Bruno was amazed to receive such a wonderful hug from his niece, whom he had not seen in more than three years. Was it the Hanukkah presents? Or just one of life’s little mysteries? Nothing to do but enjoy it. For a minute or two. They were quickly running out of time.
“Mimi, it’s so wonderful to see you.” Bruno returned the hug. He had to be careful. His eyes were tearing up. “Did your mama tell you why I’m here? I wish it were more of a fun visit, but I have to talk to you about the day you found that girl in the meeting house.”
“Oh that? That’s no big deal. Ask me anything you want.”
What a relief. Somebody was actually cooperating. He led Mimi to a soft leather armchair and knelt in front of her so he could take her hands in his upraised palms.
The wolfhound took advantage of this to come over and sniff Bruno’s rear. Then he tried to lick his face. “What’s your puppy’s name, honey?”
Mimi giggled. “Trotsky.”
“Ah, of course. If I were a dog psychic I would have known. Why’d you name him Trotsky?”
“Because the McRaes stick up for the underdog.”
“What about the Cohens?”
“I dunno.”
“Mimi, would you mind if we send Trotsky into exile? Just for a minute or two while we’re trying to do this?”
Judy stepped forward. She still was holding Ernestine in her arms. “I’ll lock him in the TV room,” she offered. “But don’t do anything till I get back. I need to watch every move you make.”
“That’s fine, Judy. I just need quiet.”
He looked at Mimi in the big leather chair. She had dark hair like her mother’s and eyes that were almost black. Her skin was olive-hued, but the excitement had brought a rosy glow to her lips and cheeks. There was no trace of McRae in Mimi’s looks, which gave Bruno a sense of satisfaction.
Judy returned and Bruno again held Mimi’s hands. He told her to close her eyes and try to remember exactly what she saw that morning in the meeting house. He closed his as well and tried to concentrate.
Nothing was coming, so he tried another approach. He told Mimi to fold her hands in her lap. He stood in front of her with his hands about a half inch from her temples. To Judy, it looked as though he was using her daughter’s head as a crystal ball. Whether that was accurate or not, it worked. Incredibly well.
There was a loud zapping noise like lightning and contact was made. At that moment, Bruno had a clear view of the murdered girl, just as Mimi had seen her, disheveled and slumped over on the bench. The suddenness and clarity caused him to cry out. And Mimi cried out too; it didn’t hurt, she reported later, it was just the surprise of something so totally unfamiliar.
Then, just as the noise of Bruno and Mimi’s outburst subsided, there came a furious banging on Judy’s front door.
“Must be that furshlugginer Biff,” Bruno muttered with frustration. He could have used a few more minutes and he tried to reestablish contact with Mimi.
A moment later there was a heavy thud and the explosive sound of splintered wood. In burst McRae. He’d just broken down the door of his own house with a sledgehammer.
Chapter 37
No one could have predicted the outcome of the epic battle between Joey Kaplan, aka Bruno X, Psychic Detective, and William “Mad Dog” McRae. Least of all Bruno himself.
In handicapping the contest, most would have given the advantage to McRae. He was bigger, stronger, meaner. And he was fighting on his home turf. But the reality of street fighting, bar fighting, domestic brawls and other disputes of the non-choreographed or cinematic variety is that they are so physically demanding that all parties—unless they happen to be trained fighters—are exhausted after the first minute. Physical exhaustion leads to mental fatigue, if not downright incapacity. Accidents start happening with increasing frequency, which means that if the bout lasts more than a minute or two, it’s more likely to be decided by luck than skill.
In this case, McRae squandered his home court advantage, right off the bat, by breaking down the door of his own house. Why would anyone do such a thing? Didn’t he have a key?
Of course he did. But it was in his briefcase, which he’d left in the office. It was all Biff’s fault. Back at the 24-plex, Biff hadn’t come to his senses until all the fighting was over. The sage was all over K-Mart, like tourists in Yosemite in August. Biff tried to elbow Bruno to see if he was diggin’ it, too, and then he realized. Bruno had given him the slip.
Biff rushed out to his cruiser and radioed for help. They patched him through to the Chief, who told him to pick him up at the station. On his way to get the Chief, Biff ran into McRae, who asked him what was going on. Biff told him what happened and, before he could do anything about it, McRae hopped into Biff’s Crown Vic and headed home at a recklessly high rate of speed. But without his keys.
The sight of Bruno’s car in his driveway had thrown McRae into a rage, compounded by the realization that he’d left his keys at work. His immediate thought was to look for a weapon. The weapon that came to mind was a sledgehammer, which he knew was leaning against the wall of the garage.
In a matter of moments, McRae had smashed down the door and charged Bruno, screaming, “I told you to stay away from my daughter.” This entrance certainly packed a lot of drama. What McRae didn’t realize was that his adversary had just been watching Flying Panda, Rolling Doughnut 3, which had put him in a very martial-artsy frame of mind. Bruno could imagine himself waiting like a matador until the last instant, then elevating straight into the air, delivering vicious kicks in all directions. No one in their right mind would have thought it possible to actually execute those moves. But just the thought of it kept Bruno loose, which was a tactical advantage in a contest like this. If McRae actually connected with one of his roundhouse blows, it might enable Bruno to avoid serious injury.
By the time McRae burst in, his arm muscles were starting to feel the strain from swinging the heavy sledgehammer around above his head. He charged Bruno, screaming, “I’m gonna squash you like a bug!” As he swung, the head of the sledgehammer got tangled with the handmade chandelier that Judy had spotted in a boutique in Milan, shipped back to the U.S. at considerable expense, and then adapted for U.S. household current at even more expense. All that was destroyed in an instant; in addition, the blow was deflected from Bruno, who was trying to whirl away like a panda shimmying up a bamboo stalk. McRae lost control of the sledgehammer, which slipped out of his hand and flew into the living room, where it smashed the Steinway baby grand.
This delighted Mimi, who was sick of taking lessons, although the noise and destruction were obviously frightening. Judy was furious about the chandelier, apoplectic about the piano, which had been a gift from her parents, and boiling with fury over the front door.
Now she went looking for a weapon and she found the chardonnay bottle. The only problem was, she still had Ernie in her arms. Somehow she found a way to crack her husband over the head, while still sheltering the baby. This momentarily brought McRae to his senses. “I told you not to let him in here,” he stated in an almost conversational tone.
“Shut up, you moron, look what you’ve done to the house. And all this noise is going to wake up the baby.”
Judy’s tone rekindled the rage in McRae. A wounded predator, the adrenalin was spurring him to attack. It might have been Judy, except Bruno made the first move. He was trying to sneak out the hole in the front door when McRae caught him and told him he was going to rip him apart with his bare hands.
Bruno imagined he could spin away from McRae with a magical pirouette. In fact, McRae’s haymaker merely struck him in the forehead, instead of the chin where he’d aimed it.
The blow dazed Bruno and opened a gash that oozed blood. A dull pain filled Bruno’s skull, struggling to get out. But apparently McRae was hurting even more than Bruno. He must have crushed a knuckle from the force of the blow. He was hopping in agony, bent over, holding his injured fist between his knees. “Mimi, get me some ic
e,” he moaned.
“Don’t bother,” Judy countermanded the order. “Get a bucket of ice water to throw on these animals.”
Realizing his movie magic wasn’t working, Bruno tried to slither away. But McRae caught him and put him in a headlock. He fell over and they were both wriggling around on the tile floor of the foyer, amid the shards from the broken chandelier and sharp splinters from the door, trying to deliver and fend off a variety of body blows, sucker punches, knees to the groin, and other low blows.
Trotsky joined in, pouncing, growling—no doubt trying to figure out who the underdog was—and generally adding to the confusion. The baby finally woke up and was crying and Judy continued screaming, “Out of here! I want all of you out of here!”
Bruno had a lucid thought: Where was Biff? How long had it been since he’d left the 24-plex? Surely more than 45 minutes. Biff should have called the cops by now. Surely help was on its way.
But it wasn’t. McRae improvised a move that enabled him to climb on top of Bruno and grip him firmly by the shirtfront. He commenced banging Bruno, head and shoulders, against the floor. Repeatedly. And all the while he was taunting, “How d’you like this, Joey? Let’s see you do something psychic now.”
Now Bruno was praying Biff would show up before it was too late. Poor stupid Biff whom he’d so cleverly left behind at the theater. Where was he now that he needed him to come and biff McRae’s skull with his nightstick? Bruno tried to reach up and get his hands around McRae’s neck to strangle him, but couldn’t get any leverage.
Judy and Mimi were both screaming, the baby was crying, and Trotsky got so worked up he moved in and bit the nearest thing that was moving. It happened to be McRae’s hand. McRae reacted violently. He whipped around to fend off this new threat, and somehow Bruno’s pinky got caught up in his earring. McRae was moving so quickly he ripped the lobe of his ear in half. Distracted with pain, all McRae could think of was he needed to punish Trotsky immediately so the dog would get the proper message. This allowed Bruno to wriggle free.
That’s when the police arrived. Bruno’s prayers were answered. In fact, it was even better than he’d hoped, because it wasn’t just Biff. Chief Black was there too. Biff waded into the fray without hesitation. He collared McRae and immobilized him in a wrestling hold. The Chief stood by Bruno, who was still lying on the floor.
“You get out of here, Black,” screamed McRae. “This is a personal matter.”
“Give us a break, McRae,” said the Chief, smacking the palm of his hand with his nightstick. “You’re disturbing the peace.”
“This man invaded my home when I told him he wasn’t welcome.”
“That’s not true,” Bruno protested. “My sister-in-law invited me in. I needed to see my nieces.”
“Is that right, Judy?” asked the Chief.
She nodded her head with a half-smirk that meant, “Well, I guess you could put it that way.”
The Chief spoke slowly and calmly. “Biff, I think we should book Mr. McRae for breaking and entering. One of the neighbors called to complain and positively identified him as the one knocking down the door with a sledgehammer.”
“Chief, can we really arrest a guy for breaking into his own house?”
“Sure we can. Cuff him.”
McRae sputtered with fury. “Try it, Black, and I’ll sue your ass.”
“Now I’m scared,” said the Chief, getting in his face.
Judy came to life. “Bill, look what you did to our house.” Then louder, “Look what you did to the house.” And even louder, pounding him on the chest, “Shmucko, look what you did to my house!!”
The Chief must have felt sorry for McRae. Or maybe he decided that leaving him here with Judy was the greater punishment. He made discreet gestures to Biff, indicating that he could take the handcuffs off, saying, “On second thought, there’s a big mess here that needs to get cleaned up. Biff, why don’t you watch Bill and make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I’ll take Bruno, er … Mr. X down to the station and deal with him myself.”
Bruno shuffled over to Judy and tried to say goodbye. “Sorry, goodnight, thanks.”
He gave Mimi a hug and a kiss. “You were very brave and what you did tonight was very important.” He patted Trotsky, saying, “Thanks for watching my back, pal. I owe you.”
Judy said, “If you ask me, you owe this entire family. And the best way to repay us is to never, ever, show your face here again.”
Chapter 38
“Do you want to go to the emergency room?”
Bruno had just come out of the washroom at the police station and was drying his face on a paper towel. “Nah. I’ll be OK. Just cuts and bruises.”
“You must be a pretty tough guy.” The Chief seemed amused. “McRae has a busted knuckle, a torn ear and a couple of minor bites. Looks like he was fighting Mike Tyson.”
“He’s a real shmuck.”
“Yeah, well I’m glad you’re OK. That means you can start serving your sentence right away.”
“My sentence?”
“Drunk and disorderly. You get 48 hours to sober up and think things over. Hopefully you’ll mend your ways.”
“But …”
“Biff saw you drinking. I saw you fighting.”
“McRae attacked me. I was defending myself.”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to be at McRae’s house. You promised me you wouldn’t go. Then you ditched Biff.”
“I didn’t know breaking promises was a crime.”
“It is when you break a promise to me. Consider yourself a political prisoner if it makes you feel better. Trust me, it’s for your own good.” The Chief ushered Bruno into a cell. It was a real cage, bars and everything. He confiscated his wallet, watch, keys; shut the door and locked it. “I’ll get someone to pick up your car.”
“So you’re covering your ass. With Mayor Dove and McRae?”
“Don’t forget Biff. You don’t want to get on his wrong side.”
“I see. But what about the investigation? I was right. Mimi was the key. I saw everything. The victim, the setting. Chief, she was wearing clothes. I need to get a reading from her clothes.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can round them up from evidence tomorrow.”
“But Chief, why not now? This could be important.”
“Could be … wait a sec. Here comes Biff now.”
The Chief stepped out into the hallway to confer with Biff, who waited impatiently by the door to the Chief’s office. Biff caught Bruno’s eye and scowled.
“It appears McRae also has a fractured skull,” the Chief announced brightly. “They’ve admitted him to the hospital overnight. Did you hit him over the head with a wine bottle?”
“No, that was Judy. I’m surprised that hurt him; it was only chardonnay.”
“I gotta talk to Biff. Try to get some sleep. You look like you need it.”
“But those clothes …”
“Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”
A few minutes later, Biff came out of the Chief’s office. He was smiling. He walked over to Bruno’s cell and put his hand between the bars. “No hard feelings?”
Bruno struggled to his feet. His head was killing him now and his entire body felt sore. “None on my part.”
“Great,” beamed Biff. “Chief explained the whole thing to me. I’m really impressed. Thanks.” He jingled Bruno’s car keys. “Now I’m going to go get your car and park it in back so it’ll be ready for you when you get out …” Biff caught sight of his best friend on the force and hollered, “Yo, Randy, you pissant. Getcher sorry ass over here and help me with this.” And he walked off whistling.
Another mystery, thought Bruno as he slumped back on his cot. The Chief really had a way with people. Forty-eight furshlugginer hours. Was this his idea of a joke?
Next morning, the Chief did manage to bring the clothes. He fumbled with the evidence tag as he filled out the chain-of-custody information.
Bruno was bleary. “How about a latte?” he
begged. “Starbucks is just down the street.”
“No can do.”
Bruno pouted. “Anyway, what did you say to Biff?”
“I intimated to Biff that you might have hypnotized him, so it wasn’t his fault. No demerits, no blame.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, I may have hinted that he’d get promoted sooner rather than later …”
“Great. I feel safer already.”
The Chief didn’t laugh. He stood there, looking at Bruno. Finally he spoke. “So, are you going to read these clothes?”
Bruno took the piles of clothes and did his best to get a reading from them. No luck. He tried several of his most reliable techniques, to no avail. In the middle of one his best efforts, the noon whistle shrieked from the firehouse and destroyed his concentration. Bruno’s head sunk into his hands in disgust: “I don’t think I can do this while I’m in jail.”
The Chief took the clothes away.
McRae had just been released from the hospital and he came by to gloat. “You’re where you belong.”
“So are you, tough guy.” Bruno didn’t know what that meant, exactly. But it seemed to irritate McRae, which was all that mattered.
“I’m not finished with you. Not by a long shot. You’ll get what’s coming to you. And sooner than you think.”
The Chief heard the ruckus and pushed McRae roughly out the door.
“Kineahora, paskudnyak,” the psychic snarled at the departing figure. “Next time I see you, I’ll be the moyl at your bris.”
The Chief returned, rubbing his hands as though trying to wipe off the taint of touching McRae. “Whatever you said seemed to really get to him. What’d it mean?”
“Kineahora is protection against the evil eye. Whatever McRae wished on me, I sent it back to him—double. Paskudnyak is just what it sounds like: odious, contemptible. And the rest of it, well, I just promised to assist him with the long-overdue mitzvah of circumcision. But my knife’s not gonna be very sharp or clean, and I’m not gonna use any anesthetic.”
The Violet Crow Page 14