We didn't see any plants to water, so we tippytoed back down the stairs and locked the door.
I gave Mrs. Pease my card and asked her to call me if she should see or hear anything suspicious.
She studied the card. “A bounty hunter,” she said, her voice showing surprise.
“A woman's got to do what a woman's got to do,” I said.
She looked up and nodded in agreement. “I suppose that's true.”
I squinted into the lot. “According to my information Maxine owns an '84 Fairlane. I don't see it here.”
“She took off in it,” Mrs. Pease said. “Wasn't much of a car. Always something or other broken on it, but she loaded it up with her suitcase and took off.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“On vacation.”
“That was it?”
“Yep,” Mrs. Pease said, “that was it. Usually Maxine's real talkative, but she wasn't saying anything this time. She was in a hurry, and she wasn't saying anything.”
* * * * *
NOWICKI'S MOTHER lived on Howser Street. She'd posted the bond and had put up her house as collateral. At first glance this seemed like a safe investment for my cousin Vinnie. Truth was, getting a person kicked out of his or her house was a chore and did nothing to endear a bail bondsman to the community.
I got out my street map and found Howser. It was in north Trenton, so I retraced my route and discovered that Mrs. Nowicki lived two blocks from Eddie Kuntz. Same neighborhood of well-kept houses. Except for the Nowicki house. The Nowicki house was single-family, and it was a wreck. Peeling paint, crumbling roof shingles, saggy front porch, front yard more dirt than grass.
I picked my way over rotting porch steps and knocked on the door. The woman who answered was faded glory in a bathrobe. It was getting to be midafternoon, but Mrs. Nowicki looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. She was a sixty-year-old woman wearing the ravages of booze and disenchantment with life. Her doughy face showed traces of makeup not removed before calling it a night. Her voice had the rasp of two packs a day, and her breath was hundred proof.
“Mrs. Nowicki?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I'm looking for Maxine.”
“You a friend of Maxy's?”
I gave her my card. “I'm with the Plum Agency. Maxine missed her court date. I'm trying to find her so we can get her rescheduled.”
Mrs. Nowicki raised a crayoned brown eyebrow. “I wasn't born yesterday, honey. You're a bounty hunter, and you're out to get my little girl.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Wouldn't tell you if I did. She'll get found when she wants to.”
“You put your house up as security against the bond. If Maxine doesn't come forward you could lose your house.”
“Oh yeah, that'd be a tragedy,” she said, rummaging in the pocket of her chenille robe, coming up with a pack of Kools. “Architectural Digest keeps wanting to do a spread, but I can't find the time.” She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit up. She sucked hard and squinted at me through the smoke haze. “I owe five years' back taxes. You want this house you're gonna hafta take a number and get in line.”
Sometimes bail jumpers are simply at home, trying to pretend their life isn't in the toilet, hoping the whole mess will go away if they ignore the order to appear in court. I'd originally thought Maxine would be one of these people. She wasn't a career criminal, and the charges weren't serious. She really had no reason to skip out.
Now I wasn't so sure. I was getting an uncomfortable feeling about Maxine. Her apartment had been trashed, and her mother had me thinking maybe Maxine didn't want to be found right now. I slunk back to my car and decided my deductive reasoning would be vastly improved if I ate a doughnut. So I cut across town to Hamilton and parked in front of Tasty Pastry Bakery.
I'd worked part-time at Tasty Pastry when I was in high school. It hadn't changed much since then. Same green-and-white linoleum floor. Same sparkling clean display cases filled with Italian cookies, chocolate chip cannoli, biscotti, napoleons, fresh bread and coffee cakes. Same happy smell of fried sweet dough and cinnamon.
Lennie Smulenski and Anthony Zuck bake the goodies in the back room in big steel ovens and troughs of hot oil. Clouds of flour and sugar sift onto table surfaces and slip under foot. And lard is transferred daily from commercial-sized vats directly to local butts.
I choose two Boston cremes and pocketed some napkins. When I came out I found Joe Morelli lounging against my car. I'd known Morelli all of my life. First when he was a lecherous little kid, then as a dangerous teen. And finally as the guy who at age eighteen, sweet-talked me out of my underwear, laid me down on the floor behind the eclair case one day after work and relieved me of my virginity. Morelli was a cop now, and the only way he'd get back into my pants would be at gunpoint. He worked Vice, and he looked like he knew a lot about it firsthand. He was wearing washed-out Levi's and a navy T-shirt. His hair needed cutting, and his body was perfect. Lean and hard-muscled with the best ass in Trenton . . . maybe the world. Buns you wanted to sink your teeth into.
Not that I intended to nibble on Morelli. He had an annoying habit of periodically popping up in my life, frustrating the hell out of me and then walking off into the sunset. I couldn't do much about the popping up or the walking off. I could do something about the frustrating. From here on out, Morelli was erotica non grata. Look but Don't Touch, that was my motto. And he could keep his tongue to himself, thank you.
Morelli grinned by way of hello. “You're not going to eat both those doughnuts all by yourself, are you?”
“That was the plan. What are you doing here?”
“Drove by. Saw your car. Thought you'd need some help with those Boston cremes.”
“How do you know they're Boston cremes?”
“You always get Boston cremes.”
Last time I saw Morelli was back in February. One minute we were in a clinch on my couch with his hand halfway up my thigh, and then next thing I knew, his pager went off and he was gone. Not to be seen for five months. And now here he was . . . sniffing at my doughnuts.
“Long time, no see,” I said.
“I've been undercover.”
Yeah, right.
“Okay,” he said. “I could have called.”
“I thought maybe you were dead.”
The smile tightened. “Wishful thinking?”
“You're scum, Morelli.”
He blew out a sigh. “You're not going to share those doughnuts, are you?”
I got into my car, slammed the door, squealed out of the lot and headed for home. By the time I got to my apartment I'd eaten both the doughnuts, and I was feeling much better. And I was thinking about Nowicki. She was five years older than Kuntz. High school graduate. Twice married. No children. Her file photo showed me a blowzy blonde with big Jersey hair, lots of makeup and a slim frame. She was squinting into the sun and smiling, wearing four-inch heels, tight black stretch pants and a loose flowing sweater with sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a V neck deep enough to show cleavage. I half expected to find writing on the back of the picture . . . “If you want a good time, call Maxine Nowicki.”
Probably she'd done exactly what she'd said. Probably she'd stressed out and gone on vacation. Probably I shouldn't exert myself because she'd come home any day now.
And what about her apartment? The apartment was bothersome. The apartment told me Maxine had bigger problems than a simple auto theft charge. Best not to think about the apartment. The apartment only muddied the waters and had nothing to do with my job. My job was simple. Find Maxine. Bring her in.
I locked the CRX and crossed the lot. Mr. Landowsky stepped out the building's back door as I approached. Mr. Landowsky was eighty-two and somehow his chest had shrunk over the years, and now he was forced to hike his pants up under his armpits.
“Oi,” he said. “This heat! I can't breathe. Somebody should do something.??
?
I assumed he was talking about God.
“That weatherman on the morning news. He should be shot. How can I go out in weather like this? And then when it gets so hot they keep the supermarkets too cold. Hot, cold. Hot, cold. It gives me the runs.”
I was glad I owned a gun, because when I got as old as Mr. Landowsky I was going to eat a bullet. The first time I got the runs in the supermarket, that was it. BANG! It would all be over.
I took the elevator to the second floor and let myself into my apartment. One bedroom, one bath, living room-dining room, uninspired but adequate kitchen, small foyer with a strip of pegs for hanging coats and hats and gun belts.
My hamster, Rex, was running on his wheel when I came in. I told him about my day and apologized for not saving him some doughnut. He looked disappointed at the doughnut part so I rooted around in my refrigerator and came up with a few grapes. Rex took the grapes and disappeared into his soup can. Life is pretty simple when you're a hamster.
I moseyed back into the kitchen and checked my phone messages.
“Stephanie, this is your mother. Don't forget about dinner. I have a nice roast chicken.”
Saturday night and I was having chicken dinner with my parents. And it wasn't the first time. It was a weekly occurrence. I had no life.
I dragged myself into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed and watched the minute hand creep around the dial on my wristwatch until it was time to go to my parents'. My parents eat dinner at six o'clock. Not a minute sooner or later. That's the way it is. Dinner at six or your life is ruined.
* * * * *
MY PARENTS live in a narrow duplex on a narrow lot on a narrow street in a residential part of Trenton called the burg. When I arrived my mother was waiting at the door.
“What is this outfit you're wearing?” she asked. “You have no clothes on. How is this to dress?”
“This is a Thunders baseball jersey,” I told her. “I'm supporting local sports.”
My Grandma Mazur peeked from behind my mother. Grandma Mazur moved in with my parents shortly after my grandfather went heavenward to dine with Elvis. Grandma figures she's of an age to be beyond convention. My father thinks she's of an age to be beyond life.
“I need one of those jerseys,” Grandma said. “Bet I'd have men following me down the block if I was dressed up like that.”
“Stiva, the undertaker,” my father murmured from the living room, head buried in the paper. “With his tape measure.”
Grandma linked her arm in mine. “I've got a treat for you today. Just wait till you see what I've cooked up.”
In the living room the paper was lowered, and my father's eyebrows raised.
My mother made the sign of the cross.
“Maybe you should tell me,” I said to Grandma.
“I was gonna keep it as a surprise, but I suppose I could let you in on it. Being that he'll be here any minute now.”
There was dead silence in the house.
“I invited your boyfriend over for dinner,” Grandma said.
“I don't have a boyfriend!”
“Well, you do now. I arranged everything.”
I spun on my heel and headed for the door. “I'm leaving.”
“You can't do that!” Grandma yelled. “He'll be real disappointed. We had a nice long talk. And he said he didn't mind that you shoot people for a living.”
“I don't shoot people for a living. I almost never shoot people.” I thunked my head against the wall. “I hate fix-ups. Fix-ups are always awful.”
“Can't be any more awful than that bozo you married,” Grandma said. “Only one way to go after that fiasco.”
She was right. My short-lived marriage had been a fiasco.
There was a knock on the door, and we swiveled our heads to look down the hall.
“Eddie Kuntz!” I gasped.
“Yep,” Grandma said. “That's his name. He called up here looking for you, and so I invited him to dinner.”
“Hey,” Eddie said through the screen.
He was wearing a gray short-sleeved shirt open halfway down his chest, pleated slacks and Gucci loafers, no socks. He had a bottle of red wine in his hand.
“Hello,” we said in unison.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure you can come in,” Grandma said. “I guess we don't leave handsome men standing at the door.”
He handed the wine to Grandma and winked. “Here you go, cutie.”
Grandma giggled. “Aren't you the one.”
“I almost never shoot people,” I said. “Almost never.”
“Me too,” he said. “I hate unnecessary violence.”
I took a step backward. “Excuse me. I need to help in the kitchen.”
My mother hurried after me. “Don't even think about it!”
“What?”
“You know what. You were going to sneak out the back door.”
“He's not my type.”
My mother started filling serving dishes with food from the stove. Mashed potatoes, green beans, red cabbage. “What's wrong with him?”
“He's got too many buttons open on his shirt.”
“He could turn out to be a nice person,” my mother said. “You should give him a chance. What would it take? And what about supper? I have this nice chicken that will go to waste. What will you eat for supper if you don't eat here?”
“He called Grandma cutie!”
My mother had been slicing up the chicken. She took a drumstick and dropped it on the floor. She kicked it around a little, picked it up and put it on the edge of the plate. “There,” she said, “we'll give him this drumstick.”
“Deal.”
“And I have banana cream pie for desert,” she added to seal the bargain. “So you want to make sure you stay to the end.”
Be still my heart.
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
2
I TOOK MY PLACE at the table, next to Eddie Kuntz. “You were trying to get in touch with me?”
“Yeah. I lost your card. I put it down somewhere and couldn't find it. So I looked you up in the phone book . . . only I got your parents. Good thing, too. Granny told me you're hard up for a man, and it turns out I'm between women right now, and I don't mind older chicks. So I guess this is your lucky day.”
The chick made a valiant effort not to stab her fork into Eddie Kuntz's eyeball. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I got a call from Maxine. She said she had a message for me and it was coming by airmail tomorrow. I said tomorrow was Sunday, and there was no airmail on Sunday, so why doesn't she just tell me the message. Then she called me some names.” He gave me a face like Maxine had hurt his feelings for no good reason. “Real abusive,” he said.
“Was that it?”
“That was it. Except she said she was going to make me squirm. And then she hung up.”
* * * * *
BY THE TIME we got to the banana cream pie I was feeling antsy. Nowicki had called Kuntz, so Nowicki was alive, and that was good. Unfortunately, she was sending him airmail. Airmail meant distance. And distance was bad. Even more bothersome was the fact that Eddie Kuntz's napkin was moving on his lap without benefit of hands. My first inclination was to shout “Snake!” and shoot, but probably that wouldn't hold up in court. Besides, as much as I disliked Eddie Kuntz, I could sort of identify with a man who got a stiffie over banana cream pie.
I scarfed down a piece of pie and cracked my knuckles. I glanced at my watch. “Gee, look at the time!”
My mother gave me her resigned mother look. The one that said, So go . . . at least I got you to stay through desert and now I know you had one good meal this week. And why can't you be more like your sister, Valerie, who's married and has two kids and knows how to cook a chicken.
“Sorry, I have to run,” I said, pushing back from the table.
Kuntz
paused with his fork midway to his mouth. “What? We leaving?”
I retrieved my shoulder bag from the kitchen. “I'm leaving.”
“He's leaving too,” my father said, head bent over his pie.
“Well, this was nice,” Grandma said. “This didn't go so bad.”