Eugene Winkle lived on the fourth block of Stark. Not the worst location and not the best. If I left my car unattended on the street for more than ten minutes it would be gone with no hope of getting it back. If I wore the wrong gang colors I’d be dead or maimed for life. Since I was wearing jeans, a stretchy white T-shirt, and a gray sweatshirt I felt relatively safe. Not that it mattered, because I had no intention of stopping. I was just riding through to take a look around.
Eugene had listed a third-floor apartment as his home address. No employer was given. He listed his occupation as entrepreneur. Had to give him credit. At least he knew how to spell entrepreneur.
I drove past his building, made a U-turn, and drove past a second time. It was a three-story brownstone, decorated with gang graffiti. Third-floor windows were painted black. Trash had collected around the front stoop. There were two bullet holes in a ground-floor window, and the surrounding brick was pocked with bullet holes.
I didn’t see Eugene out and about so I drove back down Stark to State Street and headed for home. I should have gone supermarket shopping, but I stopped at Giovichinni’s Deli and Meat Market on Hamilton instead. It was more expensive but a lot easier.
I went straight to the deli counter and got sliced ham, sliced turkey, provolone cheese, a tub of broccoli slaw, a tub of homemade meatballs in red sauce, and a tub of three-bean salad. I grabbed a loaf of bread, a bag of chips, a jar of olives, peanut butter, milk, Froot Loops for snacking, granola for breakfast, mixed nuts for Rex. Hot dogs and rolls in case I needed to feed Morelli and he wanted a hot meal. Frying up a hot dog was pretty much the extent of my culinary skills. I added a large can of baked beans to my cart and went to check out.
Patty Giovichinni was at the register. She was my mother’s age, and she was married to one of the many Giovichinni brothers.
She looked over the stuff on the belt. “No Bogart Bars?” she asked.
“Not for the rest of my life,” I said, choking up a little at the thought.
“So what did the guy look like when he fell out of the truck? Was he really covered in chocolate and nuts?”
“Yeah. He was frozen.”
“Did you get a picture?”
“No.”
“Too bad. A picture would have been good.”
I agreed. I should have thought to take a picture. Then again, did I really want to immortalize the horror? Truth is, I wanted to forget it. Blot it out of my mind. Erase the memory.
Mrs. Morganstern was behind me.
“I hear you tried to kill Eddie Gazarra,” she said to me. “I think that’s terrible.”
“I didn’t try to kill him,” I said. “Lula accidentally hit his cop car. Eddie wasn’t anywhere near it.”
“Such a nice young man,” Mrs. Morganstern said. “I hope they give him another car.”
I carted my stuff back to my SUV and drove home. It was late afternoon, and the old folks who lived in my apartment building had taken all the good spots close to the back door. A lot of the spots were designated handicapped. Getting a handicapped card in Jersey is a badge of honor. You get to screw the system because you aren’t really all that handicapped and at the same time you get a good parking place.
My hamster, Rex, was asleep in his soup can when I put the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. I tapped on his cage and told him I got Froot Loops, but he didn’t come out.
“Your loss, Mister,” I said.
Rex knew it wasn’t a loss. Rex knew he’d get the Froot Loops on his terms. This was pretty much true for all the males in my life…rodents and otherwise.
I put the stuff away, and someone knocked on my door. I looked out the peephole and didn’t see anyone. More knocking. I looked down and saw Randy Briggs.
Damn.
“I know you’re in there,” Briggs yelled. “I can hear you breathing.”
I opened the door and looked out at him. “Now what?” I asked.
“You gonna let me in?”
I stepped back. “I suppose.”
“Boy, that’s generous. I come to visit you, and you got all this enthusiasm. I’m fuckin’ overwhelmed.”
“I’m sort of busy.”