Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2)

by Layce Gardner

  “Button?” I ask. I don’t know if that’s an endearment or a put-down.

  “Sure, sure, you’re my button,” he explains. “You know what happens when somebody pushes my button, right?”

  “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “That’s right. You don’t want to know,” Frankie says. “Anybody ever pushes you, let me know. You’re like a daughter to me.”

  I nod and take a bite of my gelato.

  “So,” Frankie continues, putting his elbows on the table and leaning in, “Regale us with a tale of star-crossed lovers.”

  “That sounds a little Shakespeare-y,” I say. Not that I know much about Shakespeare, but I did see that one movie with Leo DiCaprio.

  “I’m taking a class on the great Bard over at the Continuing Ed building,” Frankie says.

  “Why?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  “He’s got a thing for the professor,” Jimmy says.

  “She’s got nice tits,” Dumbshit says. That earns him a whack in the head from Frankie.

  “Do not talk about her that way. She ain’t a normal broad. I’m interested in her mind,” Frankie says.

  Jimmy rolls his eyes at me and I only manage to contain a smirk by stuffing my mouth with more gelato.

  “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,” Frankie recites with one hand in the air and the other hand over his heart.

  I change the subject by pointing at his gelato and asking, “What kind is that? It’s not your usual, is it?” This segue isn’t as weird as you’d think. Italians equate love with food so it was only natural to jump from one to the other.

  “I dunno,” Frankie answers. He looks across the room and shouts, “Hey, Giovanni, what’s this in my bowl?”

  “Coffee and Toblerone,” Giovanni says, his voice laced with disgust. “It’s very ‘in’ right now.”

  “I’m widening my horizons,” Frankie says. “Try a bite.” He pushes his bowl toward me.

  I spoon some up and stick it in my mouth. It’s not bad. I check my Fitbit to see if the calories registered already.

  “Is that one of those bracelets that tracks everything you do?” Jimmy asks.

  “Yeah, it’s called a Fitbit. It monitors all my activities including my sleep patterns. My wanna-be trainer got it for me. I’m supposed to be her poster girl.” I take another bite of Frankie’s gelato. It melts on my tongue. “This stuff grows on you.”

  “See, trying new things is good,” Frankie says.

  Jimmy rolls his eyes again and this time, Frankie smacks Dumbshit in the forehead.

  “What? I didn’t do nothing,” Dumbshit moans, rubbing his head.

  “You’re the closest,” Frankie explains. “You think I like sitting next to you? I do it so I can clobber you whenever I feel like it. Hence, I felt like it.”

  Jimmy points at my Fitbit. “Those things come in man colors?”

  That’s a weird question coming from Jimmy seeing as how he wears a different sherbet-colored suit every day of the week.

  I shrug. “You can order them online. I think they come in all colors.”

  Jimmy pulls his smartphone out of his pocket and begins to shop.

  I push my empty bowl to the side and this is Frankie’s signal to get down to business. “So, Jamie, what’s the news on the Rosetti front?”

  “I paid Sheri a visit. Just like you told me to.”

  “She’s quite the dame, eh?” Frankie says, chuckling to himself.

  “Um. . . yeah. Quite.”

  “Did you meet Hibbard?” Jimmy asks, not looking up from his phone.

  “I met him. Missing pinky and all.”

  Ivan’s toenails click across the floor and he jumps up in my lap. He pushes his little cold nose under my arm.

  “Did you know that Sheri shoots him with a pellet gun?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s what you get for being a narc,” Jimmy says.

  “How do you do that?” Dumbshit pipes up. “How do you text and talk at the same time?”

  “Because I’m not a dumbshit like you,” Jimmy says. “Oh, shit!”

  “What?” we all ask.

  “I ordered a bunch of the Fitbits in girlie colors. . .”

  “Who’s the dumbshit now?” Dumbshit giggles.

  Jimmy almost comes out of the booth, ready to strangle Dumbshit before Frankie stops him by saying, “Sit down. It ain’t his fault you got clumsy thumbs and pushed the wrong button.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t my fault,” Dumbshit says.

  Frankie whacks him in the head again.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “For opening your mouth. Now shaddup, the both of you,” Frankie says. He waits a moment then looks at me. “What did Sheri say? You talk her out of divorcing Ronny?”

  “Not exactly. She still wants to divorce Ronny. But she’s willing to stay in the family. She says she’ll marry an Italian lesbian. If they’re rich enough.”

  “She told you that?” Jimmy asks, pocketing his smartphone.

  “Yeah, right after she tried to seduce me,” I reply. “I don’t have five cars, so although she wants to sleep with me, I am not what you’d call marriage material.”

  “How we gonna find a rich goombah lesbian?” Dumbshit asks. This time he doesn’t get smacked.

  “And what about Ronny’s pride? Getting left for a woman isn’t good for a man’s rep,” Jimmy adds.

  “Ronny’s got stuff on the side and everyone knows he’s got a weird dick,” Frankie says, crossing his arms over his big belly.

  “Still. . .” Jimmy says.

  “I’d been thinking about this myself,” I say. “How about Ronny divorces her? That way nobody looks disgraced. In fact, we could spin it so that it looks like Ronny left her because she’s gay.”

  Frankie rubs his chin. He squints his eyes then he nods. Ivan barks.

  “The dog likes the idea,” Jimmy says.

  It’s more like Ivan wants more gelato, but whatever.

  “Still, who we gonna get?” Frankie asks. He raises an eyebrow at me like I should know all the lesbians in town.

  “How about Angela Morelli?” Dumbshit asks.

  They all stare at him.

  “Is she single?” I ask. “Lesbians are nesters. One-night stands have a way of becoming three-year relationships when they should’ve stayed one-night stands. I should know. I’ve done it.”

  “Let’s find out. Call Vinny. He knows everyone’s business,” Frankie says.

  Jimmy dials his cell, and speaks almost immediately. “Hey, Vinny. How ya doing? Great, that’s great news.” Jimmy put his hand over the receiver. “His mother-in-law died.”

  “That’s good news?” I whisper.

  “Yeah, she was 102 and a real bitch,” Frankie whispers back, “She was always cursing everybody with that evil eye of hers.”

  “So say, is Angela Morelli single? Okay, okay. . . Ciao,” Jimmy says and clicks off.

  “So?” Frankie asks.

  “So, she’s got a girl but it’s not serious. The girl’s not family. I’m thinking a visit could get this girl uninterested in Angela fast, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy replies.

  “Yeah,” Frankie said. “We’ll send Jamie. She can have a woman-to-woman talk with the girlfriend.” He looks at me and says, “You can explain to her how dating Angela Morelli isn’t good for her health.”

  I nod and Frankie continues, “Then all we got to do is play matchmaker with Angela and Sheri.”

  “What ya think, Jamie?” Jimmy asks.

  “I think it sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “I’ll text you the info,” Jimmy says.

  I nod and stand, tucking Ivan under my arm.

  “How’s your mother?” Frankie asks.

  “Still married.”

  “Too bad,” he says. “Tell her I said hello.”

  “Will do.” I make bow from the waist and recite, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” That’s about all the Shakespeare I know, b
ut it’s enough to get a round of applause from the table.

  Twelve

  In the movies all the hardboiled P.I.s have one thing in common: they like to drink. Now I know why. The job is very stressful. You never know where your next buck is coming from and sometimes you end up with the dirty end of the stick. I could call Veronica and she could throw a bone or two my way, but that would leave me in her debt. And that would mean I’d end up in her bed. And then my shot at getting a date with Gloria would be shot. Plus, Veronica would wheedle out of me that I’m going to the reunion with Zelda, and then all hell would break loose.

  I need a drink.

  I walk into Burt’s Burlesque and squint through the dark to the back bar. Good. Travis is working. He’s already seen me and is shaking up a Yoo-hoo.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Travis chirps as soon as my butt hits the barstool. He pokes a straw in the cardboard box and slides the Yoo-hoo in front of me.

  “Thanks, Trav.” I take a long draw and feel the tension in my shoulders relax. I rotate my head in a slow circle and listen to my neck bones pop.

  Travis catches my attention and nods his chin toward the end of the bar. I look over and see a man dressed in tight black clothing with a long red scarf wrapped around his neck. His right leg is hoisted up onto the bar and he’s touching his chin to his knee.

  “What’s his deal?” I whisper. “Is he handicapped? Does he have to use his left foot to drink? I saw a movie where a guy used his left foot to type a whole book. I don’t remember the name of the movie.”

  “My Left Foot,” Travis says.

  “That was it.” I take another hit off the straw.

  “That man is not handicapped,” Travis says. “He’s a dancer.”

  I look at the man again. That explains the leg warmers. “He’s violating about fifty different health codes with his foot up on the bar.”

  “Dancers’ muscles get all tight if they don’t stretch every few minutes.”

  “Oh,” I say, which isn’t really saying anything at all, but it’s all I can think to retort.

  Travis leans across the bar and whispers, “I’m in love with him.”

  “Hmm. Does the guy you walked the park with last night know about this dancer guy?”

  Travis throws his dish rag at me and I barely catch it before it splats in my face. “They’re the same guy,” he says huffily.

  I grin. “I was just giving you a hard time.”

  Ivan yips at my feet. I hoist him up and set him on his own stool beside me. He sits up with his paws and his chin on the bar. He has the cute puppy look down to a science.

  “Aw, have you ever seen anything more adorable?” Travis asks. He quickly pulls an orange Fanta out of the fridge, pours some into a saucer and sets it in front of Ivan. Ivan laps to his heart’s content, oblivious to the orange colored beard it’s giving him.

  Travis catches Michael’s attention with a wave and says, “Come meet my best friend.”

  Michael walks on his toes over to me and takes my hand in his. His movements are fluid and graceful, and his hand is as soft as a baby’s bottom. He gives my hand a tiny shake and gently places it back on the counter where he picked it up.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Jamie. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Michael croons.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Just let me say that I am so proud of you for going to your reunion. Believe me, I know how intimidating they can be. And I commend your bravery for going despite the fact that your ex-girlfriend is taking your soon-to-be girlfriend as her date.”

  “What?” I look back and forth between Travis and Michael. “Can somebody explain what he just said? My ex is doing what?”

  “I was going to tell you.” Travis glares at Michael who puts one of his soft hands over his mouth and makes a little whoopsy noise. That little slipup is going to cost him big. No one steals Travis’s thunder and gets away with it.

  Travis sighs dramatically and says, “Veronica asked Gloria Lambrusco to go to the reunion with her.”

  “She’s taking Gloria? My Gloria?” Okay, she really isn’t my Gloria, but I am the one who found her. She was Griffin’s second grade teacher and I developed a huge crush on her. We’ve sorta kinda gone out a couple of times. I was taking it slow because I have a feeling Gloria might be the real deal and I don’t want to blow it by rushing into anything. Now what happens? Veronica asks her to go to my reunion with her? WTF?

  “How’d you find this out?” I crush my empty Yoo-hoo box in one squeeze.

  Travis puts another one in front of me. This is definitely a two Yoo-hoo moment.

  “Veronica told someone who told someone who told someone who put it on Facebook,” Travis says. His eyes slide over to Michael who now has his back to us and is doing something that makes his buttocks flex and unflex over and over. I wonder if that’s his idea of a mating call.

  “I can’t believe Veronica asked her,” I say through gritted teeth then add, “I can’t believe Gloria said yes.”

  “See, you need to join Facebook and you’d know these things,” Travis says.

  “I will never join Facebook.”

  At that moment my phone dings. It’s a text from Jimmy with the address of Angela Morelli’s latest squeeze, Trish Severson. I pocket my phone, grab my Yoo-hoo and Ivan, and say, “Gotta go. Work.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “After I kill Veronica, I’m going to scare a woman out of dating a lesbian.”

  “I’d skip the kill Veronica part and wait for the reunion where you can steal Gloria right out from under Veronica’s nose,” Michael says. He’s standing on his tippy-toes with his arms over his head.

  “Brilliant,” Travis and I say at the same time.

  Michael smiles at me. “That’s the spirit. You go to this shindig and look so damn hot that Gloria will be drooling all over you and Veronica won’t know what hit her.”

  I smile back at him. Maybe I was too quick to judge Michael. He is sorta handsome with his long hair in a ponytail, his cleft chin and blue eyes. And I really admire a man who can scheme like a woman—even if his hands are softer than mine.

  Thirteen

  Every city has a trashy neighborhood and Lakeland is no exception. You know the type of neighborhood I’m talking about and it isn’t Mr. Rogers’. There’s an invisible line you cross as you drive east and suddenly the buildings have windows boarded up, stray dogs roam in packs, abandoned buildings are sprayed with graffiti, garbage spills from overturned cans, and gunshots echo throughout the streets at all hours of the day and night. This is not Down-On-Your-Luck-Ville. This is Don’t-Give-A-Damn-Ville.

  Trish Severson’s house isn’t as bad as her neighbor’s. Her yard is dirt instead of knee-high weeds. Her car, an old Chevy Impala with faded blue paint, sits on two flat tires. The car looks like it gave up the ghost sometime in the last century, but at least it’s parked in the driveway. Well, it isn’t really a driveway—more like twin ruts at the side of the yard.

  Looks like Trish Severson is trying to dig her way out of this hellhole by dating Angela Morelli. I really can’t say I blame her.

  I park Silver street side and hope she’ll have all four tires when I come back out. I scan the front yard. There’s a lot of broken beer bottles scattered around. I reach back inside the car for Ivan. “I’m going to have to carry you, little man. And I want you in my arms at all times. Understood?”

  He whimpers and buries his face in my armpit. I completely understand what he’s feeling. I don’t like the looks of this place either.

  I make my way up to the tiny porch and ring the doorbell. The scent of urine stings my nostrils and I don’t think it’s animal urine either. After waiting a couple of minutes for an answer, I realize the doorbell probably doesn’t work. I rap on the screen door and it bangs against the doorframe.

  I’m about to knock again when a mailman walks by and pitches a bundle of mail at my feet. He glares at me with a ‘you-don’t-w
anna-mess-with-a-federal-employee’ look. “No mail receptacle,” he snarls.

  I look down at the pile of rubber-banded mail. The top envelope is pink—a collection notice from the utility company. Not a good sign. I wonder what on earth Angela Morelli is doing dating a woman like this?

  I get my answer a second later when a woman appears on the other side of the screen door. She peers at me from within the dark bowels of the house. “Who’re you?” She pops her gum and continues, “Where’s my pizza?” She pops the gum again. One look at Trish Severson and I know why Angela Morelli is dating her. Trish has enormous breasts and a knock-out body that’s kept in shape by strenuous exercise involving loud music and a pole.

  “Trish Severson?” I ask. I figure dropping the verb makes me sound tough.

  “That’s the ugliest baby I ever seen,” Trish says, looking at Ivan. Then she laughs at her own joke.

  “This is my attack dog.”

  “Yeah, if you ever need some ankles attacked.”

  “Forget the dog,” I say. “It’s me you got to worry about.”

  “Oh, yeah? So what d’ya want? You selling magazines or something?”

  “Angela Morelli’s associates sent me to have a little chat with you.”

  “Angie?” Trish stops chomping her gum.

  “She’s got friends who are concerned about your relationship.”

  “Like it’s any of their business,” Trish says.

  “Invite me inside. It’s hot out here and heat puts me in a bad mood and you don’t want me in a bad mood.”

  “Yeah, all right, but let’s make it quick, the pizza guy is coming and I like my pizza hot.”

  I pull open the screen door and it falls off its hinges.

  “You’re gonna have to fix that,” Trish says.

  I lean the door up against the house and step through the doorway into the living room. The inside of the house is in worse shape than the outside. There’s a recliner with the stuffing coming out, a scuffed coffee table with a missing leg that’s heaped with several ashtrays full of cigarette butts, and the carpet hasn’t been vacuumed since 1979. Ivan snuggles in closer to me.

  “Where are my manners? Have a seat,” Trish points to the couch that sags in the middle and looks like a halfway house for bedbugs.