Jamaican Karma

by T S Paul

  “Giuseppe? Would that be Joe Napoli?” I asked as I whipped out my battered notebook.

  “That’s the guy,” Crystal answered, her eyes never moving. “Short and hairy. He told everyone to call him Joe after everyone started calling him Geppetto. His dad runs a pizza parlor just up the road near the front gate. Good place.”

  Giving them my best Spock impression, I raised one eyebrow. Managing to do it the first time took literally months of practice and weeks of crap from my dad over me making funny faces at him. “Do you remember when you last saw the tiki?”

  “Just when Joe pointed it out,” Abigail replied.

  “That,” both Jen and Crystal added at once. Their smiles and somewhat vacant eyes reminding me of a movie I once saw.

  “What about the other guest, Shirley? Did you see what she was doing?” I asked them.

  “Mmm, the neighbor. She was too old to interest us,” Abigail answered. “Not tech savvy enough. When we mentioned Cam-life she just looked at us like we were crazy. Some people have no sense of fun or adventure.”

  Chapter 7

  Orlando’s Pizza, family owned and operated. Good location, lots of foot traffic, good food smells. Smells that even my busted down sniffer can detect. If dad saw this place he’d approve, I think.

  Stepping inside I had flashbacks of my own family’s place.

  “Have a seat wherever you like I’ll be with you in a moment,” a young looking short hairy man in red and white striped clothing yelled as he slid past me carrying a pizza.

  Like outside the air was filled with the smell of pepperoni and cheese. Both of which were my favorite and a huge break from my steady diet of barbecue and ramen noodles.

  The hairy man who I assumed was Joe, was super busy. Like my dad’s place the tables were very limited in Orlando’s and Joe looked to be the only waiter. When he rushed up to my table, I only asked for a Coke and a menu. As Joe set them down, I asked my question. “When you find time, I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may. Winston and Hina sent me.”

  His eyes a bit wide he nodded before speaking. “I’m super busy right now. Did you want food?”

  Glancing at the menu I ordered almost blindly, “Sicilian special, breadsticks, and a salad. I don’t care what the dressing is.”

  “Large, medium, or personal on that pizza?” Joe asked me.

  “Got anything bigger than a large?” I asked with a smile.

  “Not really,” Joe looked up from his order pad. “I could ask dad if he’d do a special price for two larges but don’t count on it.”

  Thinking about my own father and his reluctance to adjust the prices I shook my head, “I’ll pay the price for two, don’t bother him he looks really busy.”

  Joe made a notation, “When a man makes the best pizza in town he needs to keep busy. It’ll be thirty, forty minutes or so. Thanks.”

  Gazing out the front window I watched cars and people go by. The military dominated the whole area, and it wasn’t unusual to see servicemen and women walking around in full uniform. Considering how narrowly I’d avoided military service myself I took careful not of those who served the country. Pack mentality. Never ever, ever, cross members of a large cohesive brotherhood like the military. They will ruin your whole year.

  Blowing out a deep breath I cast my gaze around the restaurant. Half the seated tables were either eating or on their phones. All the kids were doing both. Money was tighter than it should be for me and while I had a phone, it was of the flip variety. At times I felt like Captain Kirk but looked like a grandpa with my white hair and antique phone. Comparing the pizzeria to dad’s place I could see the love and compassion the Napoli’s had put into it. Hard work showed.

  I was concentrating so hard I completely missed my food arriving! A man resembling Joe but much older slid first one then two large pizzas in front of me. “Two specials and your breadsticks,” the man stated. Turning to one side he took a large salad from Joe. “House salad with Italian dressing. Please enjoy.”

  The man I assumed was the elder Napoli stepped away with Joe behind him. Half the others eating in the small place eyed my table in shock. I was a big guy, but they’d just placed enough food for a little league in front of me. It was all I could do to not smile too much.

  “Yum,” I said to myself as I dug in. I’d have to remember to tell my mom about this place. She was always looking for good take-away. Hungry bears eat a lot.

  For the next half hour all I could do was eat. Between the melted cheese and the homemade sausage, I was in pizza heaven. Even the salad tasted good. As a Southern raised bear, I’d grown to expect everyone’s House dressing to be Ranch. This part of Alabama even had a Ranch based barbecue sauce that folks put on just about everything. Whatever was in the dressing beat that out completely. More information for mom to research.

  Slurping down the last piece of pizza I then used the sticks to wipe clean the salad bowl. Cleaning your plate was a mantra in my house. Way too many years without made you respect what you got. Looking up from the now empty plates and bowls I found Joe staring at me from across the room. I was completely alone in the restaurant. All the other patrons had left without me noticing. Some PI I was.

  “You’re the Polar Bear, aren’t you?” He asked me.

  Chugging my Coke, I nodded.

  “Winston’s mentioned you a few times,” Joe commented.

  Nodding again I gave him my best smile, “It’s all lies.”

  “Uh huh. What do you want?” He asked me.

  “I’m trying to find something and Hina told me to talk to you. At some point during or after the party the other day her family tiki disappeared. She and Winston aren’t accusing you or any of the others of taking it. They brought me in to see if you remember seeing it and when you think it might’ve disappeared,” I held up my hand palm out. “No one has accused you of anything. I’m just trying to get a picture in my head of the party, who was there, and when it may have left. Do you have time to talk to me?”

  Joe slid out of the booth he was in and stood up. Glancing at his father behind the counter he smiled. “Settle your tab and we can talk as I clean up.”

  Laying a handwritten bill in front of me I pulled out my wallet and paid cash. “Your family has a nice place here. It reminds me a bit of my family’s barbecue place in Madison.”

  “Family owned and operated?” Joe asked as he cleared away all my dishes.

  “For the past twenty years or so. We came here from Russia by way of Japan,” I replied. I was very proud of my family. They’d given up a lot to get safely out of Russia and into a place without restrictions.

  “We’re Sicilians. My great-great-great-grandfather Giuseppi settled here in the late 1800s. He helped found our original location just after the Great War. Been going strong ever since,” Joe explained as he started sweeping up. “I can remember looking at the ugly little thing, especially when Gabe pointed it out. But I don’t remember seeing it after that. I was playing games with the girls and let me tell you,” Joe looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “Let me tell you… those three as some smoking hot chicks. If I wasn’t Catholic and in an arranged marriage, I’d be all over them like cheese on toast.”

  My eyebrows popped right up, “Arranged marriage? They still do that?”

  Joe nodded. “Sure they do. How do you think pure Sicilians keep our blood pure? Many of the old traditions are the best ways.”

  Stuttering at the words ‘Pure Blood’ all I could think about was a conversation I had with Agatha Blackmore about family traditions and where the Witch Clans came from originally. According to her, it was both Eastern and Western Europe. Magick folk tend to cluster together seeking like minds and power. Communities are formed and bloodlines preserved. If a group grew too big, they might hive off and move away to start a new beginning group. It was how the Blackmores ended up in Maine to begin with. I knew I wasn’t the only paranormal in Huntsville, but had I just found a group of Witches?

 
“Dude there’s a lot of fish in the sea to only be restricted to just one. Especially at such a young age. We bears mate for life but only after our fiftieth year or so. The Pack will always allow us to spread our seeds into the wind first,” I explained trying not to sound dirty. If the leather girls were into what I thought they might be, Joe would’ve gotten a rude surprise trying to hook up with them. I was pretty sure they didn’t swing in his direction and if they did have him over, he might’ve ended up on BlueTube or worse. An arranged marriage would be safer for him.

  Joe laughed, “what makes you think I haven’t done that as well? If I’d met the leather girls last year instead of last week things might be a bit different. No. I’ve talked to my new wife over the phone and the internet. She’s perfect. Fit, trim, the right amount of powe… I mean she completes me in ways not seen.”

  I didn’t miss his slip of the tongue at all. Thinking for a moment I tried to come up with a way to tell him I understood without actually saying it. Agatha had often said that there were quite a few Covens hiding out in the United States.

  “A friend of mine, Agatha Blackmore, told me a bit about arranged marriages. She lives in a rural part of Maine and was raised by her grandmother to lead the family in all things. Her group doesn’t follow the old-world, traditions,but she understands them. Intimately,” when I stressed the word traditions I’d gotten a bit of a rise out of Joe.

  “Was she someone you were at the FBI Academy with?” Joe asked me.

  Seeing as how I didn’t mention the FBI or my connection to it I knew he knew who I was speaking of. “Yes. She has her own team now.”

  “Then we understand each other. You might ask Shirley about the Ku. She almost never took her eyes off the thing the whole time she was there. Didn’t even stay for charades and only someone up to something would miss Winston’s turn at them. Trust me when I say it’s the funniest thing you’ll ever see,” Joe responded. By using the name of the thing, he confirmed my theory of him.

  “I guess that’s it then. Tell your dad that was the best meal I’ve had in years and he’s my new take out place. No more Pizza Shack for me!” I explained.

  “You better not, that stuffs like cardboard compared to our pies,” Joe yelled as I stepped out the door.

  Rubbing my full belly, I tapped out instructions for the rideshare company. I might take a nap.

  Chapter 8

  It was seven o’clock but still light out. Shirley Penrod was Winston’s next-door neighbor. I’d saved her for last because according to the happy couple she’d only popped in to the party for a moment. The much older lady had been an enormous help with getting them settled in and all.

  Mrs. Penrod lived directly next door. The concrete paths to each door were at sharp right angles to each other allowing for small front gardens with a modicum of privacy. Where Winston’s door was bright red, Shirley’s was dark green.

  Checking my watch first I rang the bell.

  The door opened a crack as a medium build older woman peeked out, “Hello? May I help you?”

  I smiled. “Mrs. Penrod? My name is Mongo. I’m a friend of Winston and Hina. Sometime during the party the other night they had a family heirloom turn up missing. They wanted me to ask you if you remember seeing anything funny during the party. Anything at all would help.”

  Opening the door wide, the older woman stepped outside joining my on the stoop. As I’d seen earlier, she was of medium height for a human, only coming up to my chin. Her blond to whitish hair was cut into a short bob with a small curl that ran down her neck. It was unusual enough for me to take notice. Something about her was familiar though. It might’ve been the extremely garish late 1970s clothes she had on though. I was suddenly having late night television flashbacks of the Mod Squad.

  “I was only at the party for a few minutes while I returned Hina’s lovely casserole dish. Did you know she watered my plants and picked up all my mail for me? The day I returned from my trip she and Winston brought me dinner so I wouldn’t have to go back out. They are the loveliest couple,” Shirley gushed. Cocking her head to one side she tapped a finger against her lips. “I remember there were six or seven others there and one weird guy on the couch. What was stolen?”

  “Something Hina’s father gave her. We’re not completely sure it was stolen yet though. They just wanted me to look into it since finding things is what I do. What did you go out of town for?” I asked her.

  Shirley glared at me for a moment. “That sir is none of your business. If you must know though I was at a collectable trade show. Buying and selling historical items is how I earn my living.”

  “That’s cool. You mean like furniture and things, my mom loves those funky colored dishes… Carnival glass is what it’s called. She’s got a ton of the stuff on shelves all over the house,” I explained.

  Shirley nodded, “I remember that stuff. No what I specialize in is movie and television props from the golden days of tv and all the kitsch associated with it. Stuff like lunchboxes and cereal box giveaways.”

  “You can make money off that stuff?” I had visions of all the yard sales and flea markets I got dragged to as a kid. Maybe I was in the wrong business.

  “If you know what you’re looking at, you can.” Shirley smiled up at me. “Check the local library and start reading the collectible books. They have them for dishes. Your mom’s collection might be worth money. If you can get online, there’s tons of videos on what is what and what is not.” Laying her hand on my arm Shirley motioned to me.

  I leaned down just a bit, so I was eye level.

  “Lots of fakes in this business. Learn to spot the fakes and get a good poker face. Even fakes can bring in good money,” she whispered to me. Letting go of my arm she winked at me. “Get the books and check out your mom’s stuff.”

  “I will. Thanks,” I told her.

  “Check out those three girls, they looked guilty to me. Clothing too tight and bouncing their bits all over the place. In my day, you could be arrested for prostitution for doing that,” Shirley replied as she stepped back into the house carefully closing the door.

  I stared at the door for what seemed like five minutes but was only thirty seconds or so. There was something… off about that old broad. I needed to talk to Winston. Fortunately for me he was right next door.

  Chapter 9

  Who did it? That was the question I was faced with now. Talking with Winston only made it worse. Neither one of them could remember exactly the last time they saw the tiki or how long Shirley had been there.

  “How often does she come over?” I asked them.

  Winston looked to Hina for the answer, “what do you think hon, every other week? She was over a lot when we first moved in.”

  “About that,” Hina replied. “She did the good neighbor thing, brought us cookies, helped us find curtains, stuff like that. As we settled into our lives, we pretty much only waved at the mailbox. Other than the party I don’t think she’s been over since mom and dad visited.”

  I perked up, “oh, when was that?”

  “Two, three weeks ago maybe? I can check. It was when dad gave us the tiki along with a bunch of pictures and things from home. They’d never been here before and wanted to remind me of home,” Hina explained with a smile. She hugged Winston to her and gave him a kiss. “This is the first time they’ve approved!”

  Giving Winston a look I kidded him a bit, “you do drop the funny accent for them?”

  Winston looked skyward and frowned, “I should never have told you that. Yes, yes. They know I’m not Jamaican. Just about all my close friends know. No idea how I’ll break it to work though.”

  Not being able to help myself I giggled just a bit, “you could pretend it was all a promotional thing. Scuzzy did mention he wanted you to start up a band or something.”

  Hina elbowed Winston in the ribs, “you didn’t tell me that!”

  “I was waiting for the right moment, hon I swear,” he protested. Rubbing his side for a moment
he looked between the two of us. “It’s a good idea but my guitar skills aren’t all that great past Guitar Hero. I’m a better singer.”

  “Then do that, lots of big-time musicians never learned to play until later. Lessons are easy. You gotta reach for the brass ring sometimes buddy,” I exclaimed.

  Hina pointed at me, “listen to the Bear if you won’t listen to me. You should do it.”

  “But we don’t even know what to call ourselves that doesn’t sound stupid. We’ve tried The Churchills, Madison Furies, The Clay Pot, and a bunch of other goofy names. Nothing zings to us. If we can come up with the right name, it will pull us all together I just know it,” Winston whined. Looking a bit shamefaced he looked at Hina with puppy dog eyes. “We’ve been practicing on my ‘poker’ nights.”

  Making a fist, Hina popped him in the shoulder.

  “Ouch!” Winston exclaimed.

  “Did it hurt,” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said as he rubbed his shoulder.

  “Want another one?” Hina asked.

  Winston shook his head and moved over just a bit causing Hina to start laughing.

  “You two are already like an old married couple. I’ve got two questions and we can wrap this up. One, have you ever been inside Shirley’s place and two, did you check behind the entertainment center?” I asked them.

  “I’ve been in her kitchen. You’ve seen ours, it opens up to the back slab and yard. Her’s is the mirror of ours but she had her place redone at some point. It was right after we’d moved in and she wanted to show me something. All I remember was the whole place was really retro. For a moment I thought I was in my granny’s house with her lime green countertops and 1970s appliances. No idea why anyone would want that stuff these days,” Hina said.

  “She told me she collected stuff. That might be it,” I explained.