There Was a Crooked Man

by K. J. Larsen

  “For Inga. Your mama came by for some this morning. But in this life, you can’t have too much love. Or too many sausages.”

  I hugged him and my fingers barely touched behind his back. Tino has put away a lot of sausages since his spy days. He’s a bigger target than he once was. But he keeps an eye over his shoulder and he drives a bulletproof car.

  His dark eyes glinted. “A birdie tells me your first anniversary is next week.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t told anyone.

  “Spill it,” I said.

  “Your mama.”

  I groaned. “If Mama knows, everyone knows.”

  “Pretty much. What is this anniversary you celebrate? Not your first date, I think. This is the day you and your FBI agent sealed the deal?”

  My cheeks felt hot.

  “Ah. Amore.”

  He opened a bottle of Chianti and breathed deeply. The rich, fruity fragrance filled my nostrils.

  “To a long life and good health.” He splashed wine in two glasses. “Due dita di vino e una pedata al medico.”

  It was an old Italian saying, one my Nonna toasted every day. I raised my glass to her.

  “A little wine kicks the doctor out the door.”

  ***

  The year I lost two hundred pounds of runaround Johnnie Rizzo and launched the Pants On Fire Detective Agency, Uncle Joey fixed me up with a brick bungalow. The house is on a large, corner lot with a spray of maples and a patio garden in back. I fell in love with it at once. Uncle Joey negotiated the sale and I got it for a song. When I asked why it came so cheap, he said I didn’t want to know. Trust me, when Joey tells you that, you usually don’t.

  Uncle Joey is, in the long tradition of DeLuca men, a Chi-Town cop. Ever since my great-grandfather, Officer Antonio DeLuca, conspired with Al Capone to bootleg whiskey, the DeLuca men have protected and served the good citizens of Chicago. They raise families in Bridgeport and hang out at a cop bar called Mickey’s. Most are honest cops and a few have deep pockets. But Uncle Joey is special. He drives a red Ferrari and wears tailor-made Italian suits. He’s got the Midas touch.

  I’m not saying my uncle’s a dirty cop. I like to think he’s resourceful. Uncle Joey has friends in low places. I’m not privy to their hijinks and I don’t ask him how he turns copper to gold. It’s not my business. And even if it was, I wouldn’t say anything. If there’s one thing we DeLucas understand, it’s how to keep our big mouths shut.

  I’ll probably never know why my house was a steal. On an eerie night when the wind howls, I wonder if one of Joey’s badass friends buried a body in the basement. Or maybe deep in the garden beneath the blood-red roses. That’s when I light a candle, burn a little sage, and remind myself that before I moved in, Father Timothy doused the crap out of the place with holy water. Then I rest in peace.

  I drove home and when I stepped inside, a beagle charged full bore from the kitchen, leash dangling from her teeth. Inga’s my partner at the agency. She’s smart with a shrewd nose for crime. Left unchecked, she’s likely to eat the evidence.

  I knelt and scratched her ears. “Give me fifteen minutes and we’ll go for a run. I want to print these pics for our client.”

  Inga flashed a goofy grin and led the way to my office. I slipped the memory card from my camera into the laptop and rows and rows of Sheldon’s soft man breasts appeared on the screen. Yikes. Curly, honey-colored tufts of hair circled the nipples. I chose a half dozen poses from pole girl’s gyrating hips to circus girl riding her Sheldon pony. Then I printed the 8 by 10 glossies, and tucked them inside a manila envelope.

  Delivering the evidence can be the most difficult part of a hotshot PI’s job. My clients hire me to confirm or negate their suspicions. When a suspected partner proves faithful, I buy a bottle of champagne and happy-dance to my client’s door. But when the pics expose betrayal, it’s devastating for the jilted lover. And gut-wrenching for the messenger, as well.

  I tied my hair in a ponytail and changed into soft peach velour sweats and running shoes. Inga darted ahead and waited at the door. I snapped up the Frisbee and yellow envelope. “We’ll play in the park before running these pics to our client’s house.”

  Inga made a face.

  “I don’t expect tears from this client. Dorrie’s a no-nonsense woman. We might have to dissuade her from taking an ax to her husband.”

  Inga’s white-tipped tail beat the door. I reached for the knob and heard the metallic clink of a key turning the lock. The tail wagged harder.

  “You’re fired as a watchdog.”

  The door opened and Mama swept inside bearing gifts. Inga howled joyfully and Mama squeezed her cheek.

  “Sausage for my favorite grand-dog.”

  She stuffed a fat one in Inga’s mouth. Inga groaned and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Mama dangled the Tupperware in my face. “For you, Caterina, cannoli. Drizzled in chocolate.”

  My fave. A yummy sound almost escaped my lips. I choked it back down and narrowed my eyes. Mama widened hers, all innocent like.

  “What’s going on, Mama? You cut me off. You said no cannoli for a month.”

  “Did I?”

  “You were mad as a wet cat. I skipped a meeting you set up with Father Timothy. You told him I want to reserve the church for a wedding.”

  Mama wagged a finger. “It’s not nice to stand up a priest.”

  “But—”

  “I forgive you.” Mama thrust the Tupperware in my arms. I should’ve stuffed it back in hers but I couldn’t bring myself to. Yet I resisted cradling the container greedily.

  Mama is, hands down, the best cook in South Chicago. Her unrivaled cannoli can drop a grown man to his knees. Food is Mama’s power. She uses it to keep her brood close. There are two hundred and thirty-seven square miles of Chicagoland real estate, and Mama sucks her five kids in. We can almost smell her ciabatta baking from our porches.

  She is ruthless.

  I flashed my left hand in her face. “No diamond. There’s no wedding. Savino and I are not engaged.”

  Mama clutched a hand to her chest. It’s her heart attack pose. The doctor says it’s gas.

  “Don’t set appointments for me with Father Timothy.” I glanced down at the cannoli and saw I was hugging it. “Please,” I added more gently.

  I carried the Tupperware into the kitchen and tucked the cannoli in the refrigerator. Mama poked her head in and made a disapproving clicking sound with her mouth. I hadn’t gone shopping and my fridge was quite bare. There was lipstick on the grape juice container.

  Another perk of the single life.

  I wiped the lipstick from the carton and poured Mama a glass. Then I found the Tums and pressed two in her hand.

  “Take the Tums, Mama. Your heart will feel better.”

  “I’ll feel better when my daughter has a wedding.”

  I tried to look sympathetic. It’s tricky to pull off when you want to choke someone.

  “You’re no spring chicken, Caterina DeLuca. You’re thirty-one years old. Your eggs, they shrivel and dry up. And then what? Where are my grandchildren?”

  “I gave you Inga.”

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “If this FBI agent isn’t man enough to ask you, marry Max instead.”

  “Max isn’t Italian. His family eats lutefisk at Christmas.”

  “No pasta?” Mama’s hand fluttered to her heart. “What is this lutefisk?”

  “It’s fish. Cod, actually. Soaked in lye.”

  Mama gasped. “That man will not poison my grandchildren.”

  I laughed. “Take the Tums, Mama.”

  “I talked to Mrs. Savino.”

  “Chance’s mama?” I gulped. “God, no.”

  “Mrs. Savino tells me you don’t want to marry her son.”

  “Boundaries, Mama. For hea
ven’s sake.”

  “I told Mrs. Savino about your shriveling eggs.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “She should talk to her son. I said you might marry the dentist I told you about. He asked about you again the other day. You’ll save a fortune on your children’s teeth.”

  My head began to ache. The truth is, Savino has brought up marriage several times. But I’ve managed to dodge the subject. Marriage didn’t work well for me the first time around. And I like things as they are. I’m perfectly happy with my own eccentric, interfering family. The thought of adding Chance’s parents to the mix makes me nauseous.

  “Tick tock,” Mama added under her breath, all hushed and subtle-like, hoping I’d think I was hearing my biological clock.

  I massaged my temples. “I know that was you, Mama.”

  “Johnnie Rizzo was no good for you. He hurt you bad. It’s time to give another man a chance.”

  “I’ve moved on,” I said but my voice lacked conviction.

  I had been shell-shocked when I learned my husband was an incurable cheater. I hired a lawyer, moved home with my parents for a few months, got my PI license, and launched the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. The day I was to sign a lease on an apartment, Uncle Joey said he had a house to show me. When I walked through the door, I knew I was home.

  I love my life. I’ve built a successful career, but the nature of the work can be emotionally brutal. I stalk cheaters and my perspective on marriage takes a beating every day. Had I really moved on? Maybe I had been too controlled when I dissolved my ties to Johnnie. Perhaps if I’d chased his sorry bum down and filled it with buckshot, like Cleo did to Walter, I’d have exorcized my rage. At least my stomach wouldn’t lurch every time Chance brought up the M word.

  The Tupperware of cannoli was a bribe. Mama wanted something and she hadn’t shown her hand.

  “I don’t have much time, Mama. I’m meeting with a client in a few minutes. Do you need something?”

  “You have to talk to your sister.”

  I groaned. My sister, Sophia, is a Barbie doll baby factory who sucks up to Father Timothy and still gets me in trouble with our parents. She disrespects me and she hates the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. I’m pretty sure my parents brought the wrong kid home from the hospital.

  “Tell me the truth, Mama. Sophie was switched at birth, wasn’t she?”

  Mama’s eyes were troubled. “I worry about Sophie. There’s something bad going on. I want you to talk to her.”

  “Sophie should talk to Father Timothy. She’s always sucking up to him.”

  Mama snorted. “What does a priest know about a woman’s needs?”

  “Ha! Remember that next time you go blabbing to Father Timothy about me.”

  Mama clutched her chest. “You take dirty pictures. You break your mama’s heart. Priests know about such things.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you talk to Sophie?”

  “I tried and she started to cry. She won’t tell me. It’s girl-talk.”

  “The last time we did girl-talk was in junior high school. I told her I had a crush on Billy Bonham and she wrote it all over the school bathroom. And on my locker in the hallway. The principal hauled me into the office for choking her. Like I was the bad one.”

  “It’s her husband.” Mama’s voice broke. “I think Peter is straying.”

  I almost laughed. “Peter? No way. He’s been head over heels for Sophie since second grade. This is my profession. And I can promise you, there is no way that guy is cheating.”

  Mama wasn’t listening. “Sophie has babies,” she wailed. “What will she do if he leaves her?”

  I put my arms around her and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll talk to her.”

  “I can always count on you.”

  “Somewhere out there there’s a crazy family who brought my real baby sister home from the hospital. We should find her.”

  Mama clicked her mouth. “Sophia has my mama’s eyes.”

  “Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips. “That’s crazy talk.”

  I grabbed the Frisbee and 8 by 10 glossies and set the security alarm. The three of us walked outside together.

  “I’ll call Sophie tomorrow,” I said.

  “Your sister will be here tomorrow at two. I told her you’re planning something special.”

  I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

  Mama scooted to her car and Inga tried to follow her. I jerked her leash.

  “Did you hear what she said? That was so manipulative.”

  She cranked up the Buick and backed out of the driveway.

  I stomped a foot. “You can’t make appointments for me!”

  Mama pretended not to hear me. She waved and drove away.

  “I’m taking that kiss back,” I called after her.

  Chapter Three

  The early summer days are long and sweet in Chicago. Dorrie Gillet was pruning her roses when Inga and I jogged over with my 8 by 10 glossies. Her gaze locked on the manila envelope in my hand and she began whacking the bush blindly. I was pretty sure I heard the roses screaming.

  “Whoa, Lorena Bobbit. Let go of the scissors.”

  She delivered a final, vicious blow before dropping the pruners and snatching the envelope from my hand. Bypassing the metal clasp, she shredded the envelope flap with trembling fingers. When she dragged the photos into the sunlight, she gave a strangled gasp.

  The French chef’s head was buried in Elmer Fudd’s lap.

  I spoke gently. “I’m sorry to say that Sheldon is…”

  “—a dead man,” she hissed.

  I made sympathetic sounds with my tongue.

  “That pig!” She waved a photo in my face. “Do you see that?”

  I studied Sheldon’s ample body, glistening with sweat. He was an oinker, all right.

  She followed my gaze and shoved the photo in my face. “I’m talking about her! The bitch stole my diamond ankle bracelet.”

  Seriously? I whipped out the Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker and smeared. I didn’t say Shelly was the sticky-fingered re-gifter. Inga pulled back on her leash, eyes wide with alarm. She wanted to make a break for it. I couldn’t blame her. The shearers were dangerously close. And the roses appeared terrified.

  I kicked them under a lilac bush.

  Dorrie’s voice broke. “Shelly gave me that diamond-heart anklet for my birthday. He was furious when I told him I’d lost it.”

  I bit my tongue. Elmer Fudd was a self-serving, calculating douche bag.

  Her raging eyes narrowed. “What happened to her, anyway? I know she didn’t go to prison. No woman on a jury would convict her.”

  “Who?”

  “Scissor lady. Lorena B.”

  Dorrie had the crazy eyes going. I steeled my own and held hers.

  “Firing squad. Scissor lady was a bloody mess.”

  “Liar! You don’t want me to go off on the cheater!”

  “That’s true. You’ve given him enough of your life. He doesn’t get any more.”

  Her voice oozed bitterness. “Shelly took the best years of my life.”

  “No way. Your best years are ahead of you.”

  She looked deflated, as if the wind had been sucked out of her. Her eyes were on the ground, probably searching for her shearers. I put my hands on her shoulder and made her look at me. Then I gave her a good shake and released her.

  “You’re not a victim. It’ll be tough at first but you’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

  She gnawed her lip. “Can I call you sometime? I may need some advice.”

  “Call anytime. I don’t have a lot of advice. I can only tell you what worked for me. Make a bucket list. Do everything you’ve dreamed of. Be gloriously happy. When you’re ready to date again, go out there and rock it. Living we
ll is the best revenge.”

  She was quiet a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped and strong. The old Dorrie was back. She had a plan.

  She stuffed the pics back in my hands and dug the pruners out from under the lilacs. Inga and I took a cautious step back, poised to make a run for it.

  She gave a conspiratorial wink. “Keep these photos until I’m ready for them.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “I want copies for Reverend Forgive-The-Shit. And for Shelly’s fellow deacons. His pissy mother. And for—hell, I’ll just make a list. I’ll e-mail pics to his staff at work. It’s more efficient, don’t you think?”

  Ouch. I actually felt sorry for Elmer Fudd.

  Hell hath no fury…

  Dorrie Gillet gave a tender clip to her battered roses. “I need a little time. I have an expensive bucket list. And there are a few bank accounts to empty first.”

  “You have my number.”

  ***

  I woke the next morning to vague dreams of Elmer Fudd strung up by the neck over a bed of screaming roses. The dream put me in a funk that a hot shower and double espresso couldn’t touch. I grabbed Inga’s leash and we ran the dream into the ground.

  We walked down South Halsted, breathing gratifying whiffs of dim sum, and churrasco, and chicken and waffles. Bridgeport offers some of Chicago’s best cuisine. It’s an orgy for the nose. Despite a bucket list that reads like a stack of travel brochures, there’s no place I’d rather come home to.

  My first stop was a funky shop that sells incense and those salt candles that are supposed to ward off negative spirits. I bought two large candles for my front porch on the off-chance they’d make my sister disappear. Our next stop was the bakery. I wanted to pick up a little something for my sister’s visit. I filled a white bag with a few donuts, fruit tarts, and anisette toast. Lemon tarts are Sophie’s favorite but she rarely indulges. When it comes to food, even chocolate doesn’t sing to her. She may not be fully human.

  Sophie might be a twenty-nine-year-old baby factory but she looks like sweet-sixteen Barbie. She nibbles on rabbit food and tortures herself with Billy Blanks’ Boot Camp DVDs. She’s perpetually pregnant, or nursing, or both. I doubt she remembers the last time a nice red wine filled her glass.