Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum 20)

“Maybe you need to talk to Uncle Sunny’s neighbors,” Connie said to me. “And his relatives. Isn’t he related to Morelli?”

“He’s Joe’s godfather,” I told her. “And he’s Grandma Bella’s nephew.”

“Oops,” Connie said. “That could be sticky.”

Joe’s Grandma Bella emigrated from Sicily a lot of years ago, but she still speaks with a heavy accent, she still dresses in black like an extra in The Godfather, and she puts curses on people who she feels have disrespected her. Probably the curses aren’t real and people get boils and have their hair fall out purely by coincidence, still the woman scares the bejeezus out of me.

“It’s not just Bella,” I said. “Everyone loves Uncle Sunny. No one will rat on him.”

“Worse than that,” Lula said. “We asked at the Tip Top Deli if they knew where he was hiding, and they told us we should be ashamed to be going after Uncle Sunny. And then they wouldn’t serve us lunch. And they told us never to come back. And that don’t make me happy since I formerly considered their egg salad to be a important feature in my diet.”

“I don’t suppose you heard anything on the police band about a giraffe galloping down Sixteenth Street last night?” I asked Connie.

“No,” she replied. “Was I supposed to?”

“We think we might have seen one,” Lula said.

Connie raised an eyebrow.

“At least it seemed like it was a giraffe last night,” Lula said. “But then when I woke up this morning I had doubts.”

I chugged down my coffee, wolfed my donut, and turned to Lula. “I’m going back to Uncle Sunny’s apartment building to talk to his neighbors. Are you riding along?”

“Only if I get to drive. Your radio is busted, and I need tunes.”

THREE

UNCLE SUNNY LIVED on the second floor of a four-story brownstone walk-up on the corner of Fifteenth and Morgan. Mindy’s Nail Salon occupied the first floor and served as a front for a variety of semi-illegal activities, such as loan sharking, flesh peddling, and bookmaking—at least in Trenton they were semi-illegal. When Uncle Sunny was in residence this laundry list of illicit activities expanded to include whacking and property owner’s insurance enforcement. On the surface it might seem like Sunny lived in modest surroundings, but the truth was, he owned the building. In fact, Sunny owned the entire block. And his real estate holdings didn’t stop there.

“I don’t get it,” Lula said, parking at the curb. “What’s so special about this guy? Why’s everybody love him?”

“He’s charming,” I said. “He’s sixty-two years old, five-foot-six, and he sings Sinatra songs at weddings. He flirts with old ladies. He wears a red bow tie to funerals. On Thanksgiving and Christmas he helps out in the St. Ralph’s soup kitchen. He’s very generous with tips. And he’s a member of the Sunucchi–Morelli family, which makes up half the Burg and sticks together no matter how much they hate one another.”

And I’m pretty sure he also occasionally kills people, sets fire to businesses, and fornicates with other men’s wives. None of this is especially noteworthy in Trenton, however, and it for sure can’t compete with a red bow tie or the ability to croon Sinatra.

Sinatra is still big in the Burg, a working-class neighborhood in Trenton. I grew up in the Burg, and my parents, my sister and her family, and my grandmother still live there. The bonds office is just outside the Burg. St. Francis Hospital is located in the Burg. Plus there are four bakeries, twelve restaurants, five pizza parlors, a funeral home, three Italian social clubs, and there’s a bar on every corner.

We stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the second-floor windows.

“I don’t see nothing happening up there,” Lula said.

Meantime, a balding, overweight, fiftyish man went into the nail salon and was shown into the back room.

“I bet he’s gonna get the special,” Lula said. “You come in before noon and you get a pedicure and a BJ for half price. Mindy wanted me to work for her back when I was a ’ho, but I declined. I didn’t want to have to deal with the whole pedicure thing. I don’t do feet. A girl’s gotta draw a line somewhere, you see what I’m saying?”

I punched Sunny’s number into my cellphone and listened to it ring. No answer. I marched into the building with Lula a step behind me. We took the stairs to the second floor and found Sunny’s apartment. Easy to do since there were only two apartments on the floor. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked again.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Lula said. “He could be stretched out on the floor toes up. Probably we should go in and see.”

I tried the door. Locked.

“I’d bust it in, but I got heels on,” Lula said. “It wouldn’t be ladylike.”

I went across the hall and rang the bell. “Go away,” someone yelled from inside the apartment.

“I want to talk to you,” I yelled back.

The door was wrenched open, and a woman glared out at me. “What?”