Family Business

by Michael Z. Lewin

  ‘Cheers,’ Bonnie said. ‘Where’s your sister tonight?’

  ‘Washing her hair,’ Salvatore said before he caught up with the fact that Bonnie was asking about Muffin, not Rosetta.

  ‘She’s not your type, you know,’ Bonnie said.

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Too nervy. The nervy kind wears thin after a while, don’t you think?’

  ‘You could be right,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ Bonnie said, raising her glass.

  ‘Salute,’ Salvatore said. They both drank deeply.

  ‘I didn’t bring the picture with me,’ Bonnie said.

  ‘That’s not very helpful of you.’

  ‘Thing was, I found it in the rubbish, under coffee grounds and wet lettuce trimmings. I was in muck up to my elbow.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘I had to have a long, hot, steamy bath to clean up after I pulled it out.’

  ‘But you did find it?’

  ‘I did. And I wiped all the gunk off and hung it on my clothesline to dry. But when I came out, I forgot it.’

  ‘And was the number he wrote on the back legible?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to write it down?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Or memorize it?’

  Bonnie concentrated. ‘Four, six … No, I don’t remember. Sorry.’

  ‘But it was a Bath number?’

  ‘Yes. I prefer a bath number to a shower number, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a place for verticality as well as horizontality in a full, rich life, don’t you think?’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Touché,’ Bonnie said.

  ‘So,’ Salvatore said, ‘what are we going to do about this?’

  ‘You really want this telephone number?’ Bonnie said.

  ‘I do,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Well, I suppose when we finish our drinks we’ll have to go back to my place for it.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gina and Angelo had difficulty locating Block Letter. The road Howard had named was on the map, but it barely warranted the notoriety. It was a narrow pot-holed lane and it ran along the base of the railway bridge which supported the main line track on its way out of Bath to Bristol. The bridge arches had been filled to make workshops, their fronts looking like a row of tombstones. Block Letter was one of them, but it was identified only by a carelessly hand-painted sign that hung unevenly above the door in its wooden front. Next to the door, barely two feet square, a window gap had been cut. It was covered by chicken wire on the outside and a piece of patterned plastic inside. ‘Hardly worth the bother of double-glazing it,’ Angelo said.

  There was no sign of life inside Block Letter. Even so, Angelo tried the door. It was locked but it rattled and did not seem particularly secure.

  ‘Shall we?’ Gina said.

  ‘If we break in, what are we looking for?’ Angelo said. He rattled the door a few more times, then left it.

  Gina said, ‘I can’t imagine a business in Bath less likely to have its accounts done by a firm in The Circus than this one.’

  ‘A busker?’ Angelo said, but he was accepting her point.

  Gina stepped back from Block Letter and then began to walk along the row of arched workshops. Angelo looked in the other direction. Of the three premises two were unidentified—perhaps storage units—and the third offered to repair ‘white household appliances’. A matter for the Commission on Racial Equality? Cause for concern on behalf of otherly-coloured domestic machines? ‘Blackmail’, huh! He turned and followed Gina.

  Ahead he saw her knock on a door. She called, ‘Hello? May I come in?’ Though Angelo could hear no response, Gina disappeared inside.

  Before he got to the doorway Angelo could smell paint and solvent and he recognized the business as a car body shop. As he entered, Gina said, ‘And this is my husband.’

  A figure in splotched canvas overalls put down a spray nozzle. The figure unfolded itself from behind a yellow Fiesta. As it lifted a hood with goggles from its head, the figure became a woman with a quantity of light brown hair bulging through a hairnet. The woman said, ‘How do?’

  Gina said, ‘We’re looking for Howard. Do you know him? The man in Block Letter, the printing place down the road?’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect him to be there this time of night,’ the woman said. ‘Or were he supposed to meet you?’

  ‘We thought he might be in,’ Gina said.

  ‘Pretty much keeps to business hours now he’s got the place to hisself,’ the woman said.

  ‘So, it’s just him who works there?’ Gina asked.

  ‘Drives a red Jag,’ the woman said.

  ‘A Jag?’ Angelo said.

  ‘I sorted it out for him. A ’78 and it needed a lot doing. I only finished about a month past.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind driving a Jag, even a ’78,’ Angelo said.

  ‘It’s a nice motor now,’ the woman said. ‘I did a good job, if I do say so meself. Body’s nigh perfect. I put in an automatic gearbox. And I customized the interior, for socializing, shall we say.’ She grinned. ‘All the girls’ll go for a motor like that, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Block Letter is doing pretty well, then, is it?’ Angelo asked.

  ‘I’d say more steady than well. But he’s fell on his feet, has Howard. He’s only been in charge for the five month. He were some sort of apprentice afore that, but the old fella that took him on up and died. Howard thought he was back on the dole for sure but then the owner said he’d give Howard a try and it seems to be working out.’

  ‘So the actual owner doesn’t work there?’ Gina said.

  ‘No, no. Couldn’t tell you where he does work, mind, but he needs a lot of printing so I guess he reckoned it was more economic to set someone up. Reg Adamson, the old fella that died, he were redundant a few years back so I daresay he worked cheap.’

  ‘He didn’t drive a Jag, then?’ Angelo said.

  ‘No,’ the woman said with a smile, ‘but he did have a soft spot for old guns, antique weapons, like. Made a few bob repairing and restoring before he took up the printing again. Nice old codger, he were. Always said “How do?”’

  ‘Do you know how long Block Letter’s been there?’ Gina said.

  ‘Not as long as me. ’Bout three and a half years, I’d say.’

  ‘So a fair while,’ Gina said.

  ‘Do you know the owner’s name, by any chance?’ Angelo asked.

  ‘No. Sorry.’ The woman looked from Angelo to Gina. ‘What is it you want there?’

  ‘Some advertising flyers,’ Gina said.

  ‘Old Adamson, he printed nothing but what he printed for the owner. Howard’s spread his wings a bit. He’s got him a lifestyle in mind that he’d like to have to support. It’s only an old press in there, but if what you want him to print ain’t too fancy he should be able to handle it.’

  ‘Do you know Howard well?’ Gina said.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ the woman said. ‘I go for a bloke with a bit more meat on him, meself, not that I spurn the gristle. But Howard stopped by most every day to see his car while I were working on it. So I got to know him.’

  ‘And what’s he like?’ Gina asked.

  ‘A lot of folks would find him an odd one, but the fella don’t bother me. Bit twitchy, maybe. Quiet when you expect him to talk, talky when you expect him to be quiet, you know? But he’s got plans. And he’s trying to make the best of his luck, you can tell that.’

  ‘Mine, all mine,’ Bonnie the Regular said as she unlocked the door to a small terraced house five minutes’ walk from the Rose and Crown. ‘You like?’

  ‘Very nice,’ Salvatore said as he was led inside.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Bonnie said. She gestured to a futon that was rolled up into a couch. Salvatore sat. ‘Let me get you a drink. How about some wine? Would you like a little white wine?’

  ‘Great,’ Salvatore s
aid. ‘But—’

  ‘But you want the picture,’ Bonnie said. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to keep you on the doorstep, does it?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Fancy something to eat? I could put together a sandwich, no trouble.’

  ‘Just the wine, thanks,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Or toasted cheese? I do a mean toasted cheese. It’s one of my main culinary accomplishments. In a kitchen, anyway.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I haven’t had anything cooked tonight,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Your sister doesn’t run to anything hot?’ Bonnie asked.

  Despite the allure of the new equipment, David found that drawing cartoons on a computer screen was time-consuming and frustrating. After a while he decided to make rough sketches first, using technology dating from an earlier era: pencil and paper.

  These were so user-friendly that when the telephone rang it was several rings before he reacted. But eventually he put down his pencil, leaned back in his father’s chair and took the receiver off the hook. ‘Lunghi Investigation Services. David Lunghi speaking.’

  ‘Davey?’ Muffin said.

  ‘Muffin?’ David said. ‘Or should I call you Dr Muffin?’

  ‘Y’all can call me whatever you like, honey,’ Muffin said.

  ‘Uncle Sal isn’t here,’ David said. ‘Not unless he’s over in the house. I’m in the office. I’ve got a little work I’m trying to get done.’

  ‘You poor thing. I guess they must work you to the bone,’ Muffin said.

  ‘Not really,’ David said, both pleased and embarrassed that Muffin had responded to the hint that he was working on one of the family’s cases.

  ‘But it wasn’t Salvatore I wanted to talk to,’ Muffin said.

  ‘It wasn’t?’ David said. He heard a motor vehicle pass in the background where Muffin was calling from.

  Muffin said, ‘Is your mom there, honey?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ David said.

  ‘Damn,’ Muffin said with surprising force.

  Having registered that Muffin was ringing from a pay phone, David began to recognize that for Muffin to do so in order to speak to Gina was unusual. But he couldn’t think of what to say to help or make Muffin feel better. He said, ‘Mum and Dad are both out.’

  ‘It was your mom I wanted,’ Muffin said quietly.

  There was a silence. David felt that he was expected to fill it. ‘That’s why I’m covering the phone in the office,’ he said. ‘But I’m also working on the new computer. You were right. It’s great. What I’ve been doing is some cartoons, actually. Last night I thought them up. Well, Auntie Rose and I did. But I’m working on them alone tonight.’

  ‘That sounds fine, honey. But can you tell me when your mom is going to be back? Do you know?’

  ‘I don’t, but I can leave her a message. She could call you back as soon as she gets home.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m going to get back to the hotel tonight. I guess I’ll just have to try to catch up with her tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ David said. Muffin hesitated without hanging up. David said, ‘Muffin?’

  ‘Just thinking if there’s anything the hell else I can do, honey. But there isn’t.’ Then she hung up without saying goodbye.

  As David hunted for a message card, he was in a state of considerable agitation. Muffin was upset about something, maybe even in trouble. He should have offered help. Offered Charlie’s number if she needed the police. Or offered to come out to wherever she was. But instead he’d rabbited on about his cartoons. Why was he so stupid! David pounded the desk half a dozen times. One of his pencils rolled on to the floor.

  He found a message card and headed it, ‘Gina’. He recorded Muffin’s name and the time. ‘No message,’ he wrote, ‘but she said she’d try to catch up with you tomorrow.’

  Thinking about the rest of what Muffin had said, David fixed on the phrase, ‘I don’t know if I’m going to get back to the hotel tonight.’ It struck him as slightly titillating. And combined with ‘Just thinking if there’s anything the hell else I can do,’ it definitely suggested a problem.

  David leaned back. He should have offered to come out and help her. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he should have said. To have been able to leave a note that said, ‘I am out helping Muffin,’ would have been very pleasing.

  David rocked forward again and decided to add to his message, ‘I don’t know whether it matters but she was ringing from a pay phone, it was you she asked for, not Uncle Sal, and she said she didn’t know if she was going to get back to her hotel tonight.’ He studied the card as written. He initialled the card ‘D.L.’ and returned to his cartoons.

  Almost immediately the telephone rang again. ‘Muffin?’ he said.

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then a woman whispered, ‘Mr Lunghi?’

  David realized he had made a mistake, that it was not Muffin. He said, ‘Yes. David Lunghi.’

  ‘Eileen Shayler here. It’s my husband. He’s panicking. He thinks the two of you tried to kill him. You didn’t, did you? No, of course you didn’t. But he doesn’t know what to do. I think maybe you’d better think of some reason to come round here in the morning. I don’t know what reason, but …’ The woman hung up.

  David held the telephone receiver in his hand while he absorbed what had happened. Mrs Shayler! Quickly, he wrote another message card and did his best to reproduce what Mrs Shayler had said, word for word. Then he sat back and tried to think of something he could do.

  ‘This is good,’ Salvatore said with genuine enthusiasm.

  ‘A bit of mustard is the secret,’ Bonnie said. ‘And I grind my own sea salt.’

  ‘It goes very well with the wine,’ Salvatore said. ‘A guy could feel spoiled here.’

  ‘Could he?’

  ‘You know, Bonnie,’ Salvatore said, ‘you have very good bone structure.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I mean it. Have you ever modelled? Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Bonnie said. ‘No. I’ve never modelled. Most of the men I meet seem to think it’s their own bone structure that’s good.’

  ‘Because I’m a painter,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘I thought you were a private detective.’

  ‘Only when my brother wants some help. My real line is painting.’

  ‘Your real chat-up line?’

  ‘Seriously,’ Salvatore said. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel very serious,’ Bonnie said.

  ‘Maybe we can be serious later,’ Salvatore said.

  ‘Later,’ Bonnie said. ‘That sounds promising.’

  Salvatore rose with his plate. ‘Can I wash this up?’

  ‘House-trained too? Be still my beating heart.’

  ‘It seems only fair since you cooked for me.’

  ‘I thought maybe it was time to take a look at this picture you’re so hot for?’

  Salvatore put the plate on a table. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On my clothes-line. Which just happens to be in my bedroom.’

  ‘I think it’s essential that I see the picture without further delay,’ Salvatore said.

  Bonnie rose from the futon, then held out her hand. Salvatore took it and as he did Bonnie leaned forward so that their lips brushed. Then Bonnie wheeled and pulled Salvatore toward the stairs. The resistance she met was not great.

  ‘We need to take a look at this Howard,’ Angelo said as he and Gina sat in their car. ‘Pity it’s the weekend.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow morning,’ Gina said. ‘Places can be open on Saturday morning.’

  ‘If he isn’t too tired after driving girls around in his Jag,’ Angelo said.

  ‘Is that what you’d do if you had a Jag?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’d drive women,’ Angelo said.

  Somewhat to Salvatore’s surprise, in Bonnie’s bedroom there actually was a clothes-line with a photograph hanging f
rom it, held by two pegs. ‘There’e be,’ Bonnie said. ‘The famous picture.’

  Salvatore took the photograph down. He looked first at the picture of Kit Bridges. Bonnie stood by his side. ‘What about her bone structure?’ she said.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ Salvatore said with the cruel dispassion of the artistic eye. He turned the photograph over. The word ‘Clint’ was printed in large letters with the telephone number below it. The number was slightly smudged. Salvatore took it closer to the light.

  ‘One telephone number,’ Bonnie said. ‘I always try to deliver what I promise.’

  But Salvatore did not speak as he studied the telephone number.

  ‘Mr Detective?’ Bonnie said.

  Finally Salvatore looked up. ‘I don’t know how to say this,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to have to leave now.’

  Marie knocked gently on Rosetta’s door. ‘Auntie Rose? Are you awake?’

  From inside Rosetta called, ‘Marie?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marie opened the door and went in. Rosetta sat at her dressing-table, studying her image in the mirror. Her face was fully made up although she wore a dressing-gown. She turned to her niece. ‘What do you think? Is this good? Or too much for a lunch?’ But as soon as Rosetta looked at Marie she no longer expected a second opinion about cosmetics. ‘Marie?’ Rosetta said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Marie’s uneven breathing broke into sobs. Rosetta rose from her stool and enveloped Marie in her arms. The sobbing continued but decreased in intensity. The older woman led her niece to the edge of the bed and they sat. ‘What’s wrong?’ Rosetta asked.

  ‘I …’ Marie began, but her gulps returned.

  ‘There, there,’ Rosetta said.

  ‘I …’ Marie began again. ‘I hate men! Just when you’re doing what you think they want, they change their minds and decide to do without you at the last minute. They throw you off like … like a caterpillar! I hate them! I hate them!’

  Despite the light of a full moon Gina and Angelo did not take the riverside path after they returned their car to its garage. This time they walked up the road to Walcot Street. But instead of going home they continued along the street until they were on the opposite side from the Shaylers’. There they stopped. They looked at the house. Only a dim light showed, on the upper floor.