Some Like it Hot

by K. J. Larsen

  And my 9mm Glock was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I washed off the blood from the nasty bump on my forehead with hydrogen peroxide. It was a doozy. There would be no concealing this one with make-up. I found scissors and gave myself bangs.

  I counted to twenty. Ten doesn’t cut it with Devin. Then I took two aspirin and told myself I couldn’t kill Devin with my bare hands. I wasn’t convinced.

  I changed into a long-sleeved hoodie and threw on a pair of Nike pants and bombed over to Jack’s shop. Devin would be expecting me. I wondered if he’d have the courage to show up.

  Jack was in his office when I stomped in.

  “Caterina.”

  “Stay out of this, Jack. I’m coming for Devin.”

  “What did he do now?”

  “Forty-five minutes ago he broke in my house. He knocked me out and took my 9mm.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “The guy’s crazy, Jack,” I shrieked. “He’s got a gun.”

  Jack opened the inside door to the shop. “Devin. Can I see you a minute.”

  I didn’t wait five seconds. I charged past his uncle, into the shop.

  “Devin, show yourself, you miserable coward.”

  It sounded a bit like I was calling him out for a wild-west showdown. Except Devin had my gun.

  The weasel poked his head out from under a hood. “Hey, Cat. What’s up?”

  “You just broke in my house, dirtbag.”

  He sniffed. “Huh?”

  “You stole my gun. You gave me this.” I swept my hair back, exposing the wound.

  “Ouch,” Jack said.

  My teeth wouldn’t unclench. “I. Hate. Bangs.”

  Devin shrugged. “It wasn’t me. I was here.”

  “Liar!”

  Jack walked over to a time sheet on the wall. “Since eight this morning.”

  He did the finger-circle thing around his ear and jerked his head at me.

  “I’m not crazy,” I snapped. “I saw him.”

  “You couldn’t, ma’am,” a southern voice drawled. “Devin was here with me. We’re rebuilding this engine together.”

  It was Irene’s husband from the Marco Polo. Colby’s dad. There was an alarmed look in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let the crazy woman near his son anytime soon.

  Devin wheezed. “Like he said, Cat. I was here all bloody day.”

  When we were kids, Devin used to say his Indian name was He who snots a lot. His sinuses are his tell. He wheezes.

  I realized, at that moment, that the masked figure in my bedroom didn’t.

  ***

  I needed to get out of Bridgeport for a while. Somewhere where people didn’t know me well enough to think I was crazy.

  I changed into sweats and running shoes and my partner and I drove to the North Shore. I pounded the pavement hard, panting and exorcizing Devin from my shoulders.

  I breathed in the lake and the gorgeous Chicago skyline. Chicago is a runner’s paradise. The annual North Shore half marathon draws four thousand participants each year. Max is one of them. He wants me to join him next year. I dunno. I do my best running when bad guys are chasing me. I find I’m more inspired that way.

  The rigid discipline and commitment for training that marathons require is daunting, to say the least. But I promised Max I’d think about it. And I’ll think about it again on my way home, right after we stop for ice cream.

  I returned home, feeling balanced and much more relaxed. I took a shower, checked my emails, and hit the road for Cleo’s to help set up for Mrs. Millani’s bridge party.

  Cleo thought of everything. We loaded the Camry with a tantalizing assortment of appetizers, shortbread decorated like playing cards, and fruity Sangria. She even added hot wings in memory of Billy.

  We arrived at the Millani home an hour early, just behind Mama and her Italian cream cake. She wore a new red-and-white-print dress and patent leather, black mary janes that showed off her raven black hair. Mama is never late to a social event. She’s the eyes and ears of Bridgeport. People depend on her for advice and the latest gossip.

  “We don’t live by Ciabatta alone,” Mama states with every juicy tidbit.

  We set up the party in the gazebo off the patio. When we were kids, Becky and I helped her dad build it. We had some of our best Nancy Drew adventures there. She has her own family now, and we’re not as close as we once were. We don’t have a lot in common anymore.

  Becky was in the kitchen fixing her three year old a snack of grapes and cheese. She looked exhausted and pale. Evan clung to her jeans crying. He had a snotty nose.

  Mrs. Millani picked him up and he stopped. She said, “Becky and Tom are expecting a second baby in the spring.” She beamed. “It will be our first granddaughter.”

  “Wow, a girl,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  I went to hug her and tripped over Evan’s fire truck.

  Mama pulled a tissue from her bra and dabbed an eye. “You must be proud to have a daughter who gives you grandchildren.”

  Becky looked like she was going to throw up.

  “You have Sophie,” I reminded her. “The walking baby factory.”

  Mama fanned the tissue out and blew.

  I changed the subject. “I didn’t see you at Billy’s funeral, Becky.”

  She made a face. “Evan got sick at the last minute. I couldn’t take him to the sitter’s.”

  I filled her in on who was there and how our high school friends have changed in the last decade.

  “Remember Danno’s long hair?”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m seeing Jesus.”

  “I’m seeing Charles Manson. Anyway, the hair’s almost gone.”

  “Can’t picture him in a buzz cut.”

  “Balding. Big time. He parts what he has left over his ear and does a comb over. It so doesn’t work.”

  She laughed. “It never does.”

  “Remember that little nerdy guy in chemistry? Everyone wanted to sit by him and copy his answers.”

  She laughed. “That was just you. His name is Lee.”

  “Remember the senior prom? He must have asked a hundred girls. And still didn’t get a date.”

  “Well, he wasn’t afraid of being turned down.”

  “Lee’s not having trouble getting the ladies anymore.”

  Her mouth dropped. “He’s gorgeous?”

  “Nerdier than ever.”

  “Rich?”

  “Filthy. And still playing with his chemistry set. Lee’s company builds weapons of mass destruction for the military.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “We’re all getting together next week for Billy. Maybe bring pictures and get something to eat. I can pick you up, if you’d like, and we’ll go together.”

  “I’d love to. Let me know when and I’ll try to get away.”

  “Of course you can go,” Becky’s mom said. “I’ll take Evan for the night.”

  Becky gave her first broad smile. “Honestly, I wouldn’t trade my life with anyone. But there are definitely some things you miss when you have kids.” She laughed. “ Like going out. And sleeping in.”

  Mama fixed a practiced eye of mother guilt on me. “And there are definitely things you miss when you don’t have kids.”

  I mostly miss the morning sickness. And, of course, the joy of labor.

  “I still have time, Mama. I’m not dead yet.”

  “You’re thirty, Caterina. Your pipes are rusting.”

  “Who has rusty pipes?” Ken Millani walked in hearing dollar signs. “I’ll take a look at them.”

  “They’re not the kind of pipes you can fix, dear,” his wife said.

  Ken gave hugs around. Evan squirmed out of grandma’s ar
ms and into grandpa’s.

  “Can’t stay,” Ken said. “I saw Becky’s car and stopped by for a tickle.”

  He wiggled his fingers at Evan’s belly and the toddler squealed.

  “Stick around,” Becky said. “Mama’s having her bridge club over.”

  He kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Why do you think I’m running?”

  Ken handed his grandson to his mom and turned to me.

  “When can I put that other floor on your house, Cat? You need to marry that nice FBI agent. It’s too nice a house to not fill with children.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Mama did the sign of the cross and breathed.

  Becky kicked her dad.

  Ken’s eyes twinkled. “What?”

  I threw Evan’s fire truck at him, and he ducked out the door laughing.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The night was cold and clear. A full moon hung over Chicago. I wore Billy’s Philip Marlowe coat to the cemetery. The coat was baggy and his belt wrapped around me twice. I liked to think Billy was with us when we found Marilyn’s diamond earrings.

  Max obliterated the night padlock on the cemetery gate. He cut the headlights and closed the gate behind us.

  Navigating by moonlight, we followed the map the old man gave me earlier that day. We drove by countless statues to the Holy Mother and to the angels and blessed saints. But only one bird flickered in the night like a neon beer sign. It pulled us in.

  Max cut the engine and the four of us tumbled out of the Hummer and grabbed a shovel from the back. Alan’s tear-shaped marker had a carving of Mother Mary. Fresh flowers burst from a vase shaped as a magician’s hat. Alan’s parents spared no expense saying good bye to their son.

  The four of us stood over Alan Mitchell’s grave. I don’t know what the others were thinking. But there I was, in the company of Al Capone and Bugs Moran and the ghosts of the mafia from days gone by. I, for one, was thinking, move over, guys. I am so going to hell for this.

  I cut a sideways glance at Cristina. She was chewing her lip. She really didn’t get the cause and effect thing. She took no responsibility for her part in Mitchell’s death. Mostly she looked as if she was going to be sick. The last time she saw Alan Mitchell he was freshly dead. She really didn’t want to see how he looks now.

  The ground was cold and hard. My breathing was labored and my shoulders ached. Max hadn’t broken a sweat. He swung a shovel as effortlessly as a child in a sandbox. Cleo groaned with each scoop. Women have given birth with less theatrics.

  “Try taking bigger shovelfuls,” Cristina sang from her perch on a tombstone.

  Cleo gasped for breath. “If there’s room in that casket, she’s going in.”

  Cristina shuddered. “Remember those ghost stories we told when we were kids? There’s always a cemetery at night under a full moon.”

  I glanced at the sky. When I looked down again, Cristina was beside me. Her nails dug deep into my hand.

  “Something moved out there. Did you see it?”

  “That’s gonna leave a mark,” I said prying her fingers loose. “And yes, I saw the possum.”

  “It had horrible yellow eyes,” she whispered shrilly. “It was four feet tall.”

  “Ghosts don’t have yellow eyes,” Cleo said wisely. “Zombies do.”

  Cristina trembled.

  I heard Max smile. “Relax, you’re putting yourselves into your own frightmare. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Next he’ll be telling us there’s no Easter Bunny,” I said.

  Cristina wrapped her arms around herself. “I didn’t know this would be dangerous.”

  Max said, “You’re in a cemetery under a full moon. You’re digging up a corpse and robbing his grave. I can’t speak for the Pope, but Lutherans go to hell for this.”

  “How’s that for dangerous?” Cleo winked.

  “What if we’re caught?” Cristina whined.

  I did some calculating. “If the boys in blue appear, it’ll cost a night in jail, a stiff fine, long humiliating hours of community service, and a court appointed psychiatric evaluation.”

  Cristina said, “I can fake crazy real well. Just sayin’.”

  Cleo said, “If Cristina doesn’t start shoveling, we snag the earrings, smash her head with a shovel, and bury her in the coffin with her friend.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Max said.

  “I’m in this for Billy,” I said. “Suit yourselves.”

  Cristina made a little whimper and picked up her shovel.

  When I was pretty sure my arms were falling off, I took a break. I walked over to the Hummer where Cleo had set up Tino’s moonlight supper. There was enough food to raise the dead. I chose a turkey sandwich, Italian cookies, and a flask of hot coffee. And a few of my Oreo cookies.

  I wandered a bit with my flashlight and ate my supper with the bones of Harry Bengston. Harry was a casualty of war. He died in Korea before my parents were born.

  I listened to the stillness around me. Occasional hum of passing cars but the bones were at rest. No sound in the air but the schiff-chuff of our shovels and the flying globs of earth landing on a pile.

  Our hearty dig to China.

  I set out a sandwich and two cookies for the possum. When I reached for my shovel again, a scruff in the darkness turned my blood cold. I signaled the others to listen. There it was again. A rustle of dead leaves. A boot, perhaps, brushing against a stone. I didn’t know about the others, but I hoped it was Harry getting some air.

  “Yellow eyes,” Cristina whispered hoarsely.

  “The cops are here,” Max said. “Busted.”

  “They don’t have us yet.” Cleo patted her pockets wildly. “My gun. I don’t have my gun.”

  Cleo’s not having a gun is always a good thing.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re not going to shoot your way out of a cemetery.”

  Cristina wielded her shovel like a weapon. “Show your yellow eyes.”

  “She’s not going to do well with the psychiatric evaluation,” Max said.

  “Someone stole my freakin’ gun,” Cleo shrieked.

  “Neither will Cleo,” he said.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  A muffled voice shot out of the darkness. “Chicago Police. You are under arrest. Lay down your weapons and raise your hands above your heads.”

  Cleo complied. Cristina’s hands shot up. Max and I looked at each other.

  “Do something, Cat,” Cleo said furiously. “Jail sucks.”

  “You would know,” Max said.

  I held onto my shovel. “Show yourself. We have no reason to drop anything until we see your identification.”

  “You go, girl,” Cleo cheered reaching for the stars.

  “Here’s a reason. There’s a small cannon directed at your face.”

  “That’ll do.” I dropped the shovel like a hot potato and my hands grasped at a big, yellow moon.

  Frankie stepped from the shadows. Cleo howled and everyone laughed but me.

  I looked at Max, still holding his shovel.

  “He wasn’t scary enough,” he said.

  “He’s crazy enough. You weren’t concerned about the cannon?”

  Max shrugged. “He said it was small. Mine is bigger.”

  I smiled. “Bummer for Cleo.”

  Frankie tromped over all macho-like and reached for my shovel. “Take a break, girls. The guys got this.”

  I defended the metal in my hands like mama’s cannoli recipe. “I hope you brought your own.”

  He stripped the shovel from my hands. “Yours is warm already.”

  Frankie winked at Cleo, and plunged the shovel deep into the earth with unrelenting vigor.

  “Frankie has stamina,” Cleo sighed.

  “That’s som
ething,” I said.

  I worked my biceps dunking Oreos in hot coffee. We measured their progress as body parts sank from sight. They were deep in the hole with piles of dirt on both sides, dark heads dropping from view when the clank of metal on metal caught my breath.

  “We’re at the casket,” Max called.

  “Yee haw!” Cleo said.

  Oreos scattered and we raced to cheer them on. Cristina crossed her fingers. “We’ll soon know if Alan took the earrings with him.”

  Cleo glanced around uneasily. “Do you suppose he’s watching?”

  Cristina looked around for yellow eyes. “Who?”

  “You know who,” Cleo flicked her head toward the casket. “I hope he’s not mad at us for being here.”

  I spelled it out for Cristina. “Cleo wonders if Alan Mitchell knows we’re out here in the middle of the night, stomping the shit out of his daisies, tossing him about like a jack-in-the-box, and robbing his grave. And if he knows, does he care?”

  Cristina leaned over the hole and spoke slowly in a really loud voice. “This is all Cat’s fault.”

  “I’m sure he heard that,” I said.

  I know the neighbors did.

  “Do you really think so?”

  Cristina didn’t want to know what I really thought. I’d spent two hours in a cemetery under a full moon, something no reasonably sane person would do. I was getting punchy. Catholic voices from my childhood warned me that desecrating the dead is one of those go-directly-to-hell-do-not-pass-go kinds of sins. While this wasn’t the only unpardonable sin I’ve committed, it could be the first that didn’t involve alcohol.

  Shovels jammed the earth. Dirt flew. Finally the guys stood before a once-shiny silver box.

  “It’s a casket alright,” my rocket-scientist cousin announced.

  Max placed his hands under the lid. “Drum roll, please.”

  We didn’t breathe. Slowly, the coffin opened.

  And so it was that a glorious moon was to shine on Alan Mitchell once again, four years after his death.

  We leaned over the hole and flashed a light inside. Dark, eyes sockets stared back at us. Boney fingers clasped over his chest.