Plum 10 - Ten Big Ones Read online

  I slouched onto the scarred dung-brown fake leather couch that was positioned against a side wall of the outer office and unwrapped the sub.

  "Big day in court yesterday," Connie said, waving a handful of manila folders at me. "We had three guys fail to appear. The bad news is they're all chump change. The good news is none of them have killed or raped in the last two years."

  I took the folders from Connie and returned to the couch. "I suppose you want me to find these guys," I said to Connie.

  "Yeah," Connie said. "Finding them would be good. Dragging their asses back to jail would be even better."

  I flipped through the folders. Harold Pancek. Wanted for indecent exposure and destruction of personal property.

  "What's the deal on Harold?" I asked Connie.

  "He's local. Moved to the Burg three years ago from Newark. Lives in one of the row houses on Canter Street. Got drunk two weeks ago and tried to take a leak on Mrs. Gooding's cat, Ben. Ben was a moving target and Pancek mostly got the side of Gooding's house and Gooding's favorite rosebush. Killed the rosebush and took the paint off the house. And Gooding says she washed the cat three times and he still smells like asparagus."

  Lula and I had our faces frozen in curled-lip grimaces.

  "He doesn't sound like much of a threat," Connie said. "Just make sure you stand back if he whips it out to relieve himself."

  I took a quick look at the two remaining files. Carol Cantell, wanted for holding up a Frito-Lay truck. This brought an instant smile to my face. Carol Cantell was a woman after my own heart.

  The smile turned to raised eyebrows when I saw the name on the last file. Salvatore Sweet, charged with assault. "Omigod," I said to Connie. "It's Sally. I haven't seen him in ages." When I first met Salvatore Sweet he was playing lead guitar for a transvestite rock band. He helped me solve a crime and then disappeared into the night.

  "Hey, I remember Sally Sweet," Lula said. "He was the shit. What's he doing now besides beating on people?"

  "Driving a school bus," Connie said. "Guess the rock career didn't work out. He's living on Fenton Street, over by the button factory."

  Sally Sweet was an MTV car crash. He was a nice guy but he couldn't get through a sentence without using the "f" word fourteen times. The kids on Sally's bus probably had the most inventive vocabularies in the school.

  "Have you tried calling him?" I asked Connie.

  "Yeah. No answer. And no answering machine."

  "How about Cantell?"

  "I talked to her earlier. She said she'd kill herself before she'd go to jail. She said you were going to have to come over there and shoot her and then drag her dead body out of the house."

  "It says here she held up a Frito-Lay truck?"

  "Apparently she was on that no-carbohydrate diet, got her period and snapped when she saw the truck parked in front of a convenience store. Just got whacked out at the thought of all those chips. She threatened the driver with a nail file, filled her car with bags of Fritos, and took off, leaving the driver standing there in front of his empty truck. The police asked him why he didn't stop her, and he said she was a woman on the edge. He said his wife got to looking like that sometimes, and he didn't go near her when she was like that, either."

  "I've been on that diet and this crime makes perfect sense to me," Lula said. "Especially if she had her period. You don't want to go through your period without Fritos. Where you gonna get your salt from? And what about cramps? What are you supposed to take for cramps?"

  "Midol?" Connie said.

  "Well, yeah, but you gotta have some Fritos while you're waiting for the Midol to kick in. Fritos have a calming influence on a woman."

  Vinnie stuck his head out the door of his inner office and glared at me. "What are you sitting around for? We got three FTAs in this morning and you already had one in your possession. Four FTAs! Christ, I'm not running a charity here."

  Vinnie is my cousin on my father's side of the family and sole owner of Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. He's an oily little guy with slicked-back black hair, pointy-toed shoes, and a bunch of gold chains hanging around his scrawny tanning salon-tanned neck. It's rumored that he once had a romantic relationship with a duck. He drives a Cadillac Seville. And he's married to Harry the Hammers only daughter. Vinnie's rating as a human being would be in the vicinity of pond slime. His rating as a bonds agent would be considerably higher. Vinnie understood human weakness.

  "I haven't got a car," I told Vinnie. "My car got fire-bombed."

  "What's your point? Your cars are always getting fire-bombed. Have Lula drive you. She doesn't do anything around here anyway."

  "Your ass," Lula said.

  Vinnie pulled his head back into his office, and he slammed and locked the door.

  Connie rolled her eyes. And Lula flipped Vinnie the finger.

  "I saw that," Vinnie yelled from behind his closed door.

  "I hate when he's right," Lula said, "but there's no reason we can't use my car. I just don't want to pick up the drunken leaker. If he takes paint off a house, I'm not letting him near my upholstery."

  "Try Cantell," Connie said. "She should still be at home."

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later we were in front of Cantell's house in Hamilton Township. It was a trim little ranch on a small lot, in a neighborhood of similar houses. The grass was neatly cut, but it was patchy with crabgrass and parched from a hot, dry August. Young azaleas bordered the front of the house. A blue Honda Civic was parked in the driveway.

  "Don't look like the home of a hijacker," Lula said. "No garage."

  "Sounds like this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience."

  We approached the front door and knocked. And Cantell answered.

  "Oh God," Cantell said. "Don't tell me you're from the bond agency. I told the woman on the phone I didn't want to go to jail."

  "This is just a rebooking process," I told her. "We bring you in and then Vinnie bonds you out again."

  "No way. I'm not going back to that jail. It's too embarrassing. I'd rather you shoot me and kill me."

  "We wouldn't shoot you," Lula said. "Unless, of course, you drew a gun. What we'd do is gas you. We got pepper spray. Or we could zap you with the stun gun. My choice would be the stun gun on account of we're using my car and there's a lot of snot produced if we give you a face full of pepper spray. I just had my car detailed. I don't want the backseat full of snot."

  Cantell's mouth dropped open and her eyes glazed over. "I just took a couple bags of chips," she said. "It's not like I'm a criminal."

  Lula looked around. "You wouldn't have any of them chips left over, would you?"

  "I gave them all back. Except for the ones I ate."

  Cantell had short brown hair and a pleasant round face. She was dressed in jeans and an extra-roomy T-shirt. Her age was listed as thirty-two.

  "You should have kept your court date," I said to Cantell. "You might have only gotten community service."

  "I didn't have anything to wear," she wailed. "Look at me. I'm a house! Nothing fits. I ate a truck full of Fritos!"

  "You're not as big as me," Lula said. "And I got a lot of stuff to wear. You just gotta know how to shop. We should go out shopping together some day. My secret is I only buy spandex and I buy it too small. That way it sucks everything in. Not that I'm fat or anything. It's just I got a lot of muscle."

  Lula was currently in athletic gear mode, wearing hot pink stretch pants, matching halter top, and serious running shoes. The strain on the spandex was frightening. I was heading for cover at the first sign of a seam unraveling.

  "Here's the plan," I said to Cantell. "I'm going to call Vinnie and have him meet us at the courthouse. That way you can get bonded out immediately, and you won't have to sit around in a holding cell."

  "I guess that would be okay," Cantell said. "But you have to get me back here before my kids get off the school bus."

  "Sure," I said, "but just in case, maybe you want to make alternative arrangements."r />
  "And maybe I can lose some weight before I have to go to court," Cantell said.

  "Be a good idea not to hold up any more snack food trucks," Lula said.

  "I had my period! I needed those chips."

  "Hey, I hear you," Lula said.

  * * *

  After we got Cantell rebooked and rebonded and returned to her house, Lula drove me across town, back to the Burg.

  "That wasn't so bad," Lula said. "She seemed like a real nice person. Do you think she's going to show up for court this time?"

  "No. We're going to have to go over to her house and drag her to court, kicking and screaming."

  "Yeah, that's what I think, too."

  Lula pulled to the curb and idled in front of my parents' house. Lula drove a red Firebird that had a sound system capable of broadcasting rap over a five-mile radius. Lula had the sound on low but the bass at capacity, and I could feel my fillings vibrating.

  "Thanks for the ride," I told Lula. "See you tomorrow."

  "Yo," Lula said. And she took off.

  My Grandma Mazur was at the front door, waiting for me. Grandma Mazur rooms with my parents now that Grandpa Mazur is living la vida loca everlasting. Grandma Mazur has a body like a soup chicken and a mind that defies description. She keeps her steel gray hair cut short and tightly permed. She prefers pastel polyester pantsuits and white tennis shoes. And she watches wrestling. Grandma doesn't care if wrestling's fake or real. Grandma likes to look at big men in little spandex panties.

  "Hurry up," Grandma said. "Your mother won't start serving drinks until you're at the table, and I need one real bad. I had the day from heck. I traipsed all the way over to Stiva's Funeral Parlor for Lorraine Schnagle's viewing, and she turned out to have a closed casket. I heard she looked real bad at the end, but that's still no reason to deprive people from seeing the deceased. People count on getting a look. I made an effort to get there, dressing up and everything. And now I'm not going to have anything to talk about when I get my hair done tomorrow. I was counting on Lorraine Schnagle."

  "You didn't try to open the casket, did you?"

  "Me? Of course not. I wouldn't do such a thing. And anyway, it was locked up real tight."

  "Is Valerie here?"

  "Valerie's always here," Grandma Said. "That's another reason I'm having the day from heck. I was all tired after the big disappointment at the funeral parlor, and I couldn't take a nap on account of your niece is back to being a horse and won't stop the galloping. And she whinnies all the time. Between the baby crying and the horse thing, I'm pooped. I bet I got bags under my eyes. If this keeps up I'm going to lose my looks." Grandma squinted up and down the street. "Where's your car?"

  "It sort of caught fire."

  "Did the tires pop off? Was there an explosion?"

  "Yep."

  "Darn! I wish I'd seen that. I always miss the good stuff. How'd it catch fire this time?"

  "It happened at a crime scene."

  "I'm telling you this town's going to hell in a handbasket. We never had so much crime. It's getting to where you don't want to go out of the neighborhood."

  Grandma was right about the crime. I saw it escalating at the bond office. More robberies. More drugs on the street. More murders. Most of it drug and gang related. And now I had seen the Red Devil's face, so I was sucked into it.

  TWO

  I found my mom at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. My sister Valerie was in the kitchen, too. Valerie was seated at the small wood table, and she was nursing the baby. It seemed to me Valerie was always nursing the baby. There were times when I looked at the baby and felt the pull of maternal yearnings, but mostly I was glad I had a hamster.

  Grandma followed me into the kitchen, anxious to tell everyone the news. "She blew up her car again," Grandma announced.

  My mother stopped peeling. "Was anyone hurt?"

  "No," I said. "Just the car. It was totaled."

  My mother made the sign of the cross and took a white-knuckled grip on the paring knife. "I hate when you blow up cars!" she said. "How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing I have a daughter who blows up cars?"

  "You could try drinking," Grandma said. "That always works for me. Nothing like a good healthy snort before bedtime."

  My cell phone chirped, and everyone paused while I answered.

  "Are you having fun yet?" Morelli wanted to know.

  "Yeah. I just got to my parents' house and it's lots of fun. Too bad you're missing it."

  "Bad news. You're going to have to miss it, too. One of the guys just brought in a suspect, and you're going to have to ID him."

  "Now?"

  "Yeah. Now. Do you need a ride?"

  "No. I'll borrow the Buick."

  When my Great Uncle Sandor went into the nursing home, he gave his '53 powder blue-and-white Buick Roadmaster to Grandma Mazur. Since Grandma Mazur doesn't drive (at least not legally), the car mostly sits in my father's garage. It gets five miles to a gallon of gas. It drives like a refrigerator on wheels. And it doesn't fit my self-image. I see myself more as a Lexus SC430. My budget sees me as a secondhand Honda Civic. My bank was willing to stretch to a Ford Escape.

  "That was Joe," I told everyone. "I have to meet him at the police station. They think they might have the guy who set fire to my car."

  "Will you be back for the chicken?" my mother wanted to know. "And what about dessert?"

  "Don't wait dinner. I'll get back if I can, and if not I'll take leftovers." I turned to Grandma. "I'm going to have to commandeer the Buick until I can replace the Escape."

  "Help yourself," Grandma said. "And I'll ride with you to the police station. I could use to get out of the house. And on the way home we could stop at Stiva's to see if they got the lid up for the evening viewing. I'd hate to miss out on seeing Lorraine."

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Grandma and I cruised into the public parking lot across the street from the cop shop. The Trenton police are housed in a no-nonsense chunk of brick and mortar in a no-nonsense part of town that gives the cops easy access to crime. The building is half cop shop and half courthouse. The courthouse half has a guard and a metal detector. The cop half has an elevator decorated with bullet holes.

  I looked at Grandma's big black patent leather purse. Grandma was known to, from time to time, carry a .45 long barrel. "You don't have a gun in there, do you?" I asked.

  "Who, me?"

  "If they catch you taking a concealed weapon into the building they'll lock you up and throw the key away."

  "How would they know I got a concealed weapon if it's concealed? They better not search me. I'm an old lady. I got certain rights."

  "Carrying a concealed weapon isn't one of them."

  Grandma pulled the gun out of her purse and shoved it under her seat. "I don't know what this country's coming to when an old lady can't keep a gun in her purse. We got a rule for everything these days. What about the bill of health? It says I can bear arms!"

  "That's the Bill of Rights, and I don't think it specifically addresses guns in purses." I locked the Buick and called Joe on my cell. "I'm across the street," I told him. "And I've got Grandma with me."

  "She isn't armed, is she?"

  "Not anymore."

  I could feel Joe smile across the phone line. "I'll meet you downstairs."

  Civilian traffic in the building was minimal at this time of day. The courts were closed, and police business was shifting from front door inquiries to back door arrests. A lone cop sat in a bulletproof cage at the end of the hall, struggling to stay awake on his shift.

  Morelli stepped out of the elevator just as Grandma and I swung through the front entrance doors.

  Grandma looked at Morelli and gave a snort. "He's wearing a gun," she said.

  "He's a cop."

  "Maybe I should be a cop," Grandma said. "Do you think I'm too short?"

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Grandma and I were back in the Buick.

  "That d
idn't take long," Grandma said. "I hardly had a chance to look around."

  "I couldn't make an ID. They picked up a guy who was carrying the backpack, but it wasn't the guy who ran out of the store. He said he found the backpack discarded in an alley."

  "Bummer. This doesn't mean we're going to have to go back to the house, does it? I can't take any more of the galloping and the baby talk."

  "Valerie talks baby talk to the baby?"

  "No, she talks it to Kloughn. I don't like to make judgments on people, but after a couple hours of listening to 'honey pie smoochie bear cuddle umpkins' I'm ready to smack someone."

  Okay, so I was glad I'd never been there when Valerie called Kloughn cuddle umpkins because I would have wanted to smack someone, too. And my self-restraint isn't as well honed as Grandma's.

  "It's too early to go to the viewing," I said to Grandma. "I guess I could stop in on Sally Sweet. He turned up Failure To Appear today on an assault charge."

  "No kidding? I remember him. He was a nice young man. Sometimes he was a nice young woman. He had a plaid skirt I always admired."

  I pulled out of the lot, right-turned onto North Clinton, and followed the road for almost a quarter mile. At one time in Trenton's history this was a thriving industrial area. The industry had all vacated or drastically downsized and the rotting carcasses of factories and warehouses produced an ambience similar to what you might find in postwar Bosnia.

  I left Clinton and wove my way through a neighborhood of small bleak single-story row houses. Originally designed to contain the factory workers, the row houses were now occupied by hardworking people who lived one step above welfare . . . plus there were a few oddballs like Sally Sweet.

  I found Fenton and parked in front of Sweet's house. "Wait in the car until I find out what's going on," I said to Grandma.