Arnie Bloomfield shook his head wearily. “You don’t wanna know. My life was crap, and it was just getting worse. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck in a rut. Then when Ira showed up at my office one day, it was like God sending me an angel.”
“So what was so wrong with your life that you needed to bail out?” Julius asked.
“Everything,” Arnie said glumly. “At the time, believe it or not, our business was doing terribly. Ben and Jerry’s was killing us in every major market. And Barry had turned into a real SOB. It got to the point where I couldn’t stand the sight of him. On top of that, physically I felt miserable. See, I was the one who used to develop all the new flavors, and my health was suffering because of it. My doctor told me I’d drop dead within a year if I didn’t stop eating ice cream.”
“But we saw you buying doughnuts last night,” Marvelli pointed out.
“It was a splurge,” Arnie said. “I hardly ever eat junk food. Not really.”
“This is why you switched identities with Krupnick?” Vissa said. “Because of your health? You could’ve just gotten out of the business if it was killing you.”
Berman looked down at the tabletop, suddenly sheepish. “Well, there was one other thing.”
Everyone in the room leaned forward, waiting to hear.
“Margot,” he said, heaving a deep sigh. “She and I had lived together for twelve years, but that was falling apart, too. I wanted to split up, but she threatened to sue me if I ever left her.”
“But you weren’t married,” Marvelli said.
“Palimony!” Berman said as if it should be self-evident. “And remember, we were living in California. They have a looser interpretation of the law out there, which is not always good for the man, if you know what I mean.”
Garrett nodded emphatically.
“Ira Krupnick was having the same sort of problem here in Jersey,” Berman said. “Except on a grander scale because he was worth millions. At least that’s what he told me. He said he had an ex-wife who was trying to suck him dry, and he just couldn’t sit back and let that happen. When he saw how much we looked alike, he came to me and asked if I’d consider doing a switcheroo. Since I was at the end of my own rope, I jumped at the idea.”
“Just like that?” Vissa seemed doubtful.
“Well … ” Berman hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Krupnick did offer certain incentives.”
“What kind of incentives?” Vissa asked.
“Well, basically … cash.”
“How much cash?” Marvelli asked.
Berman looked to his lawyer, but before Garrett could speak for his client, Julius cut in. “Cooperation is the name of the game here. You help us find Krupnick, we don’t call the IRS. Comprende?”
Garrett nodded for his client to answer the question. Berman took a deep breath. “Two hundred thousand,” he exhaled.
“He actually gave you that much money?” Vissa asked.
Berman nodded guiltily. “In two suitcases.”
“Did he tell you where the money came from?” Vissa continued. “Did he say anything about his prior involvement in drug dealing, arms dealing, armed robbery? Anything like that?”
Berman’s eyes widened. “No. He told me he was trying to hold on to his money because he had six kids from a first marriage. He said the witch was trying to take him for everything he had. He was worried about his kids.”
Loretta studied Berman’s face, trying to see if he was lying. He seemed sincere. She studied Vissa’s and Marvelli’s faces, too. Vissa seemed to be totally focused on Berman, but her body language was directed entirely toward Marvelli, as if she were trying to suck him in. Marvelli seemed oblivious, though. He was more worried about his pint of Arnie and Barry’s, which was still on the other side of the table in front of Berman.
“Do you know where we can find Krupnick?” Julius asked Berman.
The fat man glanced at his lawyer.
“Will my client get total immunity from prosecution in exchange for his cooperation in your investigation?” Garrett asked.
“He doesn’t need it,” Julius said. “As far as I can tell, he hasn’t committed any crimes. I’m just gonna assume he paid his taxes on that money he got from Krupnick.”
The lawyer took Julius’s meaning, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “How about aiding and abetting in any crimes Krupnick has committed since the switch or is currently committing?”
Julius stroked his goatee. “I’ll have to talk to someone from the prosecutor’s office. Granting immunity is not my thing. But let’s put it this way. If your client agrees to provide us with useful information regarding Krupnick, and if there’s no indication that he profited in any way from Krupnick’s subsequent scams, then I see no reason why your client won’t get immunity.”
“I just don’t want this getting to the press,” Berman said. “I don’t want Margot to find me.”
Julius and Marvelli nodded in agreement. Vissa gave them both a raised eyebrow. Loretta tended to agree with Vissa—Margot should find the bum.
“So tell us. Where is Krupnick?” Julius asked.
Berman hesitated for a moment, thinking it over one last time before he spoke. “He’s living in San Francisco,” he finally said. “In the Haight-Ashbury district.”
“Isn’t that where all the hippies used to live in the sixties?” Marvelli asked.
“Yeah,” Berman said. “Now all the middle-aged yuppie-hippies live there. Liberals with money. A lot of gray ponytails.”
“Are you willing to put this in writing?” Julius asked.
Garrett jumped in. “May I consult with my client for a moment before we continue?”
“Sure. Whatever you want,” Julius said. He stood up and crooked a finger at Marvelli and Vissa, calling them over to the side of the room next to the one-way mirror. They huddled together, just inches away from Loretta. Even though she realized that they didn’t know she was there, she leaned back anyway to maintain her personal space. Julius had his back to the glass. Vissa and Marvelli were facing him—and Loretta—with their backs to Berman and Garrett.
“So what do you think?” Julius asked them.
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Vissa said.
Marvelli nodded. “I have to agree.”
Julius let out a slow breath. “Well, it looks like you two will be going out to Hippie Heaven.”
Marvelli frowned. “Why do I have to go?”
Julius shrugged. “Like it or not, you’re on this case now, O Marvelous One. I want you to see it through.”
“But—”
“No arguments, Marvelli. Krupnick is a serious dude. He shouldn’t be out and about.”
“But—”
“Stop butting, Marvelli. Your die is cast. You are going to San Fran.”
“But what about my daughter?” Marvelli objected. “Who’s gonna watch her?”
“Her grandmother,” Julius said as if it were self-evident. “Doesn’t your former mother-in-law stay with Nina every time you have to go out of town?”
Marvelli didn’t answer. He knew there was going to be no way out of this.
Vissa flashed a sly grin at him. “Don’t worry, Marvelli. Frisco’s a nice town. We may actually have some fun out there.”
Loretta’s eyes narrowed. What the hell did Vissa mean by that? But suddenly something else caught Loretta’s eye. At the conference table Garrett had bent down to get something out of his briefcase, which was sitting on the floor next to him, and while he was turned away, Berman picked up Marvelli’s pint of ice cream and tossed it into a nearby wastepaper basket. It hit with a metallic clunk that made everyone take notice.
Instantly Berman put on an innocent face. “Sorry,” he said to Marvelli. “I knocked it over with my elbow. It was an accident.”
Loretta frowned. What the hell was that all about?
6
Three thousand miles away the real Ira Krupnick was stretched out on a cushy white-and-beige-striped couch that was
positioned directly under a skylight. His eyes were closed against the rays beaming down on his face, his fingers linked behind his head as if he were sunning himself on the beach. His partner, Barry Utley, the other half of Arnie and Barry’s, was pacing the carpet like a mad rhino, ranting about something or other, shouting at him and calling him “Arnie.” But “Arnie” wasn’t listening. “Arnie” was thinking like Ira now because in his mind he’d never stopped being Ira, and Ira was thinking about something else. He was thinking about sex. Specifically, he was thinking about having sex with Barry’s wife, Dorie.
Krupnick rolled his head to the side and squinted against the sun so he could see Dorie sitting on the matching striped couch on the other side of the living room. Dorie was a cool blonde, not too smart but very sweet and very affectionate. A classic California girl, but kind of sly and cunning without really knowing it. She had brown eyes and light hair, which was a dynamite combination in his book. And freckles. He liked freckles on women.
The stripes on the couch reminded Krupnick of prison stripes, which in turn reminded him that Dorie had done some time at a women’s correctional facility. The thought of her behind bars made him even hornier than he already was. Women in cages. He wished he had known Dorie back then. He would’ve married her for the conjugal visits alone. Sex behind bars was an awfully tasty thought—as long as he was the one getting out at the end of the day.
“Listen to me, Arnie,” Barry squawked. “We have to expand our product line. That’s all there is to it.” Barry was waving his arms like an insane symphony conductor. “We can’t depend solely on the profits from Elmer Fudge Whirl. That’s just plain bad business, Arnie.”
Krupnick just stared at Barry as if he were yelling at someone else. Even though he’d gotten used to answering to the name Arnie Bloomfield, Krupnick never became Arnie Bloomfield. It just wasn’t him.
“Arnie, we need to work on the flavors, add some new ones. Fudge Whirl is not forever.”
Yes it is, Krupnick thought. He arched his back and stretched.
“We need to develop the next Elmer Fudge Whirl,” Barry said.
Krupnick squinted at him. The man looked like a big angry potato. His lumpy head just sat on his shoulders with no neck at all. He had tiny little eyes, and the hair that was left on his head was sort of like Larry’s in the Three Stooges. As far as Krupnick was concerned, Barry was Mr. Tuber.
“I realize that creating the flavors is your thing, Arnie, but we have to do something before it’s too late. Our vanilla base is blah, our coffee doesn’t taste like coffee, and frankly our strawberry tastes like sweet plastic. If we don’t get on this right away, we won’t be here in five years.”
Amen, Krupnick thought. He looked over at Dorie, who was looking out the window at the row of painted ladies across the street. Haight-Ashbury was full of these brightly painted Victorian houses, the painted ladies. Krupnick thought of them as Easter eggs because of the colors. The practice of painting them like this started with the original hippies, and now the old bourgeois hippies were keeping up the tradition. Arnie Bloomfield had been one of those old hippies. That’s why Krupnick had grown the ponytail and repainted the house beet red with orange and yellow trim.
“Hey, Dorie,” he said, stretching his arms lazily. “Did you know that Grace Slick used to live in this house? With some guy, I think.”
“Who?” she said, her eyes suddenly wide as if he’d just woken her up.
“Never mind,” he said, slightly disappointed. He kept forgetting how young she was. She didn’t know who the Jefferson Airplane were. Her frame of reference started with the Police.
“Do I know this Grace person, Arnie?” Dorie asked.
“I don’t think so,” Krupnick said.
“Is she still with the guy?”
“I doubt it.”
Moby Potato was about to blow. “Screw Grace Slick!” Barry exploded. “What the hell’s wrong with you two? I’m talking serious here.”
Krupnick glared at him. “This is my house, Barry,” he said quietly. “Don’t yell. Only I yell in my house.”
Barry glared back at him, giving him that look. Barry, of course, knew about the switch Krupnick had made with the real Arnie Bloomfield, and so he thought he had something on Krupnick. But Barry was a putz. He liked to throw his weight around, but he was just a lot of noise. In seven years they’d never really had it out over anything, mainly because Barry was smart enough not to cross his new partner. Ira Krupnick had a way about him that Arnie Bloomfield never had. Sort of like a Komodo dragon—surprisingly big, old enough to make you think twice, and just plain dangerous.
“I like what you did with the living room,” Dorie said. “White and beige with ficus trees. It’s a nice improvement.”
Barry turned his glare on his wife, but she was oblivious. Krupnick grinned. He knew that Dorie didn’t give rat’s ass about the new decor. She just brought it up to change the subject and hopefully defuse a fight. But Krupnick could see what Barry was thinking. The new decor was an improvement over what? How did she know what was here before? The Utleys had been here once since he’d bought the place three years ago, but she seemed a little more intimate with the place than she should have been. That’s because she was, Krupnick thought.
“I redid the master bedroom, too,” Krupnick said with an evil grin. He wanted her to say, “I know,” but she just nodded, running a lazy hand through her hair as she went back to staring out the window.
The big angry potato sat down on the coffee table and leaned into Krupnick’s face. “You think you control me,” he hissed. “You think you’ve got me over a barrel. Well, you don’t. You may have the formula to Fudge Whirl, but there’s more to this company than just one flavor.”
“Oh, yeah? What?” Krupnick’s eyes were closed. He was smiling at the sun.
“I’m sick of the games, Arnie. Either we run this thing like a business, or we sell it. I’m tired of this secret-formula crap. What do you think this is? A Vincent Price movie?”
“I like Vincent Price movies. You ever see Theatre of Blood}”
“Sell me the formula, Arnie, and you can retire. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To do nothing. Just name your price.”
Krupnick laughed softly as he shook his head. It’s not that simple, he thought. Well, actually it is. But really it isn’t. Yin, yang.
“Come on, Arnie. Don’t be a pain. Sell me the Fudge Whirl formula and retire. Then I can hire someone else to create new flavors. I want to build this company into something great, something that’ll last. I don’t want to go down in history as a one-flavor wonder.”
Krupnick shaded his eyes and stared at him. “Barry,” he said, “you are one serious freakin’ potato.”
“What?”
“Not important,” Krupnick muttered, suddenly distracted. A massive cloud had just crossed the sun, blocking it out entirely. It wasn’t a storm cloud, but it wasn’t a white, fluffy one either. It was sort of dingy gray and definitely sinister. He took this as a bad sign.
“Arnie, we have to do some—”
“Stop!” Krupnick thrust out his hand like a traffic cop, holding Barry off. “I have to think.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
The writing’s on the wall, he thought. The signs are making themselves clear. Can’t stick around here much longer. Gotta move on. A person’s luck changes every seven years, and it’s been just about seven years since the switch with Arnie Bloomfield. Bad luck is coming. Gotta be someone else soon.
He opened his eyes and glanced at Dorie, her face in profile. He loved those freckles.
“What’s the problem, Arnie?” Barry said without sympathy. “What? Do you have a headache?”
Krupnick clenched his jaw. “I said I’m thinking.”
Barry backed off, sliding his big butt to the other end of the coffee table.
Dorie was gazing out the window, not paying any attention to either her husband or her lover. It didn’t bother her
one bit that they were all together in one room. It was as if she were somewhere else. La-di-da.
Krupnick was thinking hard. There was still a lot of money to be made with Elmer Fudge Whirl, but money didn’t matter to him. He could always make money. Freedom, mobility, change—that’s what was important. If you stop, you die—that’s what he’d always believed.
Just take enough cash to get started again, he thought. That’s all. And Dorie, of course.
He looked down at his crotch. He could feel himself growing even though he couldn’t see anything through his jeans. Easy, boy, he thought. He was thinking about a threesome with Dorie and Sunny. Dorie had said no the first time he’d suggested it, but he could tell she was curious. He hadn’t mentioned it since, but she knew the offer was still on the table.
The thought of having Dorie and Sunny together made him light-headed. He thought about their hair on the same pillow, white blond mixed with ebony black. Yin and yang. The harmony of opposites. The joy of cooking.
He shifted his hips to make some room in his pants. Women—there were so many of them … so many he’d missed out on when he was younger. He sighed, wishing he’d started younger, wishing he’d had more. He felt like a failure on that front, not enough names on his resume. Not nearly enough.
He looked down at his crotch again. So what were we thinking back then? he said to Eugene, which was what he’d always called it. That we were being good? How stupid could we be?
“Arnie! Talk to me!” Barry barked.
Krupnick closed one eye and stared at the big potato. “Wait!” he snapped.
This was suddenly turning into a very bad scene. Negativity from the past was creeping into his present. He had to talk to Sunny right away, have her throw the I Ching for him, get some direction, find out where to go next. She’d give him some ideas.
He slowly put his feet on the floor and sat up, finally ready to deal with Barry. “Hey, Dorie,” he said, looking past his partner, “would you mind getting us something to drink? You know where the kitchen is, don’t you? It’s through that door—”
Hot Fudge (A Loretta Kovacs thriller) Page 5
