Veronica walks over to the door and turns the lock. It’s impossible to tell if she’s locking me in or locking other people out.
“I came to ask you out to lunch. Then I saw you vacuuming. And you only vacuum when you’re tense. So…” She turns toward me and smiles. “I thought of a better way to relieve your tension.”
I look anywhere but at her. If I look at her I’ll see her body and if I see her body my body will get all excited and then our bodies will get excited together and she’ll win. I pull on the cord, but that just reels her in closer to me. She doesn’t stop until we’re nose to nose. She drops the cord.
“Don’t do this to me,” I say.
“Do what?” she breathes in my ear.
“That. Don’t do that.”
“Can I do this?” she says, taking my right hand and placing it on her breast.
“No. I don’t want you to do that either,” I say. But I don’t move my hand. My brain tells it to move, but it disobeys the command. My hand is a traitor.
“How about this?” she asks, placing my other hand on her butt.
“That either,” I whimper. Now my other hand declares mutiny as it caresses her silk panties.
She nibbles on my earlobe. “How about this?”
I gulp.
Her tongue flicks my ear. Twice. Three times. I groan.
“Somebody might walk in,” I protest.
“I locked the door,” she says, unbuckling my belt. She pushes my pants to the floor.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll do all the work.” She kneels before me and I know I’m a goner.
Veronica was right. She did get rid of my tension. I step into my pants as she wiggles into her tight skirt. I’m overwhelmed with guilt. For some reason, I never can say no to Veronica’s advances. Her voluptuous body is my kryptonite. In order to assuage my guilt I pick an argument. “When are you going to get a girlfriend?”
“I have one,” she says. “You.”
“How many times do I have to tell you we broke up?” I sit behind my desk.
“No, you broke up. I thought we had an argument,” she says. She pulls on her silk shirt and buttons it crookedly. I don’t tell her. Call me passive-aggressive.
“No, we definitely broke up. I remember because you had that dalliance with your intern,” I say.
Veronica sits on the edge of my desk and absentmindedly shuffles through my stack of mail. This is one of her favorite tactics as a defense lawyer. Ignore the evidence and it goes away. She says, “By the way, good work on rectifying that gambling situation with the pickle heiress.”
“Speaking of which, we never did discuss my payment for that.”
She raises one eyebrow. “I just paid you. We’re even.”
“I prefer to be paid in cash.”
She raises her other eyebrow. “Really?”
Okay, maybe not. I decide to let it slide. This time.
I yank the stack of mail out of her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t go through my mail. It’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“Why? Are you hiding something?”
“Why would I hide something from somebody that’s not even my girlfriend?”
Veronica shifts gears. “You want to do lunch at that new pizza place on Grand? They have a wood burning oven and do all sorts of Neopolitan pizzas and antipastos. I know how you love that Italian stuff.” She spots a card shaped like a turkey that’s sitting on the edge of my desk. She picks it up.
“Give that back!” I grab for the card, but I’m not fast enough. I get hold of it, but not before she has a firm grip on it. I pull on the card and she pulls on the card and in between grunts, we rip the card in half. She ends up with the half I didn’t want her to see. She hops off the desk and runs to the far corner of the room with it. She looks at it, then looks at me. “Who’s Gloria?”
I shrug and put on my innocent face. “Who?”
“Gloria Lambrusco. She ‘hopes to see you there.’”
“None of your business,” I say.
“I want to know who Gloria is.”
“If you must know, she’s Griffin’s teacher and you are holding half an invitation to his Fall Festival play. Griffin is playing a pivotal role.”
“But why did she send you an invitation?”
“Because I’m his aunt.”
She paces in front of my desk like I’m a witness for the prosecution and she has me on the hot seat. “But why sign it Gloria and write ‘I hope to see you there?’”
“I am not going to be cross-examined by you. Now give me the card.” I hold out my hand.
Veronica grudgingly hands the card over. “Well, even if she does have a crush on you, I don’t see a glorified babysitter as any competition for me.”
“She’s a teacher, not a babysitter. And, if you don’t mind, I have work to do. Case closed.”
Veronica softens and leans over my desk. She makes a kissy-face, which I completely ignore. She pulls back and glares at me. “Fine. Have it your way.” She stalks to the door, turns around and actually throws me a kiss, saying, “I’ll see you later, lover.”
And then she’s out the door.
Thank God.
I rip a long piece of scotch tape out of the dispenser and piece Gloria’s invitation back together. I think about the women in my life. I have a crush on London and I want to bring Gloria home to my mother. And the only one I get to have sex with is the one I don’t want. Just the thought of all this is making me S.A.D.
Twenty-Nine
“Hit me again, bartender,” I say.
Travis slides another chocolate Yoo-Hoo my way. I jab a straw into its box top and suck like my life depends on it. After I’ve injected a lethal dose of chocolate into my bloodstream I belch.
“Nice,” Travis says. “Hashtag: I can’t believe you’re still single.”
I’m sitting at the bar in Burt’s Burlesque in the middle of the afternoon. The same old gaggle of queens preen and exchange barbs in the far corner of the room. I’m working my way through Yoo-Hoo number two and I’m depressed. “I can’t solve my very first big case and it’s only a dognapping. What’ll I do when I have a murder to solve? And I had sex with Veronica again. I have to stop having sex with her. I’m in love with Gloria and I’m in heat with London. What am I supposed to do?”
“Girl trouble…You want my advice?” Travis asks.
“No,” I say. “You’ll just tell me to sleep with them all. I know how your mind works.”
“Fine,” he says snippily. “But I’m not the one crying into my non-alcoholic beverage.”
“I don’t get it, Trav. What’s wrong with me?”
“You want a list or is this where I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut?”
I ignore his remark and continue, “London is gorgeous. You should see her. She has this animal-like magnetism. I drool on myself every time she’s around. You know what’s she’s like? She’s like bacon.”
“Bacon?”
“Yeah, you know how much I love bacon. I could eat bacon for every meal. Every single day. I could gorge myself on bacon. The bad thing is that too much bacon clogs up your arteries and you eventually have a heart attack. Then there’s Gloria. She’s like shells and sauce, my go-to comfort food. She smells like home. You can eat shells and sauce every day for the rest of your life. The only problem is that you might get bored after a while. One day you’ll wake up and find yourself craving lasagna. Or ravioli. And then there’s Veronica. She’s like ice cream. She’s good going down but you always end up with a headache after.” I suck the dregs out of my Yoo-Hoo box. “Don’t pay any attention to me, it’s just the chocolate talking.”
“Your life isn’t so bad,” Travis says. “At least you have three women in your life. Look at me. I don’t have anybody. Now that’s sad. I’m going to end up like one of those old queens over there.”
“Awwww,” I say, patting his hand. “You’ll find somebody, Travis. I kn
ow you will.”
“Enough about our love lives. Let’s just be glad we have each other,” he says. He reaches into the fridge, pulls out another Yoo-Hoo and shakes it up for me.
I wave it away. “I better not,” I say. “I have to drive home.”
He puts the Yoo-Hoo back in the fridge. “So, what’s up with the dognapping case?”
“I’m at a stand-still. I have a photo of the perp, but I can’t find him. He’s not in the mug books and the latest victim doesn’t recognize him. I guess my next step is to use my shoe leather and go door-to-door showing his picture around.”
“Maybe go to the dog park and ask if anybody’s seen him hanging around,” Travis suggests.
“Good idea,” I say. “I can’t believe you thought of that and I didn’t.”
He makes duck lips at me. “Hey, I’m not just another pretty face. What’s this guy look like anyway?”
I pull the photo out of my back pocket and unfold it. Travis takes one look at it and says, “I know him!”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him in here a few times. He’s gay, but in the closet, you know. He hits on guys but never the same one twice.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never talked to him. I stay from that type.”
“What type?”
The type that dresses like a gangster because he probably is a gangster. You know how gangsters wear silk suits, gold jewelry and handmade Italian leather shoes. I figure he’s connected and I don’t want to end up wearing cement foot apparel when I go swimming.”
“You’ve watched The Godfather too many times,” I say. I shove the photo back into my pocket and slip on my trench coat.
“Where you going?” Travis asks.
“I’m going to go talk to my new friends and maybe have a gelato,” I say. “Order me some more Yoo-Hoos. I have a feeling I may need them.” I put my fedora on and head back out into the cold.
Thirty
I’m sitting in my car, parked in front of Giovanni’s World Famous Gelato. It’s freezing cold outside and I’m sweating worse than a whore in church. I’m nervous about approaching the mobsters and when I get nervous I sweat. It’s usually my butt that sweats the most.
The first time I got the butt sweats I thought something was wrong with me. Like maybe I had butt cancer or something. I looked it up on the internet and it turns out it’s a real thing. People, who are prone to high anxiety, actually have butt sweats. It doesn’t make it any less humiliating, but at least I know I’m not alone.
I pop open the glove box and pull out a handful of paper napkins. I shove them down the back of my pants and do my best to dry off. I don’t want to go talk to mobsters with ugly sweat stains on the seat of my pants. That would be embarrassing. Embarr-ASS-ing. Just the thought of that makes me sweat even more. It’s a vicious cycle.
I put the wadded-up napkins in my automobile trash container. I notice the only trash in the container is wadded up butt sweat napkins. I must have the butt sweats more than I realize. The trash is proof. I climb out of my car. I hope I can get indoors before my butt ices over.
The cold wind blows me through the front door and I haven’t even taken off my hat before Frankie, the leader of the three goombahs, says, “Well, well, well, look who’s here. If it ain’t our new friend.” He was in the middle of eating a big bowl of gelato and his tongue must be frozen because his words came out sounding more like, “Bell, bell, bell, book whosth beer.”
I pasted on my biggest smile and sauntered up to the table where he was sitting with his two henchmen, Jimmy and Dumbshit. “I was worried you might’ve forgotten me,” I say.
“I would never,” he says. “I can’t forget Bella, I can’t forget her daughter. Hey,” he calls out to the owner, Giovanni, who is standing behind the counter, “Get Jamie here a bowl.”
Giovanni is wearing another velour jogging suit. This one is burgundy. “What kind?” he asks me.
“Caramel and sea salt, you know, if you have it.” I love the mix of sweet and salty. Plus, maybe the salt will make me retain water and my butt won’t sweat so bad. “And extra napkins,” I order. That’s just in case my butt continues to sweat.
“We just got a new shipment in,” Giovanni says, holding up a scooper.
“Just like your mother,” Frankie says. “That was her favorite.”
He really did have a crush on my mother to recall that after all these years. He looks moony-eyed, too. I’m hoping that’s a good thing, something I can use to my advantage.
Giovanni ambles over and slaps a bowl of gelato on the table. I smile at him. He grunts and walks away. Jimmy gets up and drags a chair over to the table. He’s wearing a plum-colored silk suit with an orange tie. I guess fruit colors are now in style. To me, he just looks like Willy Wonka. I sit.
I get the first bite of gelato in my mouth. It’s good. Frankie looks up from his bowl and says, “So, how ya been?” The other two goombahs stare at me, waiting for my answer.
I clear my throat and say, “I’m okay. Except… I kind of got a problem. I was hoping you could help me out.”
“You come to the right place,” Frankie says. “We’re problem solvers. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Jimmy nods. Dumbshit looks puzzled. “But, boss, I thought we was mobsters.”
Without looking up from his bowl of gelato, Frankie reaches across the table and whaps Dumbshit upside the head. “How many times do I gotta tell you that we’re in waste management.”
Dumbshit shakes his head. Probably trying to get the cobwebs out. I pipe up, “My father’s in waste management.”
Frankie looks at me.
“He’s a garbage man. Retired.”
Frankie chuckles. “Ain’t that something? Bella tells me she don’t want to marry me because I’m in waste management and then she goes and marries a garbage man.”
“It paid pretty good,” I say. “And it’s union.” Nobody says anything. I eat more gelato.
Frankie shoves his empty bowl aside, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and says, “So what can we do for you?”
I push my own bowl aside and wipe my mouth even though I’m not finished. It seems disrespectful to eat and discuss business. I pull the creased photo out of my pocket and lay it on the table in front of Frankie. “I need to know who this guy is. Do you know him?”
“That depends,” Frankie says. “Is he dead?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did he kill somebody?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What’s he done?” Frankie asks.
“He’s a dognapper. He’s stolen dogs off of four little old ladies. He even hit one. Gave her a black eye and two cracked ribs.”
Frankie shakes his head. “Sounds like Lenny all right.”
“Lenny?”
“Lenny Russo. He’s an ass. Works for the east side mob. Too dumb to climb up, always gets the shit jobs. The cops looking for him?”
I shake my head. “Just me. I work for the old ladies. All I want is the dogs back.”
Jimmy whispers into Frankie’s ear. Frankie looks me up and down for a long moment, then says, “If Lenny’s stealing dogs, he’s probably working for a guy named Beaumont Fontelle.”
“Beaumont Fontelle? The city councilman?”
“That’s him. Fontelle is a big dog show guy. He wants to win the dog show this year. He’s got Lenny on his payroll as a dog groomer.”
“You think maybe they’re stealing their competition so they can win the dog show?”
Frankie shrugs. “That’s where I’d start looking if I was you.”
Dumbshit says, “Auggie’s gonna be real mad, boss. When Auggie finds out, he’s gonna be three kinds of mad.”
“Who’s Auggie?” I ask.
Frankie says, “Auggie’s a capo. My boss. He’s got a Doberman in the show. He’s not going to like it much when he finds out there’s cheating and stealing going on.”
Mob
sters have a strange moral code. They’ll break legs and kill people, but they won’t cheat in a dog show.
“You know, if you catch Fontelle using Lenny to steal dogs, you’d make Auggie real happy and he’s a good guy to have on your side,” Frankie said. “I’ll tell him what’s up. He’ll put you on retainer just for the satisfaction of getting Fontelle in a jam.”
“There’s two things you don’t mess with—money and dogs,” Jimmy says. “I can go have a look over at Fontelle’s place. See if he’s got the dogs holed up there.”
“No, you won’t,” Frankie says. “That’ll tip him off and make him get rid of the evidence.”
“Yeah, I’d like to get the dogs back. Alive,” I say.
“Hey, I know what!” Dumbshit says. “Have Jamie here go into deep cover!”
Everyone narrows their eyes at Dumbshit. He raises an arm in front of his face, preparing to be whapped upside the head again. But, this time, Frankie says, “Hmmm… not a bad idea.”
“Deep cover?” I ask. “Why me?”
“Cuz nobody knows your face,” Frankie says. “You could disguise yourself as a dog show contestant and nobody would be the wiser.”
“Dog show contestant? You want me to wear a dog suit?”
Frankie laughs. “You got a sense of humor just like your mother!”
I don’t tell him I wasn’t joking. Then it dawns on me that he wants me to go into deep cover as a dog owner. “I don’t own a dog.”
“So you go to the pound and get a dog,” Frankie says like it’s easy peasy. “And you get a friend to act as your dog groomer and handler. Then you sign the dog up and nose around Fontelle and Lenny. Make friends with them.”
“I don’t know…” I mutter in a queasy tone. “Don’t I have to have like qualifications and papers and stuff like that to get in the show?”
“Auggie will take care of all that. He’ll get you in. All’s you got to do is get a dog and a groomer.”
I think it over. Travis has been wanting to help me. He’d jump at the chance to go undercover. “Do I get a say in this?” I ask.
Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery Page 13