by Curt Weeden
“What?” Twyla asked.
Conway used his beer can to point at his wife. “She’s Pentecostal,” he explained.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Twyla turned to Ida. “You don’t look old enough for the change.”
Had Conway announced his wife was dying from rickets, Twyla could not have been more sympathetic.
Ida ignored Twyla and her husband. She had locked on to me and wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Don’t be tempted to side with the devil.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised. “But like I said, I just want to make sure the man sitting in jail actually killed Benjamin Kurios.”
Conway ran a dirty fingernail through his two-day-old beard. “What more evidence do y’all want? A couple of kids saw the whole thing.”
“Not exactly. No one actually saw Kurios get killed. What they saw was what happened afterward.”
“What they saw,” Conway interjected, “was your friend carryin’ a cross that he’d just used to put a hole in Kurios’s head.”
Ida’s dull eyes turned electric. “Do you believe, Mr. Bullet?”
Oh, oh. This was a classic have-you-stopped-believing-in-Jesus question my missionary friends loved to throw at agnostics like me. It was usually a starter for a philosophical debate, but that’s not where I intended to go with Ida Kyzwoski.
“Are you asking if I’m a Christian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Really doesn’t matter what you or I believe,” I said. “Every human being comes with a twenty percent margin of error.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That people aren’t smart enough to know a hundred percent of anything. So there’s a twenty percent chance that whatever I believe is probably wrong.”
Ida was predictably confused.
“You’d be well advised to get back to the Bible,” she said.
“I’ll consider that.”
“And you should stay away from the man who killed Dr. Kurios. Remember Revelation 22:12. ‘My reward is with Me to render to every man according to what he has done.’ Do something that God will look kindly on. Helping a man who killed somebody who was the Lord’s spokesman isn’t a step toward heaven.”
“I understand.” It could have been the Miller Lite or the fact that Ida Kyzwoski was giving me the jitters—whatever, my bladder felt bigger than the Wayside pool. I needed to find a toilet, not God. I took Twyla’s arm, threw out some excuse about why we had to leave, and then made a quick exit.
We stopped at the Mitsubishi, picked up our luggage, and headed for our respective rooms. It would have been an opportune time to coach Twyla on what not to say about the Zeus situation. But peeing was more pressing, so I said nothing as she wiggled off with her pink and yellow overnighter in tow. There was another reason I kept my mouth shut. A little part of me didn’t want to deflate the woman’s excitement over being deputized as part of my Zeusenoerdorf investigation team. After all, when Twyla high-heeled her way into my life, she knew nothing about my truth-finding mission. Now that she was up to her thong in detective work, I sensed she liked being part of something that didn’t require a prophylactic. Or was I reading her wrong? The niggling idea that there was more to Twyla than just a voluptuous exterior worked its way back into my head. But it was a thought quickly pushed aside when my brain got an SOS from my panicked sphincter muscle.
Doc, Maurice, Twyla, and I had identical Wayside accommodations—twenty-by-twenty rooms complete with twin beds and bad lighting. We were lined up in a row with Tyson and the professor in the middle and Twyla and me as the bookends. When the team finished unpacking, we reboarded the Mitsubishi and headed for the first inexpensive restaurant I could find. It was after six o’clock and no one had eaten anything since downing a quick snack before our liftoff from Newark. I settled on a pizza joint called My Way or the Pie Way.
After a large pepperoni and a pitcher of beer, I drove back to the Wayside and discovered the occupants in the room to my left, separated by the thinnest of walls, were none other than the Kyzwoskis. For a while, the only noise I heard was A-Frame pounding the hell out of Noah. But in time, the boys’ ruckus was out amplified by Conway and Ida.
“Ain’t gonna listen to your bullshit about hell and damnation!” Conway screamed. I heard the squeal of the motel room door as Kyzwoski ripped it open.
“You got eyes for her!” Ida yelled back. “You think I’m that stupid! Go ahead and hurt me like you done before! Hurt your family! It’s not me or your sons you need worry about. Y’all got God to reckon with!”
I clenched my jaw waiting for Conway to slam the door. He wasn’t about to leave without firing a few more shots.
“Woman, you keep on pushin’ me and I’ll splatter you like duck turd on a rock!”
“Y’all ain’t gotta beat me to make me hurt! Your adultery takes care of that!”
“I don’t wanna hear it!”
“Matthew 5. But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart!”
Finally, I thought. A passage from the Bible I knew, thanks to an old Playboy interview with Jimmy Carter.
“Best thing y’all can do with that Bible of yours is to stick it where even God can’t get the sun to shine!”
The Wayside door slammed shut. Through the cheesecloth curtains in my room, I watched Conway clamber into his Dodge Ram flatbed loaded with a white aluminum camper shell. Best I could figure was that this was where A-Frame and his brother were stowed whenever the Kyzwoski family hit the road.
I listened to Ida’s whimpering for about a half hour. Then things went quiet. I drifted off into a restless sleep.
At one a.m., I woke in a sweat. At first, I blamed the barely functioning air conditioner for making the room so warm. Then I realized it was something else that sounded an alarm. After yanking on my jeans, loafers, and a tee shirt, I walked outside into a clammy Florida night that was actually cooler than my Wayside quarters. It didn’t matter—I was still all perspiration and a few seconds later, I knew why.
Every room was dark except mine and Twyla’s. A gusher of My Way or the Pie Way mozzarella bubbled up my esophagus. If Twyla were maimed or worse, I’d be spending the rest of my life running from Manny Maglio and whichever of his associates didn’t happen to be doing time. I tapped on Twyla’s door. I was hoping for the improbable—that she had fallen asleep before clicking off the twenty-five-watt lightbulb.
Twyla opened the door no more than a foot. “Oh, hi, Bullet.” She had cocooned herself in a blanket and her hair was blonde spaghetti gone wild.
“I thought—” I started. “Your light was on and I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“Ohhh. You’re such a sweetheart.”
There was enough of an opening for me to catch a glimpse of everything I needed to see. A fifty-dollar bill lay flat on the dilapidated table by the window and a man’s foot stuck out from under the top sheet of the bed. Doc Waters? No, this wasn’t the kind of refined foot that I assumed Doc might have. It was more simian. Then there was the odor—a mix of Twyla’s cheap perfume, cigar smoke, and Valvoline motor oil.
“All right, then,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I was feeling relief, confusion or disgust. “Remember, I’m responsible for you while you’re in Florida, Twyla. Call me if you get yourself in a fix.”
“I will,” she promised. “Know what?”
“What?”
“A gotta feeling that you’re a real special man.”
“Not really.”
“Doc told me you were married once,” she said. “Your wife died, he said.”
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I can tell you still love her. After all these years, you haven’t forgotten. What it means to really love somebody, I mean.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right.”
“Yeah, I am,” Twyla said knowingly. “There’s something else. You care about me. I mean
, in a good way and all. From what I can tell, you care about lots of people who don’t usually get the time of day from just about nobody. See? These are the things that make you special.”
It could have been the hot night or the blush making a return visit. My face was warm.
“Well, just be careful,” I cautioned.
“I sure will. G’night, Bullet.” Twyla blew me a kiss and gently shut the door.
I spotted Conway Kyzwoski’s truck parked several spots down from Twyla’s room. One of the few lights in the Wayside parking lot illuminated the vehicle and made it easy to read the bumper sticker slapped on the tail end: God’s Messenger: Benjamin Kurios.
I retreated to my room and tried thinking about tomorrow rather than what was happening in Twyla’s room. All that got me was a bad dream.
Chapter 5
“I worked it out.” Doug Kool’s I-can-do-anything air triggered my gag reflex. “A woman named Agnes works in women’s apparel at Nordstrom’s. Ask for her.”
It was the morning of my second day in Orlando, and there wasn’t a lot to do before delivering Twyla to Universal Studios at three p.m. But the prospect of picking out clothes for Manny Maglio’s niece didn’t thrill me.
“No charge for whatever goes out the door,” Doug explained. “But whoever the hell Agnes is—she gets the final say. Nordstrom’s willing to foot the bill—but there’s a limit.”
“Fine.”
“Remember, Bullet, this was your call,” my pal reminded me. “You’re the one who thinks Twyla should look like Miss Prim.”
I didn’t appreciate getting blamed instead of stroked for suggesting Twyla needed a makeover. I liked even less the extra day and night I was stuck in Orlando, waltzing around a blood relative of a mob boss.
“So, how’d your little jailhouse confab go?” Doug asked, trying to defuse my aggravation.
The tactic didn’t work. I gave Doug an abbreviated account of yesterday’s developments, but my delivery was close to caustic. The saga of the blue car slamming into the white van came out sounding too much like a CSI episode.
“Think your boy’s telling the truth?” was Doug’s reaction.
“He’s not my boy.”
“He’s a Looney Tune is what he is.”
“He’s not a liar.”
“People who play with half a deck tend to see and hear strange things,” Doug reminded me.
“Not the kind of things Zeus talked about yesterday afternoon.”
“If you say so,” Doug said in a tone that meant you’re an idiot. “So where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know. Thinking about next steps isn’t easy when the rest of the morning has to be spent looking for ladies’ garments!”
“I feel your pain,” Doug said. “Look, maybe I can help with the Zeus situation. There are a few people in Orlando who have a knack for poking around. Could be I might get you a lead on the van that supposedly had a disagreement with a bridge abutment.”
Doug and the devil had a lot in common. Take something from Satan and he holds a mortgage on your soul. Take something from Doug and it’s an account payable that’s going to be collected somewhere down the line. If I accepted his offer of help, I’d be signing an I-owe-you. Still, there was no denying that Douglas was connected to people in all the right—and wrong—places.
“Yeah, okay. See what you can find out.”
“Will do. And good luck this morning. Make sure you’re at Universal on time this afternoon.”
I huffed into the phone.
“Oh, and Bullet, after you and Twyla finish at Universal, give me a call.”
Doug’s final words perked up my watch-out antennae. “Why?” I croaked. But all I got in return was a dial tone.
Agnes
I ran my eyes up from the stylish nametag to the face of a woman who looked like Miss Vateroli, my first-grade teacher—the Ayatollah Homeni of America’s public school system.
“Mr. Bullock?” Agnes had one of those voices that was so husky you couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
“Yes, ma’am.” At Hampton Meadows Elementary School, this is when I usually wet my pants. I brought my legs together and squeezed.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
I hand-signaled my squad to move forward. The troops paraded single file behind Agnes as she headed toward a semiprivate nook. Bringing up the rear was Yigal Rosenblatt, who had decided to make a day of it with his newfound friends. Apparently, building a defense for Miklos Zeusenoerdorf didn’t require a lot of time.
“I’ve been given instructions to provide you with personal services—” Agnes began but suddenly stopped and gasped for breath when she took in a full view of Manny Maglio’s niece. “Oh dear.”
“I think someone called you about helping Twyla here with her wardrobe,” I said.
“Twyla?” Agnes wheezed. “They told me to expect a Miss Tharp.”
“That’s right. Twyla Tharp.”
“But Twyla Tharp does the Joffrey—the American Ballet Theatre.” Agnes began hyperventilating in a refined sort of way.
“This is a different Twyla,” I explained. The understatement of the morning.
Agnes’s confusion quickly gave way to suspicion. “May I have a word in private?” She led me to a neutral corner. “Mr. Bullock, do you have so much as an iota of fashion sense?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your friend—”
I read between the lines and corrected Agnes on the spot. “She’s not my friend. She’s the niece of someone with a lot of influence. I was asked to chaperone her for a couple of days.”
“Do you have any idea of what she’s wearing?”
“From what Ms. Tharp told me, it’s a liquid metallic tank dress that she ordered from a Ten Thousand Temptations catalogue. I don’t know where she got the shoes, though. She calls them centerfold spike heels.”
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Agnes asked.
The mere thought of playing a practical joke on someone who was a carbon copy of my first-grade teacher made me shiver. “No.”
Agnes studied me carefully. “If this isn’t some kind of boorish trick, then we have a great deal of work to do.”
“I think you’ll find Ms. Tharp to be a very easy customer.”
“First, she’s hardly a customer. She’s paying for nothing, from what I’ve been told. Second, easy is exactly what she looks like.”
I released a low whistle, a tension-releasing habit that got its start thirty-five years ago when my grade school teacher walked into the classroom with a three-foot toilet comet stuck to one of her Red Cross shoes. For that little transgression I got thirty minutes in a corner. I wondered what the penalty might be now.
“This is all extra work for me,” Agnes snarled. “If I suspect this is some mean-spirited attempt to humiliate me, you and your friends will be shown the door. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do. This is not a practical joke, I promise.”
Agnes marched back to Twyla and yanked her into the women’s dressing room. The rest of us milled aimlessly around racks of women’s garments for the next hour. Occasionally, we saw Agnes carry several armfuls of clothing in and out of the dressing room. The woman was flushed and one side of her bun had come loose. When she finally brought Twyla back to us, Manny Maglio’s niece was still wearing her tank dress with built-in shelf bra.
“I have good news and bad news,” Agnes announced.
“There’s good news?”
“Some. I found two outfits that will make Ms. Tharp presentable for most kinds of office work. The first is a Donna Morgan bouclé skirt suit. It has a Peter Pan collar with rounded lapels.”
Agnes waited for a reaction. Nothing.
“The second is a Kenneth Cole pantsuit. The jacket has a Mandarin collar and button-loop. It’s trimmed with printed charmeuse.”
Not one of us knew what Agnes was talking about.
“Ms. Tharp and I found it difficult to agre
e on shoes,” Agnes said. “She favors the spiked heel and I tend to be more conformist.”
Doc, Yigal, and I inspected Agnes’s plain brown flats. We shook our heads in agreement.
“We settled on a pair of Via Spiga pumps,” Agnes said. “Plus a very expensive pair of Bruno Magli Doolittles.”
“I told Agnes I didn’t want the shoes because they remind me of my uncle,” Twyla interjected.
“Your uncle?” Doc Waters asked.
“Uncle Manny. Manny Maglio.”
“These are Bruno Magli Doolittles, not Maglios,” Agnes said. “In fact, I’m not familiar with the Maglio line. Is he a designer?”
Twyla looked at Agnes like she was from Zanzibar. “Manny Maglio. The Mob boss. He’s a thief and a murderer. You’ve heard of him, right, Bullet?”
Doug had warned me that Twyla was never, ever to know I had a connection to Uncle Manny. I tried playing dumb.
“I’ve heard of him, of course.” Then I threw in a lie. “I had no idea you were Mr. Maglio’s niece, Twyla.”
“Well, I am,” she bubbled. “Of course I don’t like him much because he’s a mean s.o.b. A very mean man.”
“Sounds like someone I wouldn’t want to meet.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Agnes looked at Doc Waters, hoping a man with a mop of white hair and an unmistakable professorial look might haul her back into the world of the sane. But all Doc did was close his eyes.
“I gather, then, that Mr. Maglio does not make accessories.”
“He’s been an accessory,” Twyla revealed. “Three times, in fact. But they never got the charges to stick.”
We needed to move on. “You said you had some bad news, Agnes?”
The woman looked ten years older than when we first met her. The left side of her mouth quivered and her bun had disintegrated into something that looked like a hairy Slinky. “Bad news?”
“Yes, you said there was some bad news.” I gave Agnes a worried look. A few more minutes of this nuttiness and she might go over the edge. For her sake and mine, I wanted to get my tribe and me out of Agnes’s life as soon as possible.
