Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“Do you think we’re all overly concerned about these men?” I asked Connie. “They all have medical problems, and I don’t see them engaged in a lot of activities.”

“From my firsthand knowledge of Italian mobsters, I can tell you their biggest fear is to get put out to pasture,” Connie said. “The men who are sitting in the La-Z-Boy chairs are still accorded the utmost respect, because they’ve gotten more ruthless with age as they try to maintain the illusion of power. The La-Z-Boys were all assassins and enforcers. There’s less opportunity for wet work in today’s mob, so the four remaining Boys hang at the Mole Hole, watching the pole dancers and talking about the good old days. For whatever reason, they’re now focused on the keys, and I wouldn’t underestimate what they’d do to get them back. For that matter, they could be using the keys as an excuse to flex their atrophied mob muscles.”

“Have you seen Benny the Skootch lately?” I said. “It takes two people to get him out of his chair.”

“Yes,” Connie said, “but he has those two people. In fact, he has a whole posse to help him get the job done, whatever it is. He has people who would help him in the bathroom. He has people to help hold his hand steady while he cuts your heart out.”

“That all is revolting,” Lula said. “I need a donut. Do we got any more donuts left?”

“How could you think about eating another donut?” I said. “You’ve been eating donuts all morning.”

“Donuts settle my stomach,” Lula said. “Some people take that antacid medicine, but I eat donuts. Sometimes I eat chicken.”

I finished reading the printed pages after an hour and a half, and I wasn’t sure I’d found anything useful.

“These men are never alone,” I said to Lula and Connie. “Benny the Skootch is married. It’s his second wife and there’s not much information on her.”

“Carla,” Connie said. “When Benny lost his wife, he married her sister, Carla. They must be married for at least ten years now. She doesn’t get out a lot anymore. She has Parkinson’s, and she’s unsteady. My mom visits her once in a while. The information I gave you about Benny includes what I hear from my mom. It’s tagged onto the end of his bio. He gets picked up every morning precisely at eight o’clock, is driven to the Mole Hole, and stays there until seven at night. He has a woman who tends to Carla during the day. Lights are out in his house at nine o’clock. If he goes out to the doctor’s office, a luncheon, or gets a haircut, he’s driven in the big black Lincoln. He’s short and fat. I know ‘fat’ isn’t a politically correct description these days, but that’s what he is. He’s fat. He smokes cigars, drinks beer with lunch and whiskey with dinner. He eats a lot of bacon cheeseburgers and chili hot dogs. It’s one of life’s great mysteries that he isn’t dead.”

“Sounds to me like he’s leading the good life,” Lula said.

“Lou Salgusta and Julius Roman live alone,” I said. “I suppose I could try to catch them at home, but my blood runs cold at the thought. I’d rather corner them somewhere with people around, and where they aren’t within arm’s reach of their torture tools.”

“We could just camp out in the Mole Hole lot and wait for one of them to leave,” Lula said. “Do we know their habits like Benny the Skootch?”

“Sometimes I see Lou at Saturday night mass,” Connie said. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to check on Grandma and grab lunch.”

“Sounds good,” Lula said. “I’m going to see if the hair salon can squeeze me in early. I’ll call you later, and I think we should try to find Carol Joyce again. He’s ruining our capture record. We were on a roll until he screwed things up.”

—

Grandma was at the kitchen table. She had her laptop open and was taking notes on yellow lined paper.

I put my bag down and sat across from her. “What’s going on?”

“I’m planning out how I’m going to spend Jimmy’s money. I got a bucket list about a mile long, so I’m trying to prioritize.”

“Do you know how much you’re going to get?”

“No clue, but I figure it must be a lot for everybody to want it so bad. I’m thinking I might buy a house of my own. Or maybe one of those new condos that look out over the river. And I’m going to sign up to visit Antarctica on an adventure explorer boat. And I want to go to Gatlinburg. I hear it’s a hoot.”

“When do you find out about the money?”

“The lawyer said he would schedule a meeting for sometime next week.”

“I guess that’s pretty exciting.”

“You bet,” Grandma said. “I’ve never been rich before.”

My mother was ironing, taking all this in. Periodically she would sigh and roll her eyes.

“How long have you been ironing that same shirt?” I asked her.

“Not long enough,” she said. “It’s got a wrinkle.”

“It didn’t have any wrinkles when she started,” Grandma said. “Maybe we should all break for lunch.”

“Just give me a couple minutes,” my mother said. “I need to finish this.”

The back door banged open and two men barged in. They were wearing balaclavas and holding guns.

“Don’t nobody move,” the taller of the gunmen said.

The other grabbed Grandma and yanked her out of her chair. I jumped to my feet, reached for Grandma, and the tall guy squeezed off a shot that came as such a shock to all of us, including the gunman, that everyone froze for a beat. I felt searing heat rip through my arm and realized he’d tagged me.

My mother’s face contorted, and she produced a sound that rocked the kitchen and was somewhere between enraged mother bear and crazed hyena. She charged the man who shot me and swung the iron wide, ripping the cord out of the wall socket and smacking him square in the face with the iron. He crashed to the floor and didn’t move.

The man holding Grandma said “Holy Jesus,” released Grandma, and ran out of the house. I ran after him, he fired a shot at me, and I ducked back into the kitchen. When I peeked out a second time he was gone. I ran to the front door and looked out, catching a glimpse of a silver car racing down the street.

I returned to the kitchen, where Grandma and my mother were standing at a distance, staring at the guy who was motionless, toes up, on the floor. My mother was still holding the iron.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Grandma asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not getting close enough to find out.”

I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket and punched in Morelli’s number.

“Someone tried to kidnap Grandma,” I said, “but my mother clocked him with her iron and we’re not sure if he’s dead.” I realized blood was dripping off my elbow onto the floor, so I added that I’d been shot.

I hung up and wrapped a kitchen towel around my arm. The wound was throbbing, and I was feeling wobble-legged, so I sat down at the little table. I was joined by my mother and Grandma.

“Are you okay?” Grandma asked me. “Maybe you should lay down until the medics get here.”

“I don’t think it’s terrible,” I said. “I wasn’t shot in any vital organs.”

My mother had ice in a plastic baggie. “Try this on it. I don’t know what to do for a gunshot wound.”

She handed me the ice and put the iron on the table. We all watched the man on the floor. If he moved at all I was going to take the iron off the table and hit him again.

In minutes there were sirens and flashing lights and the house was filled with cops and paramedics.

“What must the neighbors think?” my mother said. “We have cars burning up and shootings. If this keeps up, we’ll have to sell the house and move where people don’t know about us.”