”
“Well, let’s have it,” Grandma said. “Who are you hunting down?”
I took a small sip of wine. Surely a small sip was okay. I mean, I didn’t even know if I was preggers. “Bruno Jug.”
“He’s a big fish,” Grandma said.
My mother made the sign of the cross. “He’ll have you killed,” my mother said. “He’s bonkers. He was bad enough when he was sane, and now he’s crazy.”
“Lots of people have tried to kill Stephanie,” Grandma said. “Her apartment just got firebombed. That was a good one.”
I wanted more wine, but I’d had my sip, so I reached for the bread basket. I took a couple chunks and slathered them with butter.
“Most women die from heart disease and breast cancer, but my daughter is going to get killed by Bruno Jug,” my mother said. “A bullet to the brain.”
“Not necessarily,” Grandma said. “It depends who does his wet work. If he uses Jimmy the Pig, she could get bludgeoned. And sometimes people just disappear, and you don’t know if they’re in the landfill or dumped offshore.”
My father stopped eating and picked his head up. “Who’s getting dumped offshore?”
“Stephanie,” my mother said. “She’s going after Bruno Jug. He didn’t show up for court and now she’s going to put him in cuffs at Larry Luger’s viewing.”
“Larry Luger died?”
“Aneurysm,” Grandma said. “Come on him all of a sudden while he was brushing his teeth.”
“Hunh,” my father said. “Brushing his teeth.” And he went back to eating his shells.
My mother chugged a glass of wine and poured another. “Why me?” she asked.
Grandma tipped her head up and sniffed. “It smells like something is burning. Is anything on the stove in the kitchen?” she asked my mom.
My mom went quiet for a moment. “No,” she said. “I’m sure the stove is off. I smell it too. It smells more like someone has a fireplace going.”
“There’s no fireplaces in these houses,” Grandma said. “It must be the Weavers grilling again. It smells like they’re toasting marshmallows.”
“It’s me,” I said. “It’s my jacket. I can’t get the smell out from the fire.”
“It makes me hungry for dessert,” Grandma said. “Good thing I bought a cake this morning.”
The funeral home is on the edge of the Burg. For years it was owned and managed by Constantine Stiva. It has since changed hands, but everyone still calls it Stiva’s. It’s a large white colonial-type structure with a wide front porch, a small parking lot on the side, a newer brick addition, and several garages in the rear. Grandma and I arrived early enough to get one of the prized parking spots in the lot. Grandma hurried off to the front porch so she would be one of the first in line to push through the big double doors when the viewing began at seven o’clock. I lingered in the car. I was in no hurry to go into the funeral home. I especially was in no hurry to encounter Bruno Jug at the funeral home. It would be a spectacle. Fortunately, it was unlikely that he would show. I couldn’t see the new Mrs. Jug hanging at the cookie table with Grandma and her pals.
I waited until the last straggler had disappeared inside the building, and then I left my car and joined the viewing.
Grandma and her crew had a viewing routine. First in, grab the good seats up front where you could check out the mourners as they passed in front of the casket. Tonight, they’d also be scrutinizing the widow for signs of Botox. At seven forty-five they would get in line and pay their respects. Then they’d head for the cookie station. Doors closed at nine o’clock. I’d only known Grandma to leave before nine o’clock on one occasion and that was because she had uncontrollable diarrhea from God knows what. So, I was stuck in the funeral home until nine o’clock. This was my punishment for celebrating with two men. I guess it could have been worse. There were cookies. And so far, no Bruno Jug.
I hung out in the lobby, wandering around the perimeter of the room. There were upholstered benches, but I thought I would look pathetic if I sat on one all by myself. Like the last girl asked to dance at a seventh-grade mixer. People would talk. They’d say, There’s Stephanie Plum. Her apartment got firebombed again. Poor thing.
Morelli called me at eight o’clock. “Bob misses you,” Morelli said. “Do you have a headache yet?”
Bob is Morelli’s dog. He’s big and orange, and he smiles a lot.
“It’s all good,” I said. “Grandma and the ladies just got to the cookie table. I have an hour to go.”
“And then?”
“If I don’t have a headache, I thought I might take a drive over to Bruno Jug’s house. He’s FTA and if I could bring him in, I would be able to pay off my credit card.”
“You don’t want to mess with Bruno Jug. He’s easily offended. Like if someone tried to cuff him, he’d take it personally and have them soaked in gasoline and set on fire. Let Vinny bring him in.”
“Rumor has it that Jug’s senile.”
“I’ve heard the rumor. I’ve also heard a rumor that his new bride is pregnant by their Chihuahua and that the world is coming to an end in thirty-two days.”
“They have a Chihuahua?”
“I have to go,” Morelli said. “Third period just started. Rangers are down by two goals.”
I hung up, turned in the direction of the cookie table, and bumped into Herbert Slovinski. I knew Herbert from high school. He sat behind me in algebra. He mumbled to himself all during class and sometimes he would sigh, and I could feel his breath on my neck. Morelli’s breath on my neck was sexy, Herbert’s breath not at all. My best friend, Mary Ann, swore she saw him pick his nose and eat the booger. He hadn’t changed much since high school. My height. Skinny. Mousy brown hair parted on the side. Big black-framed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. Brown slacks, white button-down shirt that was a size too large, tan cardigan circa 1950.
“Hey, Stephanie Plum,” Herbert said. “How awesome is this? Just like being behind you in algebra. How’s it going? Is it going great? It’s going great for me.”
“Gee, that’s terrific,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“I bet you’re on your way to the cookie table,” he said. “Have you noticed only women go to the cookie table? Why is that?”
“I never noticed.”
“That’s probably because you don’t come here a lot. I come a lot.”
I knew I was going to regret asking, but I had to ask anyway. “Why?”
“I’m thinking I might want to be a funeral director. So, I’ve been scoping it all out. Testing the waters.”
“Sounds like a plan. Good luck with it. Nice running into you.”
I stepped around him to get to the cookie table but he stuck with me.
“This is amazing, right?” he said. “Here we are talking. We never talked in high school. You always rushed out of class as soon as the bell rang. And you were always ahead of me in the band. The baton twirlers were always up front.”
“You were in the band?”
“I played the clarinet. I still play it. I’m awesome on the clarinet. You should come hear me sometime.”
“Where do you play?”
“At home. I’m currently living with my parents, and they think I should go pro. Do you want to hear a joke about the clarinet? What’s the difference between a clarinet and an onion? No one cries when you chop up a clarinet. That’s funny, right? You could come over tonight after the viewing.”
“Tempting, but I’m going to pass. Things to do.” I kept inching my way to the cookies. “Did I tell you that I’m engaged?”
“No. Wow, that’s a surprise. I didn’t hear. So, you’re not married yet, right? So, no problem. We could still get together. Ordinarily my dance card is full, but there aren’t any good viewings tomorrow. We could have coffee or drinks somewhere.”
“Not a good idea. My fiancé is very jealous. He’s a cop. He carries a gun.”
“We should be careful about getting together then. Keep it quiet. I could pick you up in my car. I have a Prius. Are you green?”
“No,” I said. “I’m pink. I need to go, and you can’t follow me.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going to the girls-only cookie table.”
“Okay, well I’ll call you. We’ll make arrangements. Did I mention I have a cat? Her name is Miss Fluff. I hope that won’t be an issue in our relationship.”
“Herbert, we have no relationship.”
“Okay, maybe not now, but I think we could make this work if you would give it a chance.”
I muscled my way through the herd of women at the cookie table and blindly grabbed a handful of cookies. Herbert was hanging a short distance away, keeping watch in case I couldn’t resist his magnetic pull and rushed back to him.
I was pretty sure God was pissed off at me. How else could you explain Herbert Slovinski? What I lacked in faith I made up for in fear of God’s wrath. It wasn’t enough to make me go to church on a regular basis, but it gave me an inner grimace from time to time.
I parked at the curb in front of my parents’ house and Grandma unsnapped her seat belt.
“That was a decent viewing,” Grandma said. “Larry looked better than he has in a long time. Too bad Bruno didn’t show. I was ready in case you needed backup.”
“It was a long shot.”
“Are you coming in? The hockey game might still be on.”
“I’m going to head back to my apartment. I have some computer work to do.”
I watched Grandma disappear inside the house, and I took off for Merrymaster Street. Twenty minutes later I was parked across the street from Jug’s house. His lights were off. A single porch light was lit. The garage door was closed. No car in the driveway. Headlights flashed a block away. A car was coming toward me. I ducked down and the car went past me and turned into Jug’s driveway. Two people got out and walked to the front door. Minutes later, they were in the house and the house lights went on. Mr. and Mrs. Jug were home. His black Volvo sedan was also home for the night.
Jug had been driving, so obviously his supposed senility didn’t affect his ability to operate a luxury vehicle. I hung around for ten more minutes and chugged off to my apartment.