It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 5
Beejit Bhait smiled broadly. "My sister's husband, Deep, is a most excellent mechanic." And he gave Morris directions to his brother-in-law's garage. "Remember to tell Deep that you are my guest."
Morris wanted to save the cost of a tow, so he nursed the crippled Buick through the quiet streets of Woodbine, Cassie following in her Mustang, until they located Deep's Quick Lube.
Deep examined the damaged rim. "You should not be driving on a flat tire. This is not a good thing you are doing."
Morris only nodded. "What's this gonna cost me?"
Deep understood that Americans only cared about money. "First I will need to see how much damage you have done to the Buick."
Morris was not about to be taken by some small town auto mechanic. "Look, it's just a flat tire, and a rim, right?"
Deep frowned. "I cannot tell until I put the car up on the lift, good sir, but I believe it is possible you have done more serious damage. I think that maybe this will not be such a little job."
Morris was ready to start yelling, but Cassie reached a hand out, touching him lightly on the arm. She looked at Deep. "How long will it take you to assess the damage?"
Deep smiled broadly. "I will be knowing the damage tomorrow."
"Tomorrow then," Cassie said, and she started to walk back to the Mustang.
"Thank you, gentle lady," Deep said, bowing slightly.
Cassie was already approaching her Mustang. Morris, running to catch up, stumbled, banging his leg on the fender before climbing into the passenger side. They rode back to the motel in silence. Cassie didn't even bother to turn on a CD.
Back at the motel, Cassie said good-bye without even bothering to get out of the car. "Perhaps I can find something out when I get home."
"What about me?" Morris hated himself for sounding so pitiful.
"You need to wait here," Cassie suggested, "at least until Deep can fix your car."
Cassie popped Sunnyland Slim into the CD player and pulled her car out of the parking lot. "The Devil is a Busy Man" was playing on the CD. Yes, he is, Cassie thought. Yes indeed.
The birds seemed to be watching as the Mustang made its way out of Woodbine.
For Old Time's Sake
Tommy V. rolled over in bed and opened his eyes; the sun coming through the window was already high in the sky. Even Santa gets an occasional day off. He hopped out of bed and took another look at the watch he'd boosted at the mall. It was a Tag Heuer Men's Steel Watch and according to the tag in the box it had a retail value of nearly $700. Tommy knew a fence in Woodbine. He was going to enjoy his day off.
He looked in his refrigerator, hoping for a couple of eggs and a glass of OJ, but all he could find was some ancient grape jelly and an empty bottle of ketchup. He smiled, thinking about the meal he would purchase after his trip to Woodbine.
Tommy placed a call to his girlfriend, Bobbie. This was shaping up to be a great day.
"Hey, babe. It's me. Whaddya say I take you out to dinner tonight?"
Bobbie was surprised to hear from Tommy in the middle of the day. "Aren't you supposed to be working, Tommy?"
"It's my day off, babe. So whaddya say? You can pick the place. Italian. Chink. Whatever you want."
"You know the deal, Tommy," Bobbie reminded him. "I'm not going out with you until you graduate from anger-management. Are you still going to class, Tommy?"
In class they talked all the time about triggers. Tommy recognized Bobbie's question as a trigger. He took a deep breath. Maybe the class is helping, he thought.
"Dammit, Bobbie. You wanna go to dinner or not?"
"Call me when you finish the class, Tommy." Bobbie hung up the phone.
Tommy stared at the receiver. He counted to ten. Gently he put the receiver back on its cradle. He took another deep breath. Then he punched the wall.
"Dammit!"
Tommy was not about to let his girlfriend ruin a great day. Within the hour, he was behind the wheel of his Plymouth. He had ten dollars in his wallet and nothing at all in the bank, but he had a seven hundred dollar Tag Heuer watch and a scheme. Unfortunately he also had a fuel gauge pointing to "E." Halfway to Woodbine, he stopped to buy one gallon of gas and a pack of cigarettes.
Ten miles after his stop at the gas station, a light rain began to fall. Twenty miles and he was approaching Woodbine when Tommy's Plymouth ran out of gas. Using the car's momentum, he steered the Plymouth off the road into a small motel parking lot. Tommy put the Tag Heuer in his pocket, and began to walk the remaining mile or so to Louie's. He noticed that the rain was coming down harder. Still, he had a seven hundred dollar watch in his pocket. Tommy was having a great day. He was soaking wet by the time he found Louie's pawnshop.
It is said that every man has a doppelganger, an identical twin as it were, who inhabits another corner of the universe. He may live on a remote island somewhere in the south Pacific or just on the other side of town, but most men have no evidence of their double. Louis Feldman, however, was not like most men and the evidence of his double, unimpeachable. With his slight stature and his perpetual shrug, his thinning red hair and thick black glasses, even down to his New York Jewish whine, Louis Feldman was a perfect genetic double for Woody Allen. He had, in fact, once worked as Mr. Allen's stunt double in an early movie.
When Tommy walked into the pawnshop, he was surprised to find Louie pacing nervously behind the counter, muttering sotto voce about an appointment with his psychiatrist. Louie looked up over the glasses that had slipped down the sweaty slope of his nose. "Tommy V. As I live and breathe." Louie moved farther back behind the counter, creating more space between the two men.
Tommy held out his hand in peace. "I'm into anger-management these days."
A nervous laugh escaped from Louie's throat. "I'm glad to hear it." Louie took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "What can I do for you, Tommy?"
Tommy pulled the small box from his coat pocket. "I got merchandise." And he showed Louie the watch. "How much?"
Louie examined the Tag Heuer closely. "Nice, Tommy. Very nice." He made a few quick notes on a pad that was sitting on the counter. "One eighty-five."
"One eighty-five!" Tommy struggled to control his temper. "This gets nine hundred at the Mall of New Jersey."
Louie looked around the pawnshop. "Does this look like the Mall of New Jersey to you, Tommy? C'mon, you know how this works."
Tommy knew exactly how it worked. "Listen, Louie, I'm gonna have lots of stuff to move in a couple of days. Watches, jewelry, electronics, all kinds of shit. And I want you to move it for me. For old time's sake. But not at those prices."
Louie made a few more notes on the pad. "As it is, I'm gonna take a loss on the watch." He looked at Tommy closely. "What the hell, Tommy. Two twenty-five. For old time's sake."
Tommy pocketed the two hundred twenty-five dollars and said good-bye to Louie. "I'll see ya in a coupla three days." A light rain was falling on the peaceful town of Woodbine. Tommy spotted a gas station. He bought a container and filled it with two gallons of unleaded and walked back to his car with the gas can and nearly two hundred twenty-five dollars in his pocket. Tommy was having a great day.
When he came to within fifty yards of the motel parking lot, Tommy spotted a man examining his Plymouth. Tommy slowed his pace, checking out the stranger as he approached his car.
Kings over Aces
At first glance, the man appeared to Tommy to be remarkably average, but on closer inspection, Tommy decided he was actually not quite average in remarkably average ways. He was of average height, only shorter. He was of average weight, only heavier. He wore a black suit and gray t-shirt, and he couldn't quite manage the look. His hair mostly matched the suit. The gray at his temples matched the t-shirt. He looked up as Tommy approached.
"Hey, cool. I was feeling kinda weird being the only guest. Which cabin are you in?"
Tommy uncapped the gas can. "Not stayin' here."
Morris watched him transfer the gas to his tank. "You ran out of gas?"
Tommy busied himself with the gas can. "Yeah."
"So where you heading?" When Tommy didn't answer, Morris tried the more direct approach. "Can you give me a ride to Atlantic City?"
Atlantic City, Tommy thought. Not a bad idea. "Sorry, fella, I can't help ya."
Tommy threw the empty gas can in the trunk of the Plymouth, climbed behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Morris standing alone in the motel lot, his hands on his hips, shaking his head.
Tommy was heading home with nearly two hundred twenty-five dollars in his pocket. Maybe it was the cash that had him feeling so good or maybe it was the Christmas spirit, but Tommy decided to call his ex-wife.
"Greta, it's me."
"What—grr—do you want now, Tommy?"
"Can I stop by the house today? I wanna see you and Tommy Junior, maybe take you and the kid out to dinner."
"What's this—grr—all about?"
"Does it have to be about something?"
"I don't know, Tommy."
"C'mon, Greta. I'm tryin' to get my shit together. Gimme a chance here, okay?"
There was silence on the line. Tommy tried again. "Okay, Greta?"
Greta sighed. "Okay, Tommy. Come on by the house around six and we'll—grr—see."
"Later." Tommy hung up the phone and looked at his watch, not a Tag Heuer, a Timex. He had a couple of hours to kill and nearly two hundred twenty-five dollars in his pocket. He took the turn for Atlantic City. Half an hour later, Tommy was sitting at a three-six table in the poker room at Caesar's, a hundred dollars in poker chips stacked in front of him and plenty of cash in reserve.
With the recent popularity of Texas Hold 'Em, novices were flocking to the poker room, senior citizens and young kids alike, with their dark glasses and their nicknames, used to playing on line, ready to try their luck at a "real" game. Tommy looked around the table, anticipating future earnings.
Tommy ordered a scotch on the rocks and folded his first hand, nine-four, unsuited. He complimented himself on his tight play and watched with interest as the hand was won by an older woman with a dye job, a facelift, a lucky troll, and three queens. Tommy sipped his scotch and smiled. He took a small pot with pocket nines and another with two pair, his stack of chips waxing and waning, playing tight, picking his spots, waiting to strike.
With pocket kings, he raised before the flop. When a king came up on the flop (along with an ace-four), Tommy raised again, forcing most everyone to fold. But the old lady with the lucky troll wanted to play. A second four came up on the turn. He raised again. Tommy was surprised when the old lady called the raise. The river card was an ace. Tommy pushed the action. The old lady re-raised and Tommy called. He leaned back in his chair and smiled, revealing pocket kings, a boat, kings over aces. The old lady showed an ace, her boat, aces over fours. Tommy looked on in disbelief. The old lady drew her boat on the river. His stack of chips was dangerously low, but most of his cash, Tommy reminded himself, was still in his pocket. He cashed the few chips that remained and exited the poker room.
Once upon a time, before anger management, Tommy would have been pissed about the poker hand. He would have been pissed, and he would have responded by lashing out at someone he loved. Thanks to his class, Tommy understood it was okay to feel the anger, but not okay to act on it. Tommy felt the anger lodged inside him like a kidney stone. He didn't want to show up at Greta's angry. He needed to deal with his feelings (that's what they told him in class). He needed a beer.
There were plenty of bars in Atlantic City. Tommy's favorite bar offered Heineken on tap and two-for-one lap dances. Tommy had three Heinekens and two lap dances and felt the anger pass.
Tommy checked his watch. It was nearly six. He exited the bar and jumped in his Plymouth. He would be late getting to Greta's. Still, he was having a great day. And he had nearly two hundred twenty-five dollars in his pocket.
Veal Piccata
"You're—grrr—late." Greta smiled. "C'mon in, Tommy."
After the divorce, it bothered Tommy to be invited into "his" home, but this time it didn't make him angry. Maybe the anger management is working, he thought.
"Thanks, Greta." Tommy looked around. "Where's the kid?"
"I told Tommy Junior to be home by six, but he said you were gonna be late." Greta laughed. "He's with his girlfriend."
"The kid's got a girlfriend?" Tommy puffed up with pride. "Is she cute?"
"Shit, Tommy. Does it always have to be about looks?"
Tommy didn't need to think about Greta's question. "Abso-fuckin-lutely." He smiled. "Hell, Greta. That's why I asked you out. And that's why I asked you to marry me."
Greta remembered it differently. "You asked me out—grr—'cause I had a reputation, and you married me 'cause I got pregnant."
Tommy looked at Greta, at her tired eyes and her prematurely gray hair, at the exhaustion that was etched deep into her face, and he remembered the cute teenage girl with the tics. "Maybe, but you still were the prettiest girl in high school."
"What has—grr—gotten into you Tommy? Do you feel all right?"
"Nuthin'. I don't know. It's just . . . nuthin'." Tommy wasn't sure what was happening, but it had been a long time since he'd talked to Greta without getting into a fight. Not fighting felt good. "So how about dinner?"
"I don't know, Tommy."
But Tommy did know. "Veal piccata. Fettuccini. A bottle of red. C'mon, it'll be fun."
Greta was wavering. "Dinner, Tommy. Just dinner. You understand?"
"I got it, Greta. No dessert."
Greta surrendered to the veal piccata. "Give me a minute to freshen up."
Alfonso's was a cozy neighborhood restaurant, casual and moderately priced. Still, as Greta looked at the menu, she had second thoughts. "Are you sure you can afford this Tommy?"
Tommy patted his pocket. "I can afford it, Greta."
Greta wanted to yell at him about child support, wanted to ask him how he could afford to pay for dinner but not buy shoes for his son. But more than wanting to yell, what Greta wanted was veal piccata.
After two glasses of red wine, Tommy looked at Greta, her growling quieted by the wine. "Why'd we split up Greta?"
Dinner had been friendly, verging on intimate. She considered Tommy's question. Greta almost allowed herself to start believing again. Then she remembered what her marriage had been like. "Why, Tommy? Because you were a jerk. That's why."
Greta saw the hurt in Tommy's eyes. "I'm sorry, Tommy. But you're not being a jerk tonight."
They ordered two espresso and a tartuffo. The bill came to sixty-two dollars. Since fencing the Tag Heuer earlier in the day, Tommy had spent some of his cash, but he knew he still had nearly two hundred twenty-five dollars. He made a big show of pulling cash out of his pocket. Eight dollars and forty-seven cents.
"I don't know what happened, Greta. I should have nearly two hundred-twenty five dollars here."
Greta reached into her purse and found just enough cash to pay the bill. "Leave the tip, okay, Tommy?"
Tommy put six bucks on the table. Greta looked at him and said nothing. He could feel himself beginning to get angry. "It's plenty," he said.
A Remarkably Jolly Afternoon
"O'Malley!" Jack Cambrian barked into the telephone. "You weren't at the mall yesterday."
Cassie cupped her hand over the receiver and looked across the table at Cheyenne. "It's my boss."
"What's that, O'Malley? I can't hear you."
Cassie turned her attention to the telephone. "I skipped a day." She turned away from the phone and whispered to Cheyenne. "It's not like one day at the mall is any different than the others."
"Listen to me, O'Malley. I want you back at the mall today."
Cassie imagined she heard something in Jack Cambrian's tone. "Okay, but why don't you tell me what this is about? What's your interest in the mall?"
Jack Cambrian considered telling her the truth. "How many people you figure will go to the mall today?"
Cassie thought about the mass of Christmas shoppers. "Thousands, I guess."
"That's right, O'Malley. And a lot of them read magazines. So get me a good story about Christmas at the damn mall." Jack Cambrian hung up the phone.
Cassie sipped her coffee and signaled the waitress for a refill.
"Are things any better with your boss?" asked Cheyenne.
"Not really. How are things with your parents?"
"I was telling my mother about the last council meeting, and you know what she said? She said, you're not going to believe this, she said, 'It's nice you found a hobby.' A hobby." Cheyenne shook her head in resignation. "Moms."
"I saw a few minutes of your hobby on TV this week. It seems like you've got things pretty much under control."
"Yeah, mostly. The town's in good shape. My family . . . that's another thing entirely. I'm taking my mother shopping today." Cheyenne chuckled. "I must be crazy."
"The mall?" Cassie asked.
Cheyenne nodded.
"That's it!" Cassie laughed. "I'll do a feature about the mayor going Christmas shopping."
When Tommy V. returned to the Mall of New Jersey following his day off, he arrived early and parked right up by the door. He was supposed to park in the offsite employee lot, but he was a Santa with a plan. He retrieved a large bag from the back seat of the car and entered the mall. During his first break of the day, Santa strolled around the first floor of the mall, choosing his marks with care and deliberation. When an elderly lady asked him if he knew where the bathrooms were, Santa boosted a small ceramic vase even as he gave her directions. She thanked him for his help and hurried down the hall to find the toilet. Santa stashed the vase in his bag. Ho! Ho! Ho! He swiped an MP3 player from a teenage girl talking on her cell phone and a tennis bracelet from a young mom arguing with her toddler. He grabbed a couple of DVDs from a middle-aged gentleman in a business suit and a pair of earrings from the businessman's assistant. Each item made its way into Santa's bag of gifts, and each time the owner failed to take note of the loss.
