Sticky Fingers

by Nancy Martin

“I don’t know yet. Maybe one of the old guys thought he could pull off a kidnapping, but screwed up.”

  “And tried to kill Mitchell, too?”

  “I don’t know about Mitchell’s shooting. Seems out of character that Sugar would want him out of the picture. I mean, he was her biggest fan. And he’s useful to her. But maybe he’ll be talking soon, and you can ask him yourself.”

  Bug had forgotten about his coffee. He sighed heavily. “If I round up all the usual suspects from Carmine’s posse, it’s going to look like geriatric week at the station house.”

  “Sorry. It’s the best idea I’ve got.”

  He turned to me again. “How come you’re giving up Carmine? What happened to honor among thieves?”

  I shrugged. “I never cared much for Carmine. If he spends the rest of his rotten life in jail, that’s okay by me.”

  “Does the rest of your family feel the same way?”

  I doubted it. Loretta still cared about him. And Sister Bob did, too.

  Bug said, “Forget I asked.”

  “Okay. Listen, I gotta pee, and I need a shower.”

  He sat up quickly, like a good host remembering his manners. “Sure, right. Come inside. Marie’s making pancakes for the kids.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want any of them to think you’re friends with a scary lady like me. I’ll go home. That is, if you’ll call off the cops waiting there to arrest me.”

  “Roxy—”

  “Really, I’ll be fine. I just need a shower.”

  “I am your friend,” Bug said. “Even if you wear those shoes.”

  I waggled my foot. “You don’t like?”

  He bailed out of the truck, then leaned back inside to take my empty coffee cup. He said, “I’ll call off the cops. Enjoy your shower. Just one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Burn that dress.”

  I flipped him a send-off and started the truck.

  On the way out of Bug’s neighborhood, I thought about how to convince Carmine to tell me who had kidnapped Clarice. I wondered how hard I’d need to lean on the old coot.

  I stopped at the salvage yard to check on Rooney. He was happy to wolf down the kibble I gave him, but seemed just as pleased to get back to gnawing on his bone. I left him to it, and on the drive over the river to my place, I ejected Dooce’s CD and listened to the radio instead. The concert felt like a long time ago.

  At home, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into a hot shower. After a cold, uncomfortable night in my truck, the heat felt good. I washed the gunk that Richie had put in my hair, then lathered it up and washed it again. I tried not to think about Sugar and Clarice, but the whole mother-daughter dynamic floated up in my mind again and again. Had my own mother lived, might I have been moved to hurt her? I kept my head under the stream of hot water in an effort to wash the thought away.

  When I finally shut off the water and opened the shower curtain, Flynn handed me a towel.

  25

  I squelched my surprise, took the towel from him, and stepped out onto the rug like it happened every day. “Did Jane Doe get away safely last night?”

  He leaned easily against the doorjamb, playing it just as cool as I was. “Depends on what you call safe. For Dooce, it was love at first sight.”

  “I have a feeling that happens to him after every concert.”

  “She looked pretty happy, too. I talked to her during the concert—got the whole story. I don’t think you need to worry about her.”

  “Do I need to worry about you?”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “I lost my job.”

  “What?”

  “The restaurant owner fired me.”

  “Jesus, over the soup?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll get another job.”

  “With Dooce,” I guessed, and felt cold inside.

  Flynn wasn’t smiling either. His gaze was dark and intense. “I saw the way he felt you up after the show last night.”

  “That?” I started to towel off. “It was nothing.”

  “Not to me it wasn’t.” He reached out and stopped my hands.

  I knew the look in his eyes. I hadn’t seen it in a while, but I knew it, and it wasn’t just about losing his job.

  I boosted myself up onto the edge of the sink.

  Flynn took the towel from me and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then, watching my face, he parted my knees with his hands, and I let him do it. In the next second he kissed me between my thighs, and I felt a shudder inside. He said my name against my skin. I closed my eyes and slipped my hands around the back of his head to hold him close.

  It had been a long, confusing night. But now I felt as if I was home.

  His tongue was hot and slow and sure, and I caught my breath as every sensible thought emptied out of my mind. I leaned back against the mirror and sucked in as much air as I could hold.

  He still knew how to rock my world.

  After, I took him into the bedroom and peeled off most of his clothes.

  We didn’t talk about Marla. Or his job or Dooce. Or anything else. Mostly, we told each other what to do. What we wanted. Where, how hard, and how fast. It was long and exhilarating, and we lost our heads, got high on each other just like long ago. Eventually we collapsed together, panting and laughing.

  In a while our smiles faded. He said I was softer than he remembered. He was stronger, I told him. I found his shrapnel scars and he traced the burn on my thigh—an accident at work, I said, but it had been candle wax. Maybe he knew I was lying, because he didn’t respond.

  We dozed a little, wrapped around each other in a tangle. When he woke, we started all over again, but slower this time and with our eyes open.

  Whispering.

  In the afternoon, the sun came out and sent a blaze of golden light across the bedroom floor. It didn’t feel as if we’d done something stupid yet. It felt like a climax that had been building for a long time. I didn’t understand it, and maybe it was wrong, but I didn’t want to think about that while the sunlight shone on the floor.

  But finally, I said, “I need to get to a wedding.”

  “Me, too.”

  It was better not to talk anymore. Instead, we took a shower together.

  And then he got dressed, kissed me again, and went down the steps.

  I zipped up my jeans and went out to the top of the staircase. With my heart hammering, I worked up the courage to ask, “Are you going with Dooce?”

  Flynn turned on the landing, but didn’t look up at me. “Maybe.”

  It sounded more like yes. “Is that smart? With all the drugs available?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “And what about Sage?” What about me? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.

  “It’s not forever. Tour goes on hiatus in December for a couple months.”

  “And then?”

  “Europe. Australia.”

  He might as well have punched me in the gut. “Jesus, Flynn. Can’t you go farther away from us?”

  He glanced up at last. “It’s not forever.”

  “Right. It was only sixteen years the last time. Nice of you to drop by. Send a postcard now and then, will you? Sage could start a collection.”

  He said, “Can’t you make things easier? Just this once?”

  “You mean, because you brought me off a few times this afternoon?”

  “Rox—”

  “You want to know something?” I asked. “I switched the bones in your kitchen. It was me.”

  “What?”

  “Rooney stole a bone out of the dinosaur lady’s collection. That’s what you cooked. That was your secret ingredient. Two thousand year-old woolly mammoth marrow, dug up from the permafrost in Siberia. I’m glad to hear it was delicious.”

  He stared up at me. “You did that? On purpose? Roxy, why?”

  “Why not?” The words burst bitterly out of me. “You want to know how miserable you made my life?”

  “So you sabotaged my job?”

  “
You sabotaged my whole existence!”

  He came up the stairs fast and grabbed my shoulders. “How can you say that? You’ve had it good. You had Sage this whole time, all to yourself. What else do you want?” His hands bit into me, and he gave me a shake. “What else do you want?”

  I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t say it.

  He let me go. He cursed and turned away. I tried to reach for him, but I couldn’t make myself do that, either.

  He went down the stairs and out of the house.

  I sleepwalked back to the bedroom and found a bra. Put it on. Then I stood for a while, looking at the dress on the floor with a storm in my head.

  My phone rang, and I saw it was Loretta. My hands were shaking as I opened the phone.

  “There you are,” she said, sounding miraculously friendly. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you coming to the wedding with us? You haven’t forgotten, have you? You’re coming, right? Roxy? Are you there?”

  In the mirror, my face didn’t look like the face of a woman who ought to be in church unless it was for confession. My voice sounded hollow. “Not the ceremony, but I can make the reception. Pick me up?”

  “We’d be delighted.”

  “Do you have a slip I could borrow?”

  “I’ll find one. You’re at home, I hope? Not in jail? I hear you’re an enemy of the whole fire department.” When I didn’t answer she said, “Five o’clock. Be ready.”

  We hung up, and I put my dress on. I went downstairs to find something to eat. I was famished. After a Red Bull and a Slim Jim, I was almost ready to face anything again.

  Even Uncle Carmine.

  I tried calling Adasha to talk to her about Jane Doe, but she didn’t pick up. I left a message on her voice mail, though. I told her I thought Jane was going to be okay.

  At five o’clock, I hear a horn honk outside, so I tucked a lipstick into my bra, grabbed a thick scarf that would have to be enough of a wrap for the night, and went out to see Loretta’s big Cadillac waiting in front of the house.

  Loretta’s face and Sister Bob’s face both goggled at me from inside the car. I opened the rear door and slid into the backseat.

  “My God,” Loretta said. “Put this on, and do it fast before somebody sees you.”

  She tossed the slip over the seat to me.

  Sister Bob turned around as far as her seatbelt would allow. She wore a black suit left over from her days as a nun, but had jazzed it up with a string of green and purple Mardi Gras beads probably from a pre-Lent party. “Holy moly, that’s some outfit you’re wearing, Roxana. What happened? Somebody run over you with a lawn mower?”

  “It’s supposed to look this way. A famous designer made it. Well—he’ll be famous soon.” I kicked off my leopard shoes and wrestled the slip up over my hips. While Loretta drove, I scooched around until I had the slip on under my dress. “Where’s Sage? Isn’t she coming?”

  “She has a date.” Bob rummaged in her gigantic black nun purse and came up with a ChapStick.

  “Oh yeah? Is she with Brian?” I wondered if he was back to driving his Escalade.

  Bob slathered her lips and stowed the ChapStick back in her purse. “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Didn’t she show up at the church?”

  “Hardly anybody goes to the church anymore. It’s all about the reception.”

  I put my hand to my forehead and groaned. “I forgot! I didn’t help deliver all the wedding cookies. Did you manage to move them up to the restaurant in time?”

  “We rented a U-Haul,” Loretta said. “Nooch came over to help this morning, and he was very useful.”

  “He hardly ate any,” Bob added. “But he carried all the boxes for us. He said he was making himself into a magnet. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “More and more.” I slipped my shoes back on and sat up in the backseat. “How was the wedding ceremony at the church?”

  “You should have seen Gino,” Sister Bob said. “It’s the first time I ever saw the father of the bride run up the aisle. Like he had ants in his pants. I’ve never seen a man’s face so red. I think he had a fever.”

  Looking at me in the rearview mirrow, Loretta said to me, “Are you okay?”

  “Gino was sweating like a horse,” Bob went on. “Perspiration was gushing out from under that toupee of his. Something was definitely wrong with that man.”

  “Nothing he didn’t deserve,” I said mildly.

  Loretta frowned into her mirror.

  As dusk fell over the city and lights began to blink on around us, Loretta drove across the bridges and up the winding road to Mount Washington—so named because George Washington himself had surveyed the place where three rivers converged and made what looked to George like a great place to build a fort. Fort Pitt had long since disappeared under the railroads and steel mills, and now the department stores and skyscrapers made the downtown of Pittsburgh. I felt a tug of emotion for my hometown. It was a tough place that had survived a lot of hardship. I belonged here.

  At the restaurant, Bob and I got out of the car while Loretta talked to the parking valet. From the ridge of Mount Washington, the city radiated from the Point, and we could see all three rivers glinting with the colors of the sunset. A tugboat pushed two empty coal barges down the Monongahela toward West Virginia. I saw the casino far below, and the spot where Clarice Crabtree’s body had washed up on the bank.

  Loretta accepted a ticket from the valet and tucked it into her tiny evening bag as she came over to the sidewalk to join us. Maybe she knew what I was thinking, because Loretta put her arm around me.

  “Let’s join the party,” she said gently.

  We went through the rococo front doors of the restaurant. Inside, the overblown decoration—the marble floor, crystal chandeliers, flecked mirrors in heavy frames—still looked ridiculous to me, but it was a grand place for an Italian wedding.

  The Martinelli family had formed a receiving line inside the door of the restaurant—all except for the bride and groom, who were probably off getting pictures taken. Gino was missing, too. Probably changing his underwear someplace. The bride’s sisters, Caprice and Malibu—so named, said neighborhood legend, because of where they’d been conceived—greeted Sister Bob and Loretta enthusiastically.

  Me, they tolerated because they had good manners.

  “Oh, hello, Roxy.”

  “Yeah, nice of you to come.”

  “Thanks, girls. You both look great.”

  Caprice and Malibu could have passed for twins in their big hair and poufy red bridesmaid dresses, wearing enough mascara to cause blindness.

  Their mother, Carlene, was dabbing her eyes with a wadded-up tissue as she talked to Sister Bob. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Gino. He hasn’t been himself since he got dressed this morning. I never expected him to get all emotional about the wedding, but— Oh, Roxy’s here?”

  “Hi, Carlene.” I pumped her hand and hoped she hadn’t seen me skulking out of her basement with my tube of Ben-Gay. “Thanks for inviting me. Beautiful wedding. Sorry Gino’s not here.”

  She gave my dress a startled look, but Loretta nudged me down the line before we could exchange further pleasantries.

  The groom’s parents were perfectly nice people. But they both had highballs in their hands already. A good strategy for surviving a Pittsburgh wedding.

  The tow truck business must have been good, because the Martinellis were throwing a big bash. A Frank Sinatra look-alike sang us through to the ballroom, where swan ice sculptures glittered beside towering flower arrangements.

  The restaurant was a Pittsburgh landmark that cantilevered over the edge of the cliff overlooking the rivers. At the back of the ballroom, a wall of windows allowed a wide-angle view of the city below. Tonight, people mingled around the antipasto table and could see the nearby Incline—a funicular railway left over from the days when steel workers lived up on the hills and needed a quick route down to the mills along the rivers. Now it was a touristy thing for the most
part—twin red cars that ran up and down the steep hillside.

  The room filled up fast. The men peeled off their jackets and hustled over to join the line at the bar. The women preened in dresses cut so low that a dairy farmer wouldn’t know where to start. Plenty of rhinestone jewelry. Torturous shoes. Half the crowd were busily moving place cards around so they didn’t have to sit with their parents.

  I knew most everybody. Irene Stossel’s mother tottered past. I hadn’t seen her since buying my last bag of doughnuts at the family bakery. Pepper Petrone, the owner of the gas station where I filled the Monster Truck, a woman usually dressed in overalls and axle grease, looked adorable in pink. Stony Zuzak’s brother Archie, who spun pizzas at a joint in Lawrenceville, gave me a salute with his beer bottle.

  Around a four-tiered wedding cake, a group of aunts gathered to discuss its towering design the way jealous artists probably argued about Picasso.

  The cookie tables were already set up along one wall, but to keep eager fingers off the goodies until the dancing started, long yards of tulle had been laid over the cookies and weighted down with strings of white Christmas lights. Just to be on the safe side, Gino Martinelli’s mother kept an eagle eye on the display. She was the size and shape of a storybook troll, and nobody crossed Mrs. Martintelli.

  I saw Flynn come in with Marla Krantz. No surprise, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Big eyes, high cheekbones. Heroin can do that, I thought. I noticed she clamped Flynn’s hand in hers. They moved like a couple that had been together a long time—with easy body language and murmurs. If he saw me, he pretended otherwise. They headed for the bar.

  Abruptly, I turned around and worked my way through the crowd, going the other direction.

  A man I didn’t know appeared in front of me and blocked my path. He had two glasses of champagne. “I hear your name is Roxy.”

  It’s a proven fact that just about anybody can get laid after a wedding except total nerds or retirees who can only talk about their health. This guy wasn’t going to have any problem in that department. Tall, good-looking, great shoulders. Suit and tie that hadn’t come from a thrift store. Better yet: no ponytail, no stains on his tie, no stupid pickup lines.