“We’ve got to get together and continue out discussion on St. John,” Joe deadpanned.
Fredericks looked up, his mouth agape. “It would be my…,” he paused, “You don’t mean a word of it.”
Slapping the five-iron against his leg, Joe broke into a smile. “Detective Lieutenant, I’m insulted.” He handed Fredericks the photo of Rebecca Swedge.”
“Who’s the kid?”
“Preston Swedge’s adopted daughter Rebecca. Died after being hit by a car,” Joe said. “I want you to do me a favor and dig up the accident report and death certificate.”
“When did she die?” Fredericks asked, screwing up his face.
“December 1951, I think.”
Fredericks was on his feet. “You’re kidding. Those records aren’t computerized. I’ve got five cases— four burglaries and a suspected hate crime that has everyone and his sister screaming. I don’t have the time or the resources to go on scavenger hunt. ”
Joe lit a Marlboro despite the “No Smoking” signs throughout the building. “You forgot Mrs. Fox and the great garbage can caper.”
“Why the interest?” Fredericks placed a metal wastebasket on his desk.
Joe took the hint, flicking ash into it. “Part of my therapy. My therapist thinks acting like a cop will lead to getting back into a productive life.” The burning sensation returned to his chest. He crushed the cigarette inside the wastebasket.
Fredericks sighed. “Bullshit, more bullshit, and truckloads of bullshit. Your master degree should be in bullshit.” He drummed on the desk with his fingers. “Give me a couple of days.”
“I need two other things,” Joe said, resuming the tone of Fredericks’ boss. “Run a DMV check for the license of Jacob or Jake Rothstein and check Ted Steele for a long shot.”
Fredericks removed his 9mm Glock from its shoulder holster. “Get out of here before it gets messy.”
Joe tapped the desk with the club. “Appreciate it.”
“Alice! I’ve got a job for you,” Fredericks called.
Joe stopped at Alice’s desk. “He has a Hustler under his desk,” he said, cupping a hand over his mouth.
“I thought so.” Alice gave Joe a hug. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Joe fought back a tear. He missed Alice and the damn job. What he didn’t miss was Willard Saurbraun standing in the hall with his hands on his hips. Gripping the five-iron, he advanced toward his ex-chief.
“What in hell are you doing here?” Saurbraun demanded. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Saurbraun’s begrudging acquiescence to Joe’s disability claim included a pledge by the injured cop to stay away from headquarters—no Christmas parties, commendation ceremonies, or dropping by for a cup of coffee. “Advocating for all the missing garbage cans in town. Garbage cans have inalienable rights of government protection. Where’s the public outcry?” Joe said as he drew even with Saurbraun.
Saurbraun took two steps back. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch.”
“No Chief, I’m a romantic.” Joe said, visualizing the anger switch. Oh how he wanted to throttle the bastard. He faced the security camera that had captured the confrontation. Without a word, the gate opened.
Joe blew a kiss to the civilian dispatcher and exited the building glad not to have run into any other familiar faces. It wasn’t the forced small talk but the questions behind the looks. Word of his falling into the bottle had traveled through the Department. He didn’t know if it was blabbered by Fredericks or Fielder, but a rumor about a botched suicide by overdosing on pain pills smacked of Chief Willie.
Joe lit a cigarette, watching Saurbraun get into his unmarked cruiser. Joe followed in the Volvo, keeping two car lengths behind for the quarter mile trip on Broad Street to the center of town. He didn’t need to follow Chief Willie under the railroad overpass. For ten years, Tuesday meant an afternoon kickback with a woman in a duplex near the 7-Eleven. Joe found it ironic that the man who restricted hiring black officers to one “nigger” to police the rundown section near the vehicle inspection station had a girlfriend the color of brown sugar.
A plethora of “FOR RENT” signs and vacant storefronts lined the shopping district. The movie theater had shown its last flick the month before. “Seedy,” Joe said to himself. Making a right turn onto Prospect Street, he pulled into the municipal parking lot, a half block up the street from Forno’s Restaurante. The lot was full of bargain hunters picking through the remains of The College Shop, a family business slated to close after sixty years. Once a destination store for kids going away to school, it had lost its edge to the hip fashion places in the mall. Circling the lot, he found a spot between a BMW and a British racing green Jaguar with LBI decals plastered on the rear window. LBI was the place at the Jersey shore where those in the know had summer places to booze it up and barbeque. The Jag belonged to his sometime friend and attorney Mel Katz.
He shifted the Volvo into park. He hadn’t spoken to Katz for six months since the former county prosecutor suggested a stint in a re-hab facility might save his life and his marriage. With scant inches between the cars, Joe twisted his legs to get out, knocking a sandwich bag of change to the pavement from a pouch in the door.
Bending to pick up the fistful of coins brought him eye level to a pair of shapely legs camouflaged by shear gray stockings. “How’s my favorite lingerie shop owner?” Joe asked, pushing himself upright with the five-iron.
Kim Angreen, a pixyish five-two and no more than a hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet brunette, locked an arm around his waist. “Joseph Henderson, where the fuck have you been?” She let out a hearty laugh.
A good ten years his junior, Kim had that special something— beauty, ribald sense of humor, and brains. Over the years, they had shared coffee and cigarettes at the local hash house and an occasional round of golf. Joe often wondered what might have been in another time and place. “Mostly nowhere,” Joe replied. He put the bag on the seat, locking the car with the key remote. “I saw the sign in the window.”
“When my lease is up at the end of next month, I’m going on vacation. I can’t compete with Victoria’s Secret,” Kim said with a glint of remorse. “I tried, but I can’t cover the overhead.” She was one of many local merchants drowning in the rising tide of escalating rents. When a coast-to-coast music chain was willing to pay ten times the rent than an existing bagel shop, the handwriting was scrawled on the brick walls for the mom and pops. The landlords were holding out for their ships to sail in with both the Golden Goose and the pot of gold.
“Elm Street won’t be the same,” Joe said.
Pitching a half-eaten apple into a trashcan, she said, “I heard about Elaine.”
“Shit happens,” Joe replied. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
Kim wrinkled her nose, but didn’t say anything. They walked to the corner stepping around a young fashionably dressed white woman in a pink jogging outfit and her Jamaican woman pushing a baby in a stroller. “What’s the difference between an au pair and a nanny?” Joe asked Kim as they stopped at the crosswalk.
“The level of education?” Kim guessed.
Joe shook his head. “Nannies come from Jamaica with their belongings stuffed in a two dollar suitcase. Au pairs come from Sweden fully loaded with large chests and blonde hair.”
“I think I know the source of all your troubles,” Kim said. “You weren’t breast fed.”
“Bingo! That’s what my shrink said. I’m supposed to make up for lost time,” Joe said, crossing his eyes. Broad Street lunch hour traffic was routinely heavy. One of the Downtown Association’s pet projects had been placing traffic cops on the busiest corners. Prospect Street was penciled into the duty schedule six days a week. “Officer, I have a pressing appointment,” Joe called, stepping off the curb.
“Stay on the sidewalk!” the uniformed officer barked.
Joe looked at Kim, mustering a shrug of his shoulders. “Doesn’t he know that I’m the hero cop? Damn rookie.”
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p; “Doesn’t look like he’s old enough to shave,” Kim cracked.
The cop held up both hands, stopping traffic. A Lexus screeched to a halt, drawing a glare. “Cross.”
Joe slipped his arm under Kim’s, escorting her across the street. Kim stopped ten feet from the entrance to Forno’s. “I make a mean filet mignon.”
“Is that an invitation?” Joe asked.
“Not until I give you the time.” Kim paused, “Seven-fifteen.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Joe said.
Kim squeezed his arm. “Like you said, shit happens.”
Forno’s, located between Shoes-Like-Nu and Country Corners Home Furnishings, became the official meeting place for the Downtown Association for one good reason: Carmine Forno declared the food was on the house along with the use of the private party room. That was when the original number of members totaled an even twelve. The present roll numbered thirty five, and Carmine was negotiating for relief. He needed ten dollars a head or the Association could go back to the YMCA.
Carmine ran the kitchen, but Mama, as his wife Savina was called by anyone who stepped through the door more than once, stood guard over the cash register.
“I’ve got to sit with the women. I’ll see you later,” Kim said, stepping into the restaurant.
“It’s our little secret,” Joe said, placing his index finger to his mouth. He didn’t understand why the delectable package in her Burberry tailored suit never had been swept off her feet by some lucky guy.
“I don’t believe it,” Mama said, moving around the counter. Mid-sixties, statuesque in a black silk dress complete with a strand of pearls that reached the apex of her ample cleavage, she clasped Joe around his neck, giving him a kiss on each cheek. “Joe, you better never stay away so long.”
Joe kissed her olive toned hand. “I promise.”
“I have to tell Carmine you’re here,” Mama said. “Isabel, take the counter.” She disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging door. Four preschool girls gnawed on pizza slices, finger painting the table with fruit juices and soda while their stick thin mothers debated the advantages of one private school over another.
Forno’s was divided into two sections: paper plates and pizza to the right of the register; linen tablecloths and leather bound menus to the left. Joe meandered through the empty dining room. His entering the rear private room drew curious looks and a smattering of sarcastic applause. Four chaffing dishes and two large glass salad bowls occupied a rectangular table against the wall to the right of the entrance. Six round tables set with Forno’s fine china and lead crystal were dispersed around a ten by twenty hardwood dance floor. Oil paintings of Rome, Venice, and Florence adorned the walls.
Mel Katz sitting alone at a table for eight pointed to a chair next to him. Joe wandered over. “Let’s see some identification,” Katz joked, working on a plate of baked ziti and chicken Marsala.
Joe gave him the middle finger. “I’m still waiting for your return call,” he said with mild irritation, pulling out a chair.
Taking a bite out of a piece of bread, Katz said, “It’s on my to-do list for this afternoon. What’s so important?”
Joe plucked a breadstick from a vase in the center of the table. “Elaine e-mailed her desire for a divorce.”
Katz buttered his bread. “Intentions are nothing until the sheriff serves the papers. Women like to talk.”
“Not much of a crowd,” Joe said, looking at the tables with vacant seats.
“The Downtown Association is in a state of flux. Seventy-five percent attendance is a rousing success.” Katz took a sip of water. “Why today?”
“I assume you mean why did I come to the meeting after not attending for a year?” Joe said, fiddling for a cigarette in the inside pocket of his sport jacket.
“Forget about lighting up. Mama’s got new rules—no ringing cell phones and no smoking. To answer your question, yes,” Katz said.
“I could use help with financial planning,” Joe said, drawing a skeptical look from Katz. There were several faces he didn’t recognize. “Which one’s Hargrove?”
“The three piece suit sitting next to Barry Martinson.”
Owner of a haberdashery shop known for designer labels and astronomic prices, Martinson was the Association president and also a force at the Westfield temple. Well over six feet, his swept back black hair highlighted with splashes of gray at the temples made him a dead ringer for the late actor Caesar Romero. Lester Hargrove was a rather nondescript, balding middle-aged man looking as if he stepped out of the 1930s with his blue pinstriped three-piece suit and watch bob.
“What’s his deal?” Joe asked.
“Les is a tax attorney with a practice heavy in estate planning. He’s lived and practiced in town since 1960, kind of quiet, stays to himself, a good guy,” Katz said, wiping his mouth. “You better get something to eat before the meeting starts.”
Joe rose. “You wouldn’t be related to Harold Katz by any chance?”
Katz held his fork two inches from his mouth. “Where’s he from?”
“Brooklyn. He owned a deli in the 1930s.”
“Not to my knowledge. Where do you come up with this stuff?” Katz finished his last bite of ziti. “You sure you didn’t suffer a head injury in addition to your leg?”
“Just asking,” Joe said. He made his way to the buffet, surveying the choices of ziti, chicken Marsala, and sausages with peppers. Scooping a ladle of each onto his plate, Joe wondered if Carmine assembled the buffet from the previous night’s leftovers.
Kim eased behind Joe. “Joe, great to see you,” Martinson said, eyeing Joe’s sport jacket. “Kim, can you believe he’s decided to grace our presence.”
“And I hope to see more of him,” Kim said, delivering a covert pinch to Joe’s rear end.
“Joe,” Martinson said, cutting his chicken piece into four. “You must know Lester Hargrove.”
Joe moved away from the buffet table, extending his hand toward Hargrove. “Actually, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Hargrove, picking at his salad, was locked onto the screen of his laptop computer. He didn’t move either to stand or shake hands. Wires ran from the laptop to a projector focused on the wall behind. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Henderson, Joe Henderson.”
Hargrove stared at Joe. “Ruth Ritchie told me you removed the papers from the basement in the Swedge house.”
Martinson’s ears perked up, looking first at Joe then at Hargrove. “I did, and would appreciate a few minutes at the end of the meeting,” Joe said. Hargrove mumbled something Joe took for the word sure. Joe was sure of one thing— the tax attorney had the social skills of a twelve year old.
Mel Katz pounded the table laughing at one of Bud Kerrigan’s jokes. The undertaker had snuck into Forno’s through the service entrance in the alley behind the restaurant. “Joe’s a man of his word. He said that he would show, and by God he did,” Kerrigan said, squeezing Joe around the shoulders. “I’ve got to grab a bite and scoot. I have a client waiting in destiny’s transporter.”
“Ask Carmine for a doggy bag,” Joe quipped. He re-took the chair next to Mel, sliding the five-iron under the table. Joe relished the lasagna, dipping a piece of bread into the extra sauce he scrapped from the pan. “How’s Kope and Naomi?” he asked Mel.
Mel shook his head. “My aunt is holding her own, but my uncle is failing fast. His eyesight is worse. They’re both eighty-one, I suppose it could be worse.”
“He didn’t do too bad the last time we played golf,” Joe said.
“We’ve got to start the meeting,” Mel said, looking toward Barry Martinson pointing to his watch. Martinson gave the thumbs up. “That was over a year ago, before you turned into a hermit.”
“I have to get off my butt and get over for a visit,” Joe said.
“They’ll be back in two days. Went to D.C. to visit my cousin,” Mel said, again signaling Martinson to begin the meeting.
Barry Marti
nson stood, ringing his water glass with a spoon. “I’d like to introduce Lester Hargrove…”
“Excuse! Excuse!” Carmine Forno called, pushing a cart with two trays of fluted champagne glasses onto the dance floor. He took two glasses from the tray, handing one to Joe. “In honor of Lieutenant Joe coming back from the dead!” They clinked glasses, each downing the Asti Spumante. “Everybody, helpa yourselves.”
Carmine shook hands with Joe, spun on his heels and returned to the kitchen. Toasts and a chorus of He’s a Jolly Good Fellow ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. “It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is…”
“And they say that being an asshole doesn’t pay,” Joe said to Mel. “They love me.”
“Thank you, Barry.” Hargrove cleared his throat three times. “Estate planning should begin…”
Joe turned to Mel. “Lester, the molester. I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Shut up,” Mel whispered. “I can’t concentrate on what Hargrove is talking about.”
Knives and forks rattled in the background. The lights were dimmed. “The graph on the left denotes the taxation rate in 1975. On the right is the current rate. It is easy…,” Hargrove droned on.
Joe checked his watch— twenty more minutes of Hell. “Kope and Naomi graduated from N.Y.U.,” he said to Mel. “Do you know what year?”
“1941. No it was ’42. My aunt was looking at her yearbook the last time I was over,” Mel said. “The man is trying to give a presentation. Are you taking your medication?”
Hargrove’s Power Point presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney’s laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove’s monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause.
“I need to talk to Hargrove,” Joe said.
“I’m going to scoot. If you’re served, call me,” Mel was up an off.
Joe retrieved the five-iron, making his way between well-wishers to Hargrove who was dismantling the projector. “Very informative, Mr. Hargrove,” Joe said. “I wish I had this information years ago.”
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