After lunch I turned on the TV to take my mind off things, but Saturday afternoon television sucks, so I spent my time alternating between peering out the window in search of car bombers and working up a list of people who might want me dead, just in case it turned out it was personal.
First I went with the obvious; relatives and close friends of Bobby’s ex-wife. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time one of them tried to kill me. Next, I wrote down the names of people associated with criminal cases I’d inadvertently become involved in. Then, I added anyone I’d had a disagreement with in the past month or so. I stopped when I reached twenty-five names. Turns out, I can’t get along with anybody.
“So how’s the new job goin’, Neenie?” I was seated cross-legged on the bed in Janine’s studio apartment, shelling peanuts for her pseudo pet pigeon, Ozzie. Ozzie was hanging out on the ledge outside her windowsill crapping up a winter storm.
After the security guys had left, Janine called. There’s a new Greek restaurant that just opened in Center City West, and Janine heard all the waiters looked like a cross between Grecian Gods and Chippendale dancers. Seeing as the only thing I had on my agenda for the evening was trimming Mrs. Gentile’s toenails, (there’s no end to what I’ll do to get someone to like me) I decided instead to accompany Janine on her quest for cultural diversity.
Janine stepped out of the bathroom, wriggling her perfect five-foot nine-inch body into ultra skin-tight hip huggers. “The job didn’t work out,” she said, pulling a too-small t-shirt out of her closet and yanking it over a pair of size 36C breasts.
“Oh. But last week you were so sure that ‘motivational speaking’ was your calling. What happened?”
Janine shuddered. “Too depressing. All those needy rejects with no hope of succeeding. They were draining my essence.”
“So you quit?”
“They fired me. Can you believe it? They said I ‘lacked compassion’ and I kept making the clients cry. What babies.”
“Hey,” I sympathized. “Their loss.”
“I hear there’s a job opening for a slut goddess down at the Peeping Tom,” she said.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Actually, I’d considered it, but when I mentioned the idea to Franny, she flipped out. She said,” Janine continued, slipping her feet into a pair of banana colored Frye Dorado Slouch boots, “that as long as I’m walking around with her face I’m not exposing my ass to a bunch of slobbering, horny losers. Sheesh. She’s so touchy lately. Do you think it has something to do with her being pregnant?”
“Could be. Y’know, I’d hold off on the whole ‘slut goddess’ thing for a while if I were you. Franny’s under a lot of pressure right now.”
“I was never serious about it anyway. So, who are you taking to the bar mitzvah?” Janine grabbed a pink lip gloss off the dresser and held it up to the light. “What do you think? Too Britney Spears?”
“Whoa,” I said. “Back up.” I got off the bed and tossed a few peanuts to Ozzie. He cut me an accusatory look as I held back a few for myself. “What do you mean, ‘who am I taking to the bar mitzvah?’ I thought we agreed to go together.”
Janine hesitated. “There’s gonna be dancing.”
“So?”
“So I wanna dance—and no offense, but I don’t wanna dance with you. Look, the invitation says ‘and guest’.”
“Oh, fine,” I sulked. “So who are you bringing?”
I don’t know. Maybe Tony Tan.” Tony Tan is Janine’s former boss and the Number One Sleazeball Realtor of the tri-state area.
“Tony? But I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
“I ran into him at “Ducky’s” the other night. He’s a good dancer.” She shrugged. “And kisser.”
My eyes narrowed into slits. “You already asked him, didn’t you?”
At least she had the good grace to blush. “Sort’ve. I can un-ask him if you want.”
“No,” I sighed. “That’s all right.” Suddenly I panicked. “Is DiCarlo bringing a date?”
“I don’t know. I saw him talking to Tina Delvechione outside the post office the other day. They looked pretty chummy.”
“Get out!” Back in junior high, Tina Delvechione was the first girl to “develop” and by the looks of her, there’d been no sign of stopping. Oy. This was not good.
“Hmm,” said Janine.
“Hmm, what?”
“I thought you said you just wanted to be friends with Bobby.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So then why should you care if he brings a date?”
“I don’t care,” I said, a little too petulantly to be believable. I was really going to have to work on my delivery. “I just don’t want to be the only one there without a date, is all.”
“Bran, we are independent women. We don’t need men to show us a good time.”
“So does that mean you’re going to ditch Tony and come with me?”
“Not a chance.”
“But, what about all that stuff about being independent women?”
“I lied. Let’s go eat.”
Janine was right about the waiters. They were all drop dead gorgeous. Turns out, Demitri’s was a family owned restaurant, and all the guys who worked there were related. They kept coming over to our table to see us—okay, technically, they came over to see Janine, but I was there too—and filling our glasses with ouzo.
I ended up getting really drunk and spent much of the evening making out with a nineteen-year-old busboy named Alex—a cousin who had just arrived from Greece and was looking for an American wife. I found this out from his uncle, the head chef and another Alex, who offered to broker the marriage for me. I think I agreed. I really can’t remember.
At closing time, Alex the Younger asked to drive me home.
“Go on,” Janine prodded me.
“Janine, he’s a baby.”
“Who cares? He’s legal. You’re entitled to have a little fun, and you may wind up with a date for the bar mitzvah after all.”
In the end, I decided to let him drive me home. In my altered state of consciousness, Janine’s reasoning sounded pretty good. Plus, he’d promised me leftovers from the kitchen.
I waited outside in the parking lot while Alex locked up the restaurant. The cold air sobered me up a bit, and I started to feel the first pangs of regret over my decision. I am not a “one-night-stand-with-a-stranger” kind of girl, no matter how much I’d like to be. It’s awkward, at best, and even though I was pretty sure Alex Junior wasn’t a serial killer, I didn’t think I’d feel too good about myself in the morning. I was just going to have to tell him that the wedding was off and, by the way, I wouldn’t be sleeping with him. I really hoped he’d still let me have the leftovers.
The street was dark and empty, so that even the sound of a car door softly closing somewhere nearby put me on edge. I decided to wait for Alex inside. As I began walking towards the door, I got the sudden and distinctly creepy feeling that I wasn’t alone.
Prickles of sweat broke out on the back of my neck as my imagination raced. Slowly, I reached into my coat pocket for the set of “Clear Knuckles” I found on the Internet, “designed to tear flesh and inflict topical pain. Legal in every state!”
As I reached the building I breathed a sigh of relief, and then a hand came out of nowhere, grabbing me by the back of my head, its fingers fisting in my hair. I tried to scream, but another hand, large and gloved, clamped itself over my mouth and nose. A slightly sweet odor filled my nostrils, making me dizzy. I held my breath and swung my arm backwards, blindly reaching for my assailant’s face. He growled low in his throat as the Clear Knuckles made contact with soft muscle tissue.
The hand over my face tightened and I tore at his arms, struggling to loosen his grip on me. I was suffocating and I gasped for air, sucking the sickly sweet scent into my lungs. It was the last thing I remembered before I passed out.
“Do you think she’s dead?” The voice was muffled and seeme
d to be coming from far away.
“Christ, I hope so. The bitch took a chunk out of my face with her fist.”
I was just conscious enough to realize that the person he was calling a bitch was me and to take offense to it. But it was hard to muster up righteous indignation for name-calling when the real offense seemed to be they were plotting to kill me. Whoever they were. I was still too groggy from my chloroform and ouzo cocktail to believe any of this was real.
I had been blindfolded and stuffed into a cramped, dark space, my hands and ankles bound with some kind of cloth. The earth seemed to move beneath me, making it hard to get my bearings. I struggled to sit up and bonked my head against something hard, a tire iron, I think. Shit. I’m in the trunk of a car. What’s that thing you’re supposed to do if you’re ever kidnapped and locked in the trunk of a vehicle? Oh yeah, kick the taillights out. Okay… where are my feet?
While I pondered this, the car stopped moving. The driver cut the engine and popped the trunk. I thought about jumping out, but then what? Yell, “Surprise!” and hop away on my shackled legs? I could barely lift my head—or remember my own name.
Another car approached and stopped and soon I heard footsteps crunching along the ground. I lay motionless, doing my best impersonation of a dead person, which I would be soon if I didn’t get my wits together. I was too out of it to be scared, which was actually a good thing, because if I fully understood how much trouble I was in I’d have peed my pants.
“Where is she?” asked a new voice, male and slightly more upscale.
In response, the trunk lid was yanked open, letting in a blast of fresh air.
“Signed, sealed and delivered.”
I braced myself for the worst, made the sign of the cross in my head and began to thrash about, shouting my lungs out. “Help! Someone help me! Call 911!”
Mr. Upscale banged his fist against the trunk and the lid slammed shut again. “For Christ’s sake, you morons, you got the wrong girl.”
His outburst was followed by a moment of stunned silence, which I felt compelled to fill. “Hey, anyone can make a mistake,” I yelled through the closed lid. “No harm, no foul.”
There was the sound of crunching gravel, as three sets of feet stomped away from the car. More muffled conversation; quiet murmurings punctuated by angry expletives. Then the trunk popped open and the gloved hand pressed itself against my nose once again. I tried to fight the guy off, but there were three of them and one of me and I was just too damn tired. For the second time that evening I was out like the proverbial light.
I woke up, face down in the gutter about three blocks from where I’d been abducted. It was two a.m. by my watch. My pocketbook lay on the curb next to me, my arms and legs freed from the bonds that had constrained them. The Clear Knuckles were gone, but beyond that, everything was as it had been. It was as if it had all been a horrible nightmare, conjured up after eating bad oysters or watching The Fox News Network. Had I dreamed it?
I ripped open my bag and fumbled around for my cell phone. When I found it I began to punch in 911 but stopped midway through the call. What would I even tell the police? And would they even believe me? I could hardly believe it myself. Nothing was stolen, I wasn’t dead, there were no telltale marks on my body. I hadn’t seen a thing and I couldn’t identify any of those guys if they came up and bit me in the butt. I had nothing to offer the cops and no matter how I sliced it, I’d end up sounding like some nutcase rambling on about UFO’s and alien abductions.
The effects of the alcohol and chloroform had, for the most part, worn off, leaving me depressed and vulnerable. I hated feeling so defenseless. I put my phone back in my pocket, willing myself not to cry. It didn’t work. Big, fat tears spilled out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
After a few minutes, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and tried to get some perspective on the situation. Okay, the good news was, no one was trying to kill me after all. They’d simply mixed me up with someone else. And when you think about it, they were really quite gentlemanly about the whole thing. Once they realized their mistake, they let me go. I was in the clear. No need to drag this on, what with my parents arriving in town and Paul’s big day coming up. To tell the truth, I was happy to put it all behind me. There was just one nagging, little detail. If I was the wrong girl, who then, was the right one? Crap. I took out my phone again.
I woke Bobby out of a sound sleep. He was there in less than twenty minutes, dressed in sweat pants and his motorcycle jacket, his hair tousled; the rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow running the length of his jaw line. He picked me up off the curb and opened the passenger door.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, shivering my brains out as hypothermia set in.
He turned up the heat and pointed the vents in my direction. “What happened?” he said quietly. So I told him.
“I can see where you might not want to mention this down at the station,” he said when I was finished.
“But you believe me.” It wasn’t a question.
“I believe you. So what were you doing making out with a nineteen-year-old kid?”
“Unhh! I think you’re missing the point here, DiCarlo.”
Bobby pulled up in front of my house and cut the engine. He turned around in his seat, facing me. “I’m not missing the point. I’m changing the subject. Jesus, Brandy, I am so damn relieved to know these people weren’t after you. Cut me a break here and let me enjoy it for a minute and a half.”
“Bobby,” I said, touched by his words, “I know you’re just looking out for me, but there’s some poor woman walking around out there who has “hit” men after her and she may not even know it. How are we going to find her before they do?”
“We?”
“Yeah. What?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said? Look at you! You came this close to sleepin’ with the fishes tonight. You haven’t slept in weeks, your nerves are shot and now you’re talking about plunging into another life threatening situation. What is wrong with you?”
I pushed open the car door. “Do me a favor. When you figure it out, let me know.”
Chapter Four
Lynne Schaffer stopped me in the hall. It was Monday morning. I’d spent all of Sunday in bed, watching kick-ass movies like “Die Hard” and Walking Tall,” getting vicarious thrills out of watching the good guys beat the tar out of the bad guys.
“You’re filling in for Tamra today,” Lynne said. “Be ready in half an hour.”
Normally, this would have been great news. I’ve been dying for an opportunity to break out of the puff piece mold. But this just felt creepy. “Why?” I asked. “Where’s Tamra?”
“How should I know?” Lynne groused. “Look, Alexander, you wouldn’t be my choice, but you’re here and there’s no one else to fill in on such short notice. Oh,” she added, “and see if you can lose the Goth look before you go on air. You look like something out of a Dracula movie.”
I felt like decking her, but she did have a point. Pretty soon the bags under my eyes were going to need their own porter.
Eric was waiting for me when the show ended. “Nice job,” he said, absently. “Listen, could you come into my office?” His baby face showed signs of strain. I felt sorry for him.
“What’s wrong with Tamra?” I asked, taking a seat on the couch. “Why didn’t she come in today?”
“I don’t know,” Eric said, “and to tell you the truth, I’m worried. I’ve been trying to call her all morning and I just keep getting her voicemail. This isn’t like her. She’s always been rock solid. I’m thinking maybe something happened to her.”
My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Have you tried calling her husband? He works at the university.”
Eric nodded. “He’s not there. They said he took the week off and won’t be back until next Monday. Look, I’ve heard some rumors. Their marriage isn’t so hot, but Tamra wouldn’t bail on work. She knows it could cost her her job.”<
br />
“Car accident,” I suggested. “Maybe she was taken to the hospital and wasn’t able to call.” I knew if there had been a serious wreck we would have heard about it, but I was grasping at straws.
“I’m gonna need you to cover again tomorrow if we don’t hear from her,” Eric said.
I felt a little wave of excitement, which of course quickly turned into a massive wave of guilt. Being the product of a Catholic mom and a Jewish dad, it was a familiar feeling.
I left work at 4:00 p.m. making a detour on the way home. According to her personnel records, Tamra lived in Pennsauken, New Jersey, which was right across the bridge. I didn’t know what I’d hoped to accomplish, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least drive by and see if her car was there. I pulled onto her street just as the last vestiges of daylight were slipping away.
Townshend Drive was a tree lined cul de sac located in a quiet, upper middle class neighborhood. Her place was at the end of the block, a two story slate gray Cape Cod style house with an attached garage.
Tamra’s car was parked in the driveway. I walked up the pathway, stooping to pick up the Sunday Times, and then I rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing. I went around to the side of the house and tried to peer in a bottom window, but the shades were drawn, no light coming from inside.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped a mile and spun around, knocking over a big clay pot. It looked expensive.
A skinny kid about eleven years old was sitting astride his bike, watching me.
“Hi,” I said, brightly. “Do you know Tamra and Jeff?”
He nodded, inching closer. “I live right next door. What are you doing?” he asked again, this time with a proprietary edge to his voice.
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 5
