by K. J. Larsen
I pointed the nose of the Silver Bullet toward my home in Bridgeport. Bridgeport is a tight-knit community and one of Chicago’s most vibrant and diverse areas. It’s home to a thriving art scene, and nightlife, and a staggering number of DeLucas. The neighbors know you and will tell you your business whether you want them to or not.
My immediate plan was to print up some 8 by 10 glossies and deliver them to my client. I liked Jerry. He was a sweet guy with a rough patch ahead. I was confident he’d make it through and find happiness again.
I was halfway home when “Your Cheatin’ Heart” blared from my cell phone. Oh, Hank.
I flipped the lid. “Pants on Fire Detective Agency. We catch liars and cheats.”
“Caterina. Is that you?”
“You know it’s me, Mama. You dialed this number.”
“It doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’m out of breath. I was, uh, running.”
“Good you should run fast. This job you do, this hootchie stalking, it’s dangerous.”
“I’m not a hootchie stalker, Mama.”
“You’re not a policeman. You piss people off.”
“I’m a private investigator. I’m licensed to piss people off.”
Mama gave a soft groan. I knew she was clutching her chest.
“My heart,” she choked.
“Take some Tums, Mama. Your heart’s fine. The doctor says it’s gas.”
“It’s not gas. It’s an ungrateful daughter who should marry that nice FBI agent and give her Mama her last dying wish.”
“You’re not dying from gas, Mama. And you’re too young to make that wish.”
“Grandchildren. My dying wish is grandchildren.” Mama’s voice was faint. “Is that so much to ask?”
The truth is Mama already has an alarming number of grandchildren. Thanks in part to my sister Sophie, the walking, talking baby machine.
“Spasm,” she choked.
“Mama, take your Tums.”
“Please God, don’t take me before I marry the father of my children.”
I took a deep breath and did a full ten-count. “You’re already married, Mama. God got the memo. And on Saturday, you’re getting married again.”
Mama and Papa were married thirty-five years ago at the Bridgeport Cook County Courthouse by the Justice of the Peace. Recently, some loud-mouthed, bitter old church lady told her God doesn’t know you’re married if you weren’t married in the church. When Papa came home, Mama was moving his clothes, shoes, and pillow into the guest room.
The truth is my parents are as happy as any couple I know. They do what works for them. A long time ago Papa decided to let Mama be right. And thirty-five years later, Mama still lights up like Christmas when he enters the room.
My parents’ church wedding is scheduled for Saturday. Sophie and I are bridesmaids. My three brothers are groomsmen. And a long trail of grandkids will tromp up the aisle with the rings.
“Mama, did you take your Tums? Let me talk to Papa.”
“He’s not here. He’s working on his vows. I haven’t seen him this nervous since you kids were born.” She gave a giddy laugh.
“I’m sort of tied up right now. Can I help you with something?”
“Tell me where Papa’s taking me for our honeymoon.”
“Huh?”
“What do I pack? Swimming suit? Sweaters?” She shuddered. “After all these years, I better not be packing the sweaters.”
And that is when the truth about Mama’s little wedding-charade hit me smack in the face.
“Oh my god, Mama. You hustled Papa.”
“What?” The shocked indignation was priceless.
“Mmhmm. It’s all becoming crystal clear to me. You never believed your first wedding didn’t take. But you knew Papa would never go along with renewing your vows. So you made it all about God not recognizing your courthouse marriage.”
“My daughter the big detective.”
“Uh huh. Spill it.”
Mama’s voice started with a catch. She knew she was busted. “So sue me. When your Papa and I were married, we didn’t have the money for a proper wedding. Tony promised if we went to the judge, I’d have a real church wedding someday. Only every time I brought it up, he changed the subject.”
I laughed. “Well he’s keeping his promise now.”
“I may have to go to Confession.”
“I dunno. I think it was genius!”
“It was, wasn’t it?” She giggled. “You ordered the cake?”
“And the flowers. And the caterers.”
“We don’t need caterers. The church ladies will take care of the reception.”
“And you’ll be in the kitchen supervising. How’s the chest pain now?”
Mama made her clicking sound with her mouth. “Finito.”
“Good. Don’t worry about a thing. I want this day to be perfect for you.”
“You want perfect? Perfect is a double wedding. Does your FBI boyfriend have a tux? You can wear Nanna DeLuca’s wedding dress.”
“Seriously? She’s a foot shorter than I am.”
“So you show some leg. You should give your FBI boyfriend ideas. You can start making babies on your honeymoon.”
“OK, Mama. Now I have gas.”
***
I disconnected the call and made another one.
“Tony DeLuca.”
“Where are you, Papa? Mama said you’re working on your vows.”
“I’m at your house. Come home and write my vows.”
“I can’t write your vows, Papa.”
“Of course you can. Does the President write his own speeches?”
“Nice try.”
Papa sucked a breath and I knew he was clutching his scar. My family are experts in dishing out the guilt. Papa’s career with the Chicago PD was cut short a few years ago when he was shot in the caboose on the mean streets of Chicago. Now he’s a real Chicago hero. He rides on the back of a convertible in every Bridgeport parade. He works as a liaison between the Chicago Police Department and the schools. He visits schools, sharing his brave, inspiring story with kids all over the city. He talks about guns and alternatives to violence.
The details of the shooting are apparently too hideous for children to hear. The bullet Papa took defending the good people of Chicago was a regrettable misfire from a rookie cop whose future with the force is forever cemented in traffic duty. He’s the loneliest guy at the Ninth Precinct.
The school kids love Papa. They giggle when he pulls the back of his trousers down just far enough to see his scar. And then the teacher serves cupcakes.
One day, Papa flashed his scar at a Catholic school. A nun gasped and crossed herself. She said the scar was a perfect image of the Mother Mary. Father Timothy blessed Papa’s whole right cheek with holy water.
“OK, Papa, read me what you’ve got.”
“Let me see.” He rustled some pages and cleared his throat. “I, Tony DeLuca…”
“That’s a strong start. Go on.”
“That’s it.”
“Seriously? That’s what you got? Your wedding is Saturday.”
“No, my wedding was thirty-five years ago.” He groaned. “I got nothin’, Caterina. You gotta help me out here. I can’t take this any longer. I can’t sleep. Your Mama booted me to the guest room. I’m a guest in my own house.”
“Pull it together, Papa. It’s just ’til Saturday.”
“I haven’t touched your Mama for a—”
“Whoa. Way too much info.”
“Men have needs, Kitten. It’s not natural for a man to—”
“La la la la.” I held the cell away from my head and waited a moment for the rant to stop. When I thought it was safe, I moved the phone to my ear again.
“—your Mama is too
delicious, I—”
I hand smacked my head. “Enough! I surrender. I’ll help with your vows.”
He chuckled. “Grazie.”
“I’ll be home when I can. Maybe you can make a list of things you like about Mama and your life together. And nix on the delicious parts. We’ll put it all together when I get there. I’m just wrapping up a case.”
“A case?” Papa’s voice piqued with uncharacteristic interest. “Who’s doing who?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Sleeping in the guest room is making you creepy.”
He laughed. “I knew you’d come through with my vows.”
“Whatever. Mama wants to know what she should pack for the honeymoon. She’s hoping for something tropical.”
“I don’t think so. Your Mama likes Wisconsin.”
“Wisconsin? Seriously?”
“I thought we’d drive up north and find a cozy cabin. Like we did when you kids were young.”
My hands clenched. He hadn’t even made a reservation. It’s just as well his neck wasn’t in reach.
“Forget Wisconsin, Papa. This is your honeymoon. Mama wants you to blow her away.”
“There’s wind in Wisconsin.”
“She wants tropical. She wants a cruise. When I get home we’ll make online reservations. And it won’t cost more than the Viking barbeque monstrosity you bought yourself a few years ago.”
He winced. “Madre di dio!”
I laughed. “Buck up, Papa. When Mama’s happy, everybody’s happy.”
I wasn’t quite ready to deal with Papa yet. Rather than print my 8 by 10 glossies at home, I took a quick detour to the FedEx on West Thirty-Fifth.
I parked and gave Jerry a call. My client was on his way home from work and stuck on Stevenson. I could hear him cursing the potato truck that had lost its load. This would take a while. It was not Jerry’s day.
I figured I’d still get to him before Cookie did. I didn’t expect her anytime soon. It would take her a while to figure out a story to spin for her husband.
Good luck with that.
First, I printed a dozen 8 by 10 glossies in vivid Technicolor and put them in a large white envelope. This is the hardest part of my job. Even if a client is prepared for the worst, it’s brutal to see your partner with another lover. And this birdlike guy was more fragile than most.
I had no doubt that Jerry would get through this. I also knew that nothing I could say would help. As much as I try, I’ve never found a kind way to break bad news to my clients. And I didn’t think one would pop into my consciousness now.
Inga and I still had a little time to kill while Jerry broke through the potato blockade. We swung by a little neighborhood park that was once crumbling concrete and a vacant lot. Chicago is greening up by converting many of these lots into beautiful shared spaces all over the city.
Inga made fast friends with an English bulldog named Jackson. He was three times her size but my partner didn’t know it. A few quick butt-sniffs and they were besties. It should be so easy for humans.
We made it to Jerry’s in perfect time. He pulled into his driveway behind us, left his car, and made a face.
“I’ll never eat another potato. Those things are vicious.”
I smiled.
He stared at the envelope in my hand. “You have something for me.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes flashed panic and I thought the flight instinct had kicked in. For a moment I wondered if I had a runner. Instead, he breathed deeply and dragged his feet to the front door. His hands were shaking badly. I took the key from him, unlocked the door, and pushed him inside.
He blew a sigh. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“You don’t have to do this, Jerry. I’ll take the pictures and go home if you wish.”
“No. Don’t go.” He raked his fingers through the yellow nest on his head. “I need to do this. Maybe I should grab a beer first.”
I nodded. “Only if you don’t have anything stronger.”
Chapter Four
Papa’s jet-black Cadillac was parked in my driveway when I pulled in front of the Bridgeport brick bungalow I call home. He wasn’t alone. The shiny yellow Corvette belonging to my former-client-turned-assistant, Cleo Jones, was also there. Cleo recently inherited the car and all her cheating husband’s earthly possessions after someone put a slug in Walter’s chest. In fact, she was standing over him when the cops stumbled on Walter’s very dead body.
Cleo was a shoe-in for the murder. The cops dragged her to jail, and her YouTube video went viral. She was crucified by the press. An old woman pummeled her with tomatoes at the supermarket. For a while, I was the only person in Chicago who believed Cleo Jones wasn’t guilty. Not for lack of motive so much as for opportunity. Cleo’s only defense was that someone beat her to it.
I hauled the surveillance cooler up to the porch and opened the front door. A black, hairy dog bounded from the kitchen, body-slammed Inga, and bounced circles around me. Inga threw back her head and howled.
Beau is Cleo’s Tibetan Terrier and Inga’s best friend. They have weekly sleepovers and Mama takes them on playdates. If Beau appears bigger than Inga, it’s all fluff and hair. There’s a lot of brushing involved and Cleo’s dog brush is attached to her hip. It works for her, but I prefer the wash-and-go beagle.
I dragged the cooler to the kitchen. Cleo was at the stove, her spiraled auburn, pink-tipped tresses corralled in a clip on top of her head. She stirred something dark and decadent and chocolate. I decided it was icing for the chocolate fudge cake still warm from the oven.
Cleo is a master chef with a true passion for cooking. Uncle Joey offered to finance a chic Chicago restaurant with her. Six months ago she would have jumped at the chance. After working at the Pants On Fire Detective Agency, she discovered she likes shooting people more.
Papa hunched at the kitchen table, besieged by piles of scribbled notes and papers. An hour ago, he had three words.
“Are all those papers for your vows?”
He nodded miserably.
“Papa, you don’t have to say that much.”
Cleo pulled the pan from the burner and added a splash of Grand Marnier. “Don’t worry about it. I finished the vows for him.”
A note of hysteria squeaked out of me. “No way.”
“He just has to work on presentation.” She waved a chocolaty wooden spoon at the table. “Second pile on his left. A real showstopper. If he delivers it right, there won’t be a dry eye in the house.”
I wanted to beat the woman over her head with that chocolate covered spoon, but threw her a look instead. I gave Papa a hug. “This isn’t a performance. I’ll help you organize your thoughts, but the words will be yours.”
Papa pulled his fingers through his thinning hair.
I scooped a few pages from the second pile and scanned the vows Cleo wrote for Papa. “What’s this about shared power?”
“I like the sound of that,” Papa said.
I wondered if he liked the sound of spending the rest of his life in the guest room.
I pivoted, hands on my hips, to face Cleo. “Don’t mess with my parents’ perfectly dysfunctional relationship, girlfriend. You’re the last person to coach anyone’s marriage.”
“Me? What about you? Your marriage to Johnnie Rizzo was a bust.”
“At least I didn’t shoot his ass on his way out the door.”
“Only because you lack passion.”
Papa slugged down his wine and grabbed the bottle.
“Passion? Seriously? Passion? I’m talking marbles here. Or rather, your lack of them. A modicum of sanity would do you wonders.”
She sniffed. “I’m an impassioned woman, Cat. I’m a lot like your mom.”
“You’re nothing like Mama. She doesn’t shoot people.”
Papa dumped the rest of the wine in his glass. “To be fair, Caterina, we never gave your Mama a gun.”
***
I tossed a salad and heated up Mama’s spinach and ricotta cannelloni. I added a few pieces of Mediterranean chicken from my surveillance cooler. Papa opened another bottle of wine and made reservations for their honeymoon. He decided on a two-week cruise. They would leave from Miami on the Norwegian Pearl. Their first port of call would be in Cartagena before traveling through the Panama Canal. After that, they would continue on to Costa Rica, the Banana Coast, Belize, and Costa Maya. Papa dragged out his Visa, clutching his scar. I kissed his cheek. “Put it away. The honeymoon is a wedding gift from your five kids.”
He grinned. The scar didn’t seem to bother him much after that.
“Now, for the vows.” I topped off his wine and, with pen in hand, said, “How did you feel the first time you saw Mama?”
He smiled. “O mio dio. Your mama took my breath away. She was the most beautiful—”
Just then Papa’s cell phone rang. He put it on speaker. “Where are you, Papa? You don’t call. I don’t know if you’ve had supper.”
“I’m with Caterina at her house,” Papa said.
Mama made a disapproving clicking noise with her mouth. “What did Caterina feed you? My daughter hardly cooks. She’s thirty for God’s sake. It’s no wonder she’s not married and has no children.”
“I heard that, Mama.”
Mama blew a dismissive sound. “What? So now it’s a secret?”
“Oh, please.”
“I can’t sleep, Caterina. Your biological clock keeps me up all night. Tick tock. Tick tock. My heart can’t take it.”
“Kill me now.”
Papa said, “Caterina served a delicious dinner. We had your cannelloni and the Mediterranean chicken that you brought over yesterday. And Cleo made a chocolate cream cake.”
“Hi, Mama!” Cleo sang.
“Cleo?” Mama said warmly. “Caterina, you should be more like your partner. She can cook.”
“Assistant,” I corrected her. “And Cleo doesn’t have kids either.”
Cleo glared and I shrugged.
