My father picked his head up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Good God,” he said.
“I bet a big, strapping young guy like you has a lot of special talents,” Grandma said to Milton.
“I can make French toast,” Milton said. “And I can whistle.”
“Isn’t that something,” Grandma said. “Whistling’s a lost art. You don’t find many whistlers anymore.”
Milton whistled “Camptown Races” and “Danny Boy.”
“That’s pretty good,” Grandma said. “I wish I could whistle like that.”
My father shot my mother a look like he was in intense pain.
“Pass the potatoes to your father,” my mother said to me. “And give him more ham.”
I tried to sneak an inconspicuous peek at my watch.
“Don’t even think about it,” my mother said. “You leave now, and you don’t get dessert . . . ever.”
TWELVE
MILTON LEFT AT eight o’clock so he could get home in time to take his meds. I helped my mom with the dishes, had an extra piece of chocolate cake, and said good night at nine, pulling away from my parents’ house reconsidering my feelings toward Morelli. After two hours of Milton, I was thinking Morelli might be worth a second look.
I drove two blocks down, hooked a left, and turned into his neighborhood. This was blue-collar Trenton at its best. Houses were small, cars were large, green referred to dollars in the bank. At eight o’clock, kids were doing homework and parents were in front of the television. At ten o’clock, the houses were dark. This neighborhood got up early five mornings out of seven and went to work.
Morelli lived in a row house he inherited from his Aunt Rose. He was gradually making it his own, but Rose’s curtains still hung in most of the windows. Hard to explain, but I liked the combination of Morelli and his aunt. There was something about the mix of generations and genders that felt right for the house. And I thought it said something good about Morelli that he didn’t have to entirely erase the house’s history.
I cruised down Morelli’s street and had a moment of breathless panic at finding Barnhardt’s Mercedes parked in front of Morelli’s green SUV. The moment passed, and I continued on to the corner. I made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side three houses down, taking some time to collect myself. In the past, this sort of dilemma would have sent me straight to the nearest 7-Eleven, where I’d clean them out of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers bars. Since I’d just had three pieces of my mother’s cake, a bag of candy wasn’t where I wanted to go.
I did some deep breathing and told myself slashing tires never really solved anything. And besides, here I was sitting in Ranger’s car, sleeping in his bed, wearing his stupid uniform, and I was all bent out of shape because Barnhardt was in Morelli’s house. I rolled my eyes and thunked my forehead against the steering wheel. Jeez Louise, I was a mess.
Morelli’s front door opened, and Barnhardt made a theatrical exit, blowing kisses and smiling. She got into her Mercedes and drove off, rolling past me, never noticing that I was watching.
There were two other vehicles parked by Morelli’s house. A red F150 truck and a clunker Subaru. Now that my breathing was returning to normal and my brain was more or less functioning, I realized I recognized the car and truck. The truck belonged to Morelli’s brother, Anthony. And the Subaru belonged to Morelli’s cousin Mooch.
I got out of the Cayenne, crossed the street, crept up to Morelli’s house, and carefully inserted myself into the azalea bushes planted under his front window. I stood on tiptoe and saw that Morelli, Morelli’s dog, Bob, and Mooch, and Anthony were on the couch, watching the game on television. The coffee table in front of them was littered with empty beer cans, opened bags of chips, a cardboard pizza box from Pino’s, some plates with forks, and the casserole dish Joyce had taken from me. The casserole dish was empty. Holy crap. Joyce had fed the toxic barbecue to Morelli.
I extricated myself from the bushes and danced around, pumping my fist and thinking, YEAH! Woohoo! Whoopie! After about thirty seconds of this, I realized I looked stupid, and it would be beyond embarrassing for Morelli to come out and find me on his lawn. And beyond that, I probably shouldn’t have been so happy about three men and a dog getting diarrhea, but the truth is, the only one I felt bad about was Bob. Bob was a big, shaggy-haired, entirely lovable beast. And he didn’t deserve diarrhea. I stopped dancing and skulked back to the Cayenne.
I put the Cayenne in gear and drove to my apartment building. I pulled into the lot and found Lula’s Firebird parked next to Mr. Macko’s Cadillac, and light shining from my apartment windows. I’d been hoping to find my apartment dark and deserted. I loved Ranger’s apartment, but it wasn’t home. Looking up at my windows, I wasn’t sure that was home, either. I’m in limbo, I thought. My whole friggin’ life is in limbo.
I thought I should go in to see the kitchen progress and verify that Lula was staying the night. Unfortunately, that might involve more of Larry in the blue cocktail dress. Or even worse, Larry in his shorts. I felt like I’d had enough weird for one day, so I maneuvered the Cayenne out of the lot and headed for Rangeman.
I WAS SOUND asleep when the bedside phone rang.
“He just hit two accounts,” Ranger said. “They phoned in minutes apart. Both of the houses were on your high-risk list. Tank is waiting for you in the garage. I want you to take a look at these houses from the inside.”
I looked at the clock. It wasn’t quite midnight. I took a moment to come awake, and ten minutes later, the phone woke me up a second time.
“Tank has a key,” Ranger said. “And he’ll come in and get you if you’re not in the garage in five minutes.”
I managed to get myself out of bed and vertical, but I wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I was wearing Ranger’s T-shirt as a nightshirt, and I left the shirt on, tugged on cargo pants, socks, sneakers, and a sweatshirt and grumbled my way to the elevator and down to the garage.
“Whoa!” Tank said when he saw me.
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”