The bar was a gaudy place full of television sets tuned to different stations, faux Tiffany lamps, mirrors decorated with Bourbon Street themes, and other inducements to high-spirited fun. Fortunately, the drinks were “industrial strength.” Bruno’s martini filled a 16-ounce glass. He offered to buy one for Biff, but the gambit failed; Biff wasn’t even tempted. He was busy studying the non-alcoholic drink menu, which featured concoctions containing ingredients like peanut butter, honey, peppermint extract, and whipped cream.
Bruno was amazed when Biff actually ordered one of them. This was a good sign, wasn’t it? Bruno asked himself, feeling optimistic.
But the next thing he knew, the young cop was plying him with a list of questions and personal observations pertaining to all things psychic that he’d been storing up ever since Bruno had started working with the force.
“I think psychics are basically con artists,” Biff confided.
“Me too.”
“Do you really?”
“No. But I don’t feel like arguing tonight.”
Biff ignored this and launched into a discourse about what he’d observed about psychics from watching cable TV. While he was speaking, Bruno stole a surreptitious glance under the bar. He noted that the keys were attached to Biff’s belt with some kind of heavy-duty hardware. Not much chance that he’d ever leave them lying on the bar when, or if, he happened to go to the bathroom. And they’d be impossible to pickpocket. He’d have to think of something else.
When Bruno started paying attention again, Biff was still debunking TV psychics. “… they just throw out these general statements that are cleverly chosen to produce predictable responses from most people. Isn’t that how you do it, too?”
Bruno had to admire Biff’s lack of tact. Well, if he wants to get personal, let’s get personal. “Cold reading is kind of a skill in itself,” Bruno responded. “It’s like interrogating a suspect. Don’t you get better results if you ask the right questions?”
“Yeah. But that’s different.”
“What’s different about it?”
“We don’t claim to have magic powers.”
“Neither do I.”
“People think you do …”
“I don’t know where they got that idea. I’m certainly not responsible for anyone thinking that.”
“But you take advantage of the perception. That makes you even more of a con than you already are.”
“OK, OK.” Bruno knew he needed to extricate himself from this conversation—right away. “Anyway, I don’t do cold reading. I find clues that are the residue of people’s emotions. You could think of them as emotional fingerprints or mental DNA. That’s how I found Gussie. The record of his feelings was attached to his briefcase.”
“That’s amazing,” said Biff. “Do you know who killed him?”
“Unfortunately, everything I saw was from Gussie’s perspective. He didn’t know what was happening or why. And he didn’t get a clear look at the people that attacked him. My guess is they were professionals.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s hard to explain. The image of his attacker kept changing. At times it was an alien monster, a mobster, and even his mother. Sometimes there was one assailant. Sometimes two.”
“Doesn’t sound like any professional hit men I ever heard of.”
“I think I was connecting to his fear. The killer must have been very non-descript. He, or they, did it without emotion. So Gussie’s mind supplied the details.”
“That part isn’t really psychic, is it? It’s more deductive.”
“Intuitive, maybe? I don’t know exactly how it works. But I do know that I can pick up clues that are too ephemeral for you guys to spot. But then we have to work together to anchor them to physical evidence.”
“Wow. That’s really cool. Why don’t you try to get that reward from the Amazing Randi? One million bucks just for passing his test? No other psychic is willing to take him up on it. But you’re the real thing.”
Bruno sighed deeply. He hated answering questions like these. He really had to find a way to ditch Biff. Just to preserve his sanity. “It wouldn’t work. I can’t pick up anything when I’m in a hostile environment. I need subjects that cooperate. Or at least leave me alone. Speaking of which, why don’t we get those movie tickets …?”
He really needed to find a way to get to Judy’s house and interview Mimi before McRae, that shmuck, figured out the service of process was fake and went home.
Chapter 35
Connoisseurs of the cinema in the South Jersey suburbs do not patronize the Loews 24-plex across from the Berry Hill Mall. They prefer the Ritz, in spite of its obscure location in Voorhees Township. Although the selection of movies is probably 80% identical in the two places, the ambience at the Ritz is not designed to attract mall rats, as it is at the 24-plex. The floors in the auditorium do not feel sticky from spilled soft drinks. And the lobby does not have a carnival atmosphere like the one at Loews with garish lighting, plenty of mirrors, action/adventure games lining the walls, and junk food. As it lacks the elements that teenagers find so appealing, it also lacks teenagers. Which has a certain appeal for serious moviegoers.
Bruno didn’t realize this when they decided to catch the movie at the 24-plex. But as soon as he saw the lobby, he knew they’d come to the right place. Biff seemed to be in his natural element. His already formidable chest and shoulders seemed even more pumped up than usual, and his eyes darted greedily from shooting games to car chase games to intergalactic strategy and warfare games.
Biff waited in one line for popcorn. Bruno stood at the opposite end of the counter and purchased about a half-dozen giant-sized boxes of candy. Something made him choose two boxes of Milk Duds, one gigantic box of Almond Joy, and an equally large package of Dots. He quickly stuffed these into his pants and jacket pockets, before Biff could see what he was doing.
When the film finally started rolling, Biff seemed edgy and restless. The historical setup took a while. There was too much jawing and court etiquette, too many funny costumes. But when an unprincipled warlord sent his thugs to waylay the sage and his entourage, a gigantic battle ensued. Bruno could tell that Biff was studying each and every move. Even the impossible ones that were obviously generated by computer. Like when the sage jumped vertically 20 feet in the air and then started delivering a flurry of kicks and sword thrusts as he corkscrewed softly to the ground.
And this is a guy who thinks psychics are cons, thought Bruno to himself. He waited a bit, however, until the story reached present-day L.A. and the sage was going to have to take on an entire street gang single-handedly. “Gotta pee,” he mumbled and got up to go as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Biff almost fell for it, but then recovered in time. He tore himself away from the movie and accompanied Bruno to the men’s room.
They had the place to themselves, and Bruno took his time, talking to Biff about this and that while he performed at the urinal. Biff went as well, but didn’t try to keep up his end of the conversation. Bruno thought that was a good sign.
When they found their places again, the street gang had been subjugated and, naturally, had decided to adopt the Chinese sage/martial artist as their leader. Then there was some confusing business about evil corporate types, who were deliberately selling faulty GFI outlets to orphanages in the Third World. Then the sage rescued K-Mart from a gangbang, but he had to fight her, too, before he could win her heart. They engaged in a dramatic confrontation, which, according to some critics, borrowed choreography from Swan Lake, substituting jabs and kicks for relevés and entrechats.
Bruno knew this was the moment. He uttered a low groan, “unnnhhhh,” and punched Biff on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. When you gotta go …”
“You just went,” Biff protested.
“C’mon,” Bruno grabbed at his arm to hurry him along. “Gotta go now.”
In the bathroom, there was a small group of 13- to 15-year-olds, combing their hair
, talking trash, and practicing their own karate moves. They were dressed in the latest rapper-approved fashion, but they were clearly harmless suburban kids.
Bruno hurried into one of the stalls and locked the door. The kids laughed that he’d come with his own armed guard. They also razzed Biff, who was not amused.
The psychic went to work. He started moaning and grunting like someone struggling to move his bowels. Then he made a noise like thunder as he dropped the entire package of Almond Joy into the toilet bowl.
“Diss-gusting!” cried one of the teenagers in a doo-rag and a green jersey with the name McCoy across the shoulders. His face wrinkled in pain, then broke out in a huge grin.
Inexplicably a stench filled the bathroom, as Bruno primed himself for the next bombing run. Was someone else in here, using another stall? Or was it a psychic artifact? Encouraged, Bruno revved up the sound effects for an even bigger strain. This time he emptied two giant boxes of Milk Duds into the bowl simultaneously. After the splashes, he moaned piteously. “I think it was the jalapeño poppers back there at the saloon.”
The boys roared with laughter—even as their faces reflected total nausea. “You better go in there and help him, bro,” they said to Biff, who couldn’t believe his misfortune. He sensed that Katarina Martinez was about to get naked and here he was in the bathroom, keeping an eye on—what—a colleague with dysentery? What was he doing here?
Bruno started winding up for a new round of moans. Everybody knew what was coming. In fact, Bruno was getting the Dots ready for a strafing run. He muttered piteously, “This could take a while.”
That did it for the kids. “Total gross-out, man. Let’s go back and see what Emily and Natilda are doing. Even they ain’t so disgusting as this is.”
That left Biff standing there by his lonesome. He looked at Bruno’s scrawny legs under the stall door with his pants pulled down around his ankles. Where was the psychic going to go in his condition? It was stupid to wait around. “Can I trust you?” he asked softly. “I think you need your privacy and I’d just as soon go back to the movie.”
A handful of Dots splashed like machine gun fire peppering the surface of a placid lake. Bruno’s moan had become a high-pitched sob. “I’ll be OK. I’ll be lucky if I’m not here all night.”
“OK,” said Biff, running for the door. “I’ll look for you back in the theater.”
It was all Bruno could do to force himself to wait a full minute, to make sure the coast was clear. Then he ran like hell. He figured he had about 45 minutes to get to Mimi’s house and talk to her before Biff realized what had happened and called in the report.
Chapter 36
Why would a woman like Judy Cohen stay married to an arrogant shmuck like Bill McRae? People act like this is some big mystery, but in fact it’s pretty simple.
Judy was the eldest of three sisters, all overachievers, daughters of ambitious, education-endorsing, Depression-era Jews. As a Bryn Mawr grad, and a product of Jefferson Medical School, there was no question of her intelligence, her endurance, or her ability to make decisions under pressure.
So why settle for someone like McRae, when she could have had someone smarter, more sensitive, providing emotional support, a more compatible background, and a better income? In short, why didn’t she marry a good Jewish boy, there were so many nice ones available?
The reason, to be perfectly blunt, is that Judy Cohen was even more arrogant than her husband, though possibly less of a fool. She needed a man with a thick hide; otherwise the poor jerk would be pulverized by her. No Jewish men from families who have been in America a generation or more have this quality any longer, though many have been destroyed in the vain attempt to prove that they do.
Judy had always liked Bruno. She found him amiable, eccentric. She enjoyed hearing about his misadventures—from a distance. She’d also thought he was a terrible match for her sister and never hesitated to say so. McRae had liked to think of himself as the virtuous defender of … what? He was too sophisticated to use terms like “morality” or “virtue.” Instead he talked about what was “right,” or “just,” or when he was really inspired, “appropriate.” He liked to brag that he “could have made four times as much working in a law firm,” as if that made him a better person. Never mind that Judy’s income more than made up the difference.
According to McRae’s worldview, Bruno’s behavior wasn’t appropriate. He wasn’t a proper husband. He didn’t fit in with the family. He was a bad influence on the kids. He deserved it when Sharon cheated on him and divorced him. And if McRae had to break his skull to teach him a lesson, Bruno should thank him for the privilege.
Thankfully, Judy was a bit more rational. Once her baby sister was free of Bruno’s lunatic influence, she knew there was nothing to worry about. It gave her a leg up on her sister to be on friendly terms with “the ex.” She’d have welcomed Bruno’s attention to the kids, as it would’ve given her another potential babysitter.
Her acceptance of Bruno further enraged Bill, and his anger gave her additional leverage over her husband. So Judy invited Bruno in for a glass of wine when he appeared, panting, at her door.
“Been a while,” she noted laconically.
It was only then Bruno realized he hadn’t planned what he would do or say once he made it to Judy’s house. He couldn’t just blurt out, “Where’s Mimi? I need to interrogate her.” On the other hand, every second counted.
As Judy rummaged through the fridge, looking for an open bottle of chardonnay, Bruno said the first thing that came into his head: “Judy, you look fabulous.” And she really did. She was decked out in a smart, close-fitting wool dress, accessorized with a stunning gold brooch and matching earrings. Her dark eyes were expertly made up so there was no trace of wrinkles or signs of sleep deprivation in the young mother.
“Joey, you can’t be serious. I’m up until all hours with the baby. It’s even more exhausting than being on call. Fortunately I’m on extended maternity leave. Which is wonderful. I’m also using the time to catch up on some of my board work.”
“Judy, I’m in trouble,” Bruno said.
“Nothing surprising there. Actually, I’ve been reading about you in the paper. Quite a nasty little drama we have going on here in Gardenfield. I’ve been telling Bill we should move back to the Main Line; it actually seems safer.”
“Judy, I need to see Mimi. It’s urgent.”
“I knew you’d ask that.”
“So what’s your answer? I hear she still upset, which is understandable, and I promise …”
“Is Bill still going around saying she has PTSD?” Judy scowled.
“Yeah. He’s totally belligerent.”
“He’s just trying to protect his family, but I don’t want us—and Mimi especially—to become objects of pity.”
“So Mimi’s all right? Is it OK to talk to her? I promise it’ll be a nice little mazel for her and we’ll all get naches from it.”
“Since when do you speak Yiddish, Joey? I don’t know. Bill …”
—“Bill’s not here right now, and he won’t be back for a while. Something came up at the office tonight …”
“How do you know that?” Judy started.
“I was downtown earlier, with the police …” Bruno fibbed, though the statement was literally true.
“Let me think about it. I’ll show you the baby.”
Bruno was chafing to see Mimi. He looked at his watch. He had maybe 10 minutes until the police showed up. Admiring the baby was the price of admission. Not much, really, under the circumstances. It was just that the clock was ticking.
Judy led him to the nursery, which was fully equipped, to say the least. The bedroom looked like a combination of the Mayo Clinic and FAO Schwarz.
The baby was sleeping soundly, but Judy picked her up. A tactical error in Bruno’s opinion. He could have easily admired her in the crib. There wasn’t much to see in any case. She was swaddled in a fleece sleeper and she had a nightcap. She was a healt
hy kid equipped with generic features—golden hair, round face, fat cheeks and upturned nose—that would modulate into individual attributes as time went by.
“Can I hold her?” Bruno whispered.
Judy handed him the sleeping child. She struggled to get comfortable in Bruno’s arms, but didn’t wake up. He guessed she weighed about 20 pounds. “How old is she?” he whispered.
“Forty-nine weeks,” answered Judy, glowing with pride. Bruno wrestled with the math, then realized she was just shy of her first birthday. Why did parents have to be so precise?
“She’s an angel,” Bruno cooed. “Does she have a name?”
“Of course she has a name. Ernestine,” said Judy proudly. “We named her after our favorite singer, Ernestine Anderson.”
“Ernestine Cohen-McRae,” sang Bruno, bouncing the child slightly in time with the refrain. “Sort of a mouthful.” Bruno chuckled. “I’m gonna call you Ernie. Beautiful little Ernie. Ernie the Angel.”
It’s hard to get too upset when someone is calling your daughter a beautiful angel, but Judy tartly informed Bruno that no one was ever going to call her child “Ernie” and live to tell about it. It was Ernestine, plain and simple.
“Beautiful little Ernestine,” Bruno acquiesced, handing the baby back to her mother, humming, “Look out, baby, you might’a made your move too soon …”
“Bill wanted a boy,” Judy explained vaguely. “He still does. But it’s not going to be Ernestine and I’m never getting pregnant again, so he’ll just have to …” She noticed Bruno’s expectant look and realized she didn’t have to finish the thought. “I’ll go get Mimi,” said Judy. “She’s downstairs watching TV.”
A moment later, an excited eight-year-old in flannel pajamas decorated with Dalmatians wearing fire helmets bounded up the stairs and threw herself in Bruno’s arms. She was followed by a lanky creature the size of a small giraffe, which turned out to be the Cohen-McRaes’ Russian wolfhound.
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