“I guess I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” I said, by way of apology to Janine.
Janine laughed. “It was fun. Ya know you could’ve beat that old lady, easy, if you hadn’t fallen off the barstool.”
I thought so too. “I’m sorry about Eric.”
“Eh,” she shrugged. “Did ya get a look at the nose on that guy? Miniscule. And you know what they say? Ya know the nose…”
Janine pulled up in front of my house, turning on the interior car light while I searched for my keys. It was an unnecessary gesture, as the entire block was illuminated by the glow of Mrs. Gentile’s latest holiday acquisition; a Disneyesque nativity scene, complete with revolving wise men and animatronic farm animals that neighed, baa-ed and bobbed their little robotic heads, welcoming baby Jesus into the neighborhood.
Toodie stood on a ladder on my side of the porch, stringing Christmas tree lights along the roof; a ragged display in green and red, with gaping holes where the burned out lights hadn’t been replaced. I stood there watching him as Janine pulled away.
“Yo!” he yelled from the top of the ladder. “Pretty neat, huh?”
“Neat,” I agreed. “Where’d ya get them?”
“Garage sale.” Having run out of light strings, Toodie climbed down off the ladder, leaving half the roof in darkness. We looked skyward, admiring his handiwork. While it wasn’t the extravaganza created by my neighbor, it had a kind of trailer park panache that appealed to me.
“Hey, what’s this?” An ancient piece of machinery had taken up residence on my front lawn, its carcass held together by decades of rust. Upon closer inspection I saw that it was a Harley Davidson Shovelhead, circa 1973.
“My new set of wheels—once I get it up and running.” Hope springs eternal.
“Garage sale?”
Toodie nodded.
“Maybe Paul can help you get it going.” My brother is nuts about cars, bikes, anything with wheels, chrome and an engine that predates the disco era.
I helped Toodie maneuver the Harley into the basement, which was rife with the oddball stuff he’s collected in the short time he’s been staying with me. As I pushed the kickstand down on the bike I tripped over a set of dilapidated, left-handed golf clubs.
“I’m thinking of taking up golf,” he said.
“Toodie, these are left-handed clubs. You’re not left-handed…and there’s no head on the nine-iron.”
“I know. That’s how come they were so cheap.”
We headed upstairs. Toodie’s plumbing tools were sprawled all over the kitchen floor, the cabinet under the sink wide open. “You need a new garbage disposal,” he said. “This one’s leaking buckets.”
I took this as an encouraging sign. At least the water was running again. Rocky lounged in a puddle on the floor, her gray and white fur matted into sorry little clumps. I’d always heard that cats had an aversion to water, but she thought this was great fun.
Something wonderful permeated the air. It was coming from the oven.
“I’m going out tonight,” Toodie said, “but I made you a meatloaf. And there’re some mashed potatoes in the fridge.”
I have to admit I’ve eaten pretty well since Toodie’s moved in. My dinners usually consist of cold cereal and half a box of Tastykakes or the occasional grilled cheese sandwich.
I opened the oven door and took out the meatloaf, digging in with my fingers. One nice thing about living with Toodie, I don’t have to concern myself with social amenities.
“Oh, and some guy called while you were out. Randolph…Rudolph…?”
“Adolph?” I suggested helpfully.
“Barry,” he beamed. “Barry Kaminski. Something about dinner Saturday night. He wants you to call him.”
After I ate all of the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, I called Barry back. He had a rich, mature baritone that reminded me of Ted Baxter on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, and his speech was very formal. You could tell this man worked for network news, not some crappy local station where the reporters are like stand-up comics, doing their personal “schtick” while reporting on a three car pile-up on I-95.
We agreed that he’d come here for dinner. I really wanted Barry to see that I’d gone to a lot of trouble to prepare a delicious meal for him, so that when I hit him up for a job he’d be hard pressed to turn me down. I made a mental note to call DiBruno Brothers to pre-order lasagna and stop by Perini’s for dessert.
I cleaned up the dinner dishes and flopped on the couch, flipping through the stations until I reached Nick at Nite. Roseann was on. Oh goody. I’ve always found Dan very attractive. He’s cute and solid and dependable. And he’s always there for Roseann. Not like the men in my life. Not that I’ve had so many. Just one, to be specific. And then several weeks ago, there was the promise of one more—well, maybe promise is too strong a word— okay, a faint possibility, but that didn’t pan out and I guess I’ve been in a bit of a funk about it. Maybe everyone’s been right to worry about me. It’s time I moved on. I decided to devote the evening to spiritual growth, but Full House was on next and I just love that little Michelle. I guess my path to enlightenment could wait another half an hour.
I woke up late and had to race to get ready for my appointment. Although I’d convinced myself that Barry was the president of ABC and was going to fall in love with me and make me co-anchor of Nightline, I thought it’d be wise to have a backup plan—just a little extra cash to tide me over while Barry and I worked out the details of my contract. Paul was looking for a waitress to fill in at his place. He owns a dance club downtown and one of his staff got nabbed on a DUI. Since it was her second offense she’ll be out of commission for a while. Meeting with Paul was just a formality; it was either hire me or pay my mortgage.
I ran down to the basement to grab a pair of jeans out of the drier and banged my knee against a freezer that was plugged into the far wall. It was covered in Budweiser Beer decals and looked like it had seen better days.
I entered the kitchen to find Toodie lying prone on the floor, his head stuffed under the sink. “What’s in the freezer, Toodie?”
He stuck his head out briefly and said, “Omaha steaks” before disappearing under the sink again. “I’ve got to get to work by noon, or Russell says he’s gonna can my ass. But I just wanted to do a quick—uh oh.”
Oh, that didn’t sound good. I squatted down next to him to get a better view. It smelled like a sewage plant under there. I’m not a plumber but I don’t think orange sludge oozing out of the disposal is a good sign.
“No worries. I’ve got it all under control.”
I stopped at the car wash on the way to Paul’s club. It had rained last weekend and I’d left the window open a crack to help de-fog the windshield. The problem was I forgot to close it again and the floor mats got soaked. They dried right up when I blasted the heat, but it left a foul odor reminiscent of old tennis shoes. I found some air fresheners on the counter by the cash register and I was trying to decide between Alpine Breeze and New Mown Grass when my cell phone rang.
“It’s Franny.”
“Fran! How’s the honeymoon?” Eddie surprised Franny with a cruise, which was very sweet but maybe not the best choice for a woman three months pregnant and in the throes of morning sickness. I opted for Alpine Breeze and handed four bucks to the cashier.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for marriage,” she sighed.
“What’s wrong?” I took my package and headed back to the car. Someone in a dark green Honda had pulled into the lot and had left their car idling alongside the building. I couldn’t turn around so I put the car in reverse and backed out of the car wash.
“I’ve only been married for five weeks and he’s already on my nerves.”
“Franny, that’s understandable. You’re just getting used to sharing space with someone.”
“No. He’s just annoying. He keeps calling me Mrs. Bonaduce. He thinks it’s cute. His mother is Mrs. Bonaduce.” She paused. “Do you think I remind him of his
mother?”
“You’re on your honeymoon, Fran. I sincerely hope not.”
“He wants me to change my last name.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to sit down with him and discuss it.”
“We did discuss it.” The discussion mostly boiled down to Eddie whining, “But you promised,” and Franny digging in with, “I lied. Get over it.”
I pulled out onto Broad Street. Downtown rush hour traffic is an all day affair; it was bumper to bumper. Add to that the myriad of Philadelphians who feel it is their God-given right to double-park their vehicles wherever the spirit moves them, and the result is an urban nightmare. “Fran, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this more when you get back.”
The thing is I should be the last person giving relationship advice, considering the only men I’ve ever lived with are my dad and Toodie. Note to self: Work on Love Life.
I was stopped at a light on Market Street when I noticed the green Honda again. It was two car lengths back in the next lane over. A gray ski cap and sunglasses obscured the face, but there was something feminine and familiar about the long dark hair cascading around the driver’s shoulders. The light changed and the car in front of the Honda switched lanes, but the Honda made no attempt to fill the gap left by the other car. It slowed down and allowed another car to take its place.
I drove three more blocks and hung a left past the St. Regis Hotel. Two minutes later the Honda was in my line of sight again. “That’s odd,” I thought, and then the hairs on the back of my neck stood up in unison as I came to the sudden realization that I was being followed—by none other than Marie DiCarlo. Oh my God!
We stopped at another light and I tried to set my mirror to get a better look. Was she riding around tailing me with their two year old strapped into the back seat? Or did she get a babysitter for an unfettered afternoon of stalking her husband’s ex-girlfriend? I thought about her crazy brother and wondered if this stalking business was a congenital trait, in which case she couldn’t help herself.
Oh jeez, now she sees me looking at her in the rearview mirror. Be cool. Act like you’re just trying to pop a pimple on your forehead. I reached for my forehead and felt a small angry bump. Dammit, a pimple.
The light turned green, but I’d gotten all involved in popping the pimple and didn’t notice. The guy behind me leaned on his horn, indicating he thought I should tend to my cosmetic needs at perhaps another time. I threw the car into gear and took off across the intersection, leaving the car in back of me to wait for a woman pushing a baby stroller to cross the street. By the time I’d made it to the next block, the green Honda was nowhere in sight.
“Paul, what kind of car does Bobby’s wife drive?” I was sitting in a wide, red leather booth at Paul’s club, eating Dunkin’ Donuts and drinking freshly brewed coffee. My brother sat down across from me, moving the Donuts out of my reach.
“Hey, where are you going with those?” I asked.
“You’ve had four.”
“So who’s counting?”
“I am.”
“Jeez, Paul. Who died and made you Doughnut Police?”
“Knock yourself out,” Paul said, pushing the box towards me.
I didn’t want another one, but I forced it down, just to prove a point.
“So why do you want to know what kind of car Marie DiCarlo drives?”
“I think she was following me.”
“R-r-really?” Paul said, revving up for a stutter-fest. My brother has a wicked stutter that emerges whenever he’s upset. John says it always seems to happen whenever I’m around, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.
“Paul, it’s okay, really. Maybe it wasn’t her. I’m sure Bobby’s wife has better things to do than to follow me around.”
The thing is, I wasn’t sure. A while back, Marie had left him, taking their baby daughter with her. When I came back to Philly for Franny’s wedding, Bobby had confided to me that his relationship with Marie was based on a one-night-stand that had turned into an elopement when she found out she was pregnant.
Marie was crazy in love with Bobby and was not averse to using their daughter to keep the marriage intact. She let him know in no uncertain terms that they were a package deal. To prove her point, she ran off with baby Sophia to give Bobby a taste of what would happen on a permanent basis should he ever decide to leave her. My moving back to town must have thrown her over the edge.
Paul spent the next hour showing me the ropes. It seemed simple enough. Take food and drink orders, don’t spill hot coffee in anyone’s lap and be polite to all the customers, even the ones I think are jerks. I practiced balancing a tray full of dishes for a while and then Paul had to get ready for the lunch crowd. He walked me out to the curb, gazing at his Mercedes with all the love of a reluctant papa sending his first-born off to college. “I’m never going to get my car back, am I?” he sighed.
“Don’t give up hope, Paulie. Never give up hope.” I drove off before he could figure out just what I meant by that.
I stopped at DiVinci’s Pizza on the way home for a medium pepperoni “to go.”
DiVinci’s is your basic hole in the wall, patronized, according to John, by the culinary-impaired. But I love it. The pizza’s excellent, the beer cold, and the cockroaches deferential. They never show their faces until you’re at least halfway through your meal.
I parked on the street and entered by the side door. Immediately, I was assaulted by a blast of warm, garlic-scented air. I unbuttoned my jacket; an old pea coat that once belonged to my dad, and maneuvered my way through the college crowd to get to the bar.
Sanford, the owner, was working the register. “What can I get ya, hon?”
“Could I get a medium—make that a large pepperoni to go?” I figured Toodie could have the other half for dinner.
I was reading the daily specials when someone snuck up behind me, pressing me into the bar. “I hope you’re not gonna eat that all by yourself. You’re gonna get fat.”
I turned around to see who I was going to have to smack, when two bear-like arms wrapped around me and lifted me into the air.
“Glad to hear ya moved back to town, kiddo. It hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Vince!” I yelled, happy as hell to see him. Vince Giancola and I have been friends since kindergarten. He’s now an assistant D.A., which is hard to believe, considering he used to boost cars for a living.
“I hear you’re shacking up with Toodie Ventura. Brandy, tell me it isn’t true.”
“Heartbroken?”
“You’d better believe it. Seriously, Brandy, the guy’s a whack-o.”
“True, but he’s my whack-o.”
Vince steered me over to his table, which was littered with the remains of his lunch.
“Look, I don’t mean to scare you, but ya know, he doesn’t have the best track record with women.”
“Oh God, Vince. It’s not like I’m sleeping with the guy. He’s fixing my plumbing.” Shit. That didn’t come out right. “No, literally, he’s fixing my plumbing in exchange for room and board. Besides, he’s very sorry for what happened with his ex-girlfriend. He’s harmless—really!”
Vince gave me a look.
“So,” I said, getting comfortable in the scarred, wooden booth, “how are things at the D.A.’s office?”
Vince extracted his wallet and threw a twenty on the table. “Good. Busy. Crime is up, I’m working my tail off.” He hesitated a brief moment before adding, “You just missed Bobby. He left about thirty seconds before you got here.”
My heart rate climbed into the stroke-zone. “Oh.” I tried to keep my face blank, but it was like trying to keep the world from turning.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. We’re cool.”
Sanford signaled to me that my pizza was ready. I stood and Vince walked me back to the bar. I reached into my pocketbook for my wallet, but he beat me to it and handed Sanford a couple of bills.
“My treat.”
I protested, but Vince stood his ground.
“Let me guess. My mother called your mother and told her I don’t have a job and to look after me so that I don’t starve to death.”
“Something like that. You be careful, you hear?”
I reached up and kissed him square on the mouth. “You’re a good friend, Vincent.”
“Keep that up and next time it’ll be a full course meal with cloth napkins and candles on the table.”
“I’m going to hold you to it.”
The ride home was mercifully uneventful. I positioned the pizza box on my lap, popped in a Green Day CD and munched down a slice of heaven. Before I knew it, Toodie’s half of the pizza was gone. Poor Toodie, he would have really enjoyed it.
I spent the rest of the day perusing the Internet for work, on the off chance that a job with Barry didn’t pan out. Rocky curled up beside me, inside the now empty pizza box. My kitten has a fascination with tomato sauce. She must have some Italian blood in her.
At nine p.m. I turned off my computer and flipped through the TV Guide in search of entertainment. I was feeling restless, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. And then it dawned on me. Toodie hadn’t come home. Could it be that I actually missed him? The house was strangely quiet.
Down time is dangerous for me. My mind starts to wander to places I have no business visiting. I started thinking about Bobby but I quickly shook those thoughts away, only to replace them with the man I’d met a little over a month ago; a man who captivated me completely and then disappeared from my life as quickly as he’d come. Thinking of him made me feel lonely and sorry for myself, two feelings I could definitely live without. Screw this. I decided to be productive and learn a new skill, so I stayed up until past midnight, eating Oreos and trying to teach myself how to French braid my hair. The hair thing didn’t work out but the Oreos really hit the spot.
I fell asleep on the couch and woke up at around one a.m., the television light flashing in an otherwise darkened room. I went to turn it off and caught the tail end of a local news report about the recent disappearance of some young woman. Not exactly the bedtime story I needed. My mother’s voice echoed in my brain, break-ins and armed robbers looming large in my mind until I was sure I heard someone trying to climb in through an upstairs window. Just as I began to work up a full-on panic attack, Rocky charged down the stairs, clenching a flying insect the size of Mothra between her teeth. Relieved, I rolled over on my side and fell back to sleep.
No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 3
