Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“You worry too much,” Grandma said. “It’s not like we’re the only ones with emergencies. Herbert Kuntz goes into cardiac arrest at least twice a month, and the whole street lights up with flashing lights.”

A paramedic had my shirtsleeve cut off and was working at the wound site. Sweat was beading on my forehead from the pain, but I was focused on the team of people tending to the guy on the floor. From the amount of activity, I assumed he was alive.

Morelli walked into the kitchen and shook his head at me. Not happy.

“What the hell?” he said.

“You were worried and you love me?” I asked.

He kissed the top of my head. “Yeah. How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad,” the medic said. “Looks like the bullet passed through the upper arm without hitting the bone. My guess is there was minimum muscle involved. I’ve got the bleeding under control, but she needs to go to the ER and get stitched up.”

Morelli looked down at the iron, still on the table. “Your mom really took him out with the iron?”

“Yep. She was awesome. Totally terrifying.”

Morelli cracked a smile. “Nice.”

“How’s the guy on the floor doing?” I asked Morelli. “Do you recognize him?”

Morelli stepped over to where the gunman was still sprawled and spoke to one of the uniforms standing watch. A stretcher was rolled in, and the gunman was loaded onto it. Morelli came back to me.

“I don’t recognize him,” Morelli said, “but then it’s hard to really see what he looks like with the big iron imprint on his face. He didn’t have any ID on him. The only thing in his pocket was a packet of what appears to be cocaine.”

Lula swung into the room. “What’s going on? What did I miss? I couldn’t get a hair appointment so I came for lunch.” She spied the guy on the stretcher. “Holy crap! What happened to him?”

“He tried to kidnap Grandma, so my mother took him out with her iron,” I said.

Lula turned to my mom. “Way to go, Mrs. P.!” She did a high five and a down low with her. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” Grandma said.

“Good thing,” Lula said. “If California found out a guy got killed with an iron, they’d ban them, and all those movie stars would be wrinkled all the time.”

The medic attending me packed up. “We need to get Stephanie out to the truck,” he said to Morelli.

I glanced over at Grandma and my mother. “Are you going to be okay?”

“As soon as they get this guy out of here, we’re hitting the bottle,” Grandma said.

My mother nodded. “Then we’re going to pull on some gloves and scrub the floor.”

“I’ll stay and help,” Lula said. “I need to hear all the details.”

—

It was close to six o’clock by the time I was released from the hospital. I was numbed up, stitched up, and hydrated. Morelli had waited with me, going between my bed and the gunman’s bed in the ER.

“I told your mom we were bringing pizza for dinner,” he said. “I thought you would want to check up on her and Grandma.”

“Yes, thanks.”

We stopped at Pino’s. Morelli ran in and came out with a bunch of pizza boxes.

“That’s a lot of pizza,” I said.

“Some of it is for the Rangeman guys parked in front of your parents’ house. We decided you would come home with me, and Ranger would leave a patrol to watch over your family.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’m starving, but I’m exhausted. I can barely think.”

“It’s the adrenaline letdown,” Morelli said. “You just need pizza.”

My mother, Grandma, and my dad were lined up on the couch, watching the news on TV. They were slack-faced and glassy-eyed. My dad had his baseball bat resting beside the couch.

We ate at the dining room table. Nobody said anything. Finally, Grandma broke the silence.

“There’s bingo tonight,” she said. “It’s at the firehouse. Margie Pratt said she’d pick me up.”

My father’s mouth dropped open and a piece of pizza fell out. “Jeez Louise,” he said. “Why don’t you just stand in the middle of the street and let a car hit you. Get it over with so I can stop carrying this baseball bat around with me.”

“What my father is saying, is that maybe going to bingo tonight isn’t such a good idea,” I said.

Grandma gnawed on a pizza crust. “There’s nothing on television that I want to see, and Marvina is calling numbers at the firehouse. It’s always good when Marvina calls.”

“I can’t go with you,” I said. “The local is wearing off and my arm is starting to throb again.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be with Margie. She’s a crack shot. We go to the rifle range together sometimes.”

This was a surprise to me. “You go to the rifle range?”

“Sure. Thursdays are for the ladies,” Grandma said. “That’s when we go.”

“I thought you went to the hair salon on Thursdays,” my mother said to Grandma.

“I get my hair done first, and then Margie and I go shoot a hundred rounds,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t be telling you this, but pretty soon I imagine I’ll have my own house and lots of money for ammo, and I’ll be able to shoot every day if I want.”

My mother made the sign of the cross, drained her iced tea glass, and cut a fast look to the kitchen. Undoubtedly wondering if anyone would notice if she got more iced tea.

“I’m running low on energy,” I said. “I’m going home with Morelli, and I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. In the meantime, Ranger has a car out front. It’ll stay with you all night. If Grandma goes to bingo, the car will go with her. Lock your doors. If there’s a problem, call me.”

My mother gave me a thumbs-up and winked at me. It was the first time I’d ever seen her wink. I didn’t know she could wink. I guess if you drink enough iced tea anything is possible.

I looked around the table. Morelli was pushed back in his chair and smiling. Grandma was on her phone checking her messages. My father helped himself to another piece of pizza. We were the All-American Family.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT. No phone calls from Grandma, Ranger, my mom. No requests for sex at three A.M. from Morelli. My arm ached, but not horribly. Life was good. The sun was shining, and Morelli was standing at bedside, dressed in jeans and a checked button-down shirt.

“What’s with this?” I said. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Wow, this is serious.”

“Yeah, it scares the hell out of me,” Morelli said. “How are you feeling?”

“My arm is sore, but overall I feel good.” I rolled out of bed and went in search of clothes. “It’s hard to get my mind off Grandma. Yesterday was scary.”

“We’ve identified the gunman as Marcus Velez. He’s been picked up on a couple vagrancy charges. Tried to rob a convenience store a couple months ago and failed miserably. Was given two weeks in the workhouse. Just got out.”

“Do we know who hired him?”

“No. He was too out of it to talk last night. Loopy from drugs and a concussion. He’s still at St. Francis. I’ll drop in on him when I leave here.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“What’s your plan for the day?”

“I’m going to read over Connie’s La-Z-Boys files one more time, and then I’m going to try to find the weakest link. I’m thinking Velez isn’t associated with the Boys. They have their own men, and those men wouldn’t have a rap sheet like Velez.”

“Yeah, he’s cheap labor. Someone picked him off a street corner and gave him a gun.”

Morelli left, and I settled in with coffee and a frozen waffle. After an hour and a half of reading I decided to target Julius Roman. He wasn’t a weak link, but he had a predictable pattern of behavior. Every weekday at precisely 11:45 A.M. he would leave the Mole Hole and walk three blocks to New Town Deli. He did this rain or shine. A small table toward the back of the deli was reserved for him. On rare occasions someone would join him, but usually he ate alone. He had chicken soup and a sourdough roll. He left without paying. We knew all this because Connie’s cousin owned the deli. It was a small world.