11 Eleven On Top (10 page)

“I saw Anthony yesterday. He was driving a Corvette that looked new.”

Grandma got dishes from the cupboard. “Mabel Such says Anthony's spending money like water. She don't know where he's getting it from. She says he doesn't make all that much at the store. She says he was on a salary just like everybody else. Michael Barroni came up the hard way, and he wasn't a man to give money away. Not even to his sons.”

I got silverware and napkins, and Grandma and I set the table around Valerie and Sally and Angie.

“You can stare at that seating chart all you want,” Grandma said to Valerie. "It's never gonna get perfect. Nobody wants to sit next to Biddie Schmidt.

Everybody wants to sit next to Peggy Linehart. And nobody's going to be happy sitting at table number six, next to the restrooms."

My mother brought the meatballs and sauce to the table and went back for the spaghetti. My father moved from his living room chair to his dining room chair and helped himself to the first meatball. Everyone sat except Mary Alice. Mary Alice was still galloping.

“Horses got to eat,” Grandma said. “You better sit down.”

“There's no hay,” Mary Alice said.

“Sure there is,” Grandma said. “See that big bowl of spaghetti? It's people hay, but horses can eat it, too.”

Mary Alice plunged her face into the spaghetti and snarfed it up.

“That's disgusting,” Grandma said.

“It's the way horses eat,” Mary Alice told her. “They stick their whole face in the feed bag. I saw it on television.”

The front door opened and Albert Kloughn walked in. “Am I late? I'm sorry I'm late. I didn't mean to be late. I had a client.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Kloughn. Kloughn didn't get a lot of clients. He's a lawyer and his business has been slow to take off. Partly the problem is that he's a sweetie pie guy... and who wants a sweetie pie lawyer? In Jersey you want a lawyer who's a shark, a sonuvabitch, a first-class jerk. And partly the problem is Kloughn's appearance. Kloughn looks like a soft, chubby, not-entirely-with-the-program fourteen-year-old boy.

“What kind of client?” Grandma asked.

Kloughn took his place at the table. “It was a woman from the Laundromat next to my office. She was doing her whites, and she saw my sign and the light on in my office. I went in to do some filing, but I was actually playing poker on my computer. Anyway, she came over for advice.” Kloughn helped himself to spaghetti. "Her husband took off on her, and she didn't know what to do. Sounded like she didn't mind him leaving. She said they'd been having problems.

It was that he took their car, and she was stuck with the payments. It was a brand-new car, too."

I felt the skin prickle at the nape of my neck. “When did this guy disappear?”

“A couple weeks ago.” Kloughn scooped a meatball onto the big serving spoon. The meatball rolled off the spoon, slid down Kloughn's shirt, and ski jumped off his belly into his lap. “I knew that was going to happen,” Kloughn said. “This always happens with meatballs. Does it happen with chicken? Does it happen with ham? Okay, sometimes it happens with chicken and ham, but not as much as meatballs. If it was me, I wouldn't make meatballs round. Round things roll, right? Am I right? What if you made meatballs square? Did anybody think of that?”

“That would be meatloaf” Grandma said.

“Did this woman report her missing husband to the police?” I asked Kloughn.

“No. It was just one of those personal things. She said she knew he was going to leave her. I guess he was fooling around on the side and things weren't working out for them.” Kloughn retrieved the meatball and set it on top of his spaghetti. He dabbed at his shirt with his napkin, but the smear of red sauce only got worse. “I felt sorry for her with the car payment and all, but boy, can you imagine being that dumb? Here she is living with this guy and all of a sudden he just up and leaves her. And it turns out she has nothing but bills. They had two mortgages that she didn't even know about. The bank account was empty. What a dope.”

My mother, father, and Grandma and I all sucked in some air and slid our eyes to Valerie. This was exactly what happened to Valerie. This was like calling Valerie a dope.

“You think this woman is a dope because her husband managed to swindle her out of everything?” Valerie asked Kloughn.

“Well yeah. I mean, duh. She was probably too lazy to keep track of things and got what she deserved.”

The color rose from Valerie's neck clear to the roots of her hair. I swear I could see her scalp glowing like hot coals.

“Oh boy,” Grandma said.

Sally inched his chair away from Valerie.

Kloughn was working at the stain on his shirt and not looking at Valerie, and I was guessing he hadn't a clue what he'd just said. Somehow the words got put together into sentences and fell out of his mouth. This happened a lot with Kloughn. Kloughn looked up from his shirt to dead silence. Only a slight sizzle where Valerie's scalp was steaming.

“What?” Kloughn said. He searched the faces in the room. Something was wrong, and he'd missed it. He focused on Valerie, and you could see his mind working backward. And then it hit him. Kaboom.

“You were different,” he said to Valerie. “I mean, you had a reason for being a dope. Well, not a dope actually. I don't mean to say you were a dope. Okay, you might have been a little dopey. No, wait, I don't mean that either. Not dopey or dope or any of those things. Okay, okay, just a teensy bit dopey, but in a good way, right? Dopey can be good. Like dumb blond dopey. No, I don't mean that either. I don't know where that came from. Did I say that? I didn't say that, did I?”

Kloughn stopped talking because Valerie had gotten to her feet with the fourteen-inch bread knife in her hand.

“You don't want to do anything silly here,” I said to Val. “You aren't thinking of stabbing him, are you? Stabbing is messy.”

“Fine. Give me your gun, and I'll shoot him.”

“It's not good to shoot people,” I said. “The police don't like it.”

“You shoot people all the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“I'll give you my gun,” Grandma said.

My mother glared at my grandmother. “You told me you got rid of that gun.”

“I meant I'd give her my gun if I had one,” Grandma said.

“Great,” Valerie said, flapping her arms, her voice up an octave. “Now I'm dopey. I'm fat, and I'm dopey. I'm a big fat dope.”

“I didn't say you were fat,” Kloughn said. “You're not fat. You're just... chubby, like me.”

Valerie went wild-eyed. “Chubby? Chubby is awful! I used to be perfect. I used to be serene. And now look at me! I'm a wreck. I'm a big, fat, dopey, chubby wreck. And I look like a white whale in my stupid wedding gown. A big, huge white whale!” She narrowed her eyes and leaned across the table at Kloughn.

“You think I'm dopey and lazy and chubby, and that I got what I deserved from my philandering husband!”

“No. I swear. I was under stress,” Kloughn said. “It was the meatball. I never think. You know I never think.”

“I never want to see you again,” Valerie said. “The wedding is off.” And Valerie gathered up her three kids, her diaper bag, her sling thing, her kids' backpacks, and the collapsible stroller. She went to the kitchen and took the chocolate cake. And she left.

“Dudes,” Sally said. “I did the best I could with the dress.”

“We're not blaming you,” Grandma said. “But she does look like a white whale.”

Kloughn turned to me. “What happened?”

I looked over at him. “She took the cake.”

I CAUGHT A ride home with Sally, and I was parked in front of my television when my doorbell rang at nine I o'clock. It was Lula, and she was dressed in black from head to toe, including a black ski mask.

“Are you ready?” Lula wanted to know.

“Ready for what?”

“To get my cleaning. What do you think?”

“I think we should give up on the cleaning and send out for a pizza. Aren't you hot in that ski mask?”

“That Mama Macaroni got my favorite sweater. I need that sweater. And on top of that it's the principle of the thing. It's just not right. I was a hundred percent in the right. I'm surprised at you wanting to let this go. Where's your crusading spirit? I bet Ranger wouldn't let it go. And you got to get your car, anyway. How're you gonna get over there to get your car if you don't go with me?”

My car. Mental head slap. I'd forgotten about the car.

Ten minutes later, we were idling across the street from Kan Klean. “It's nice and dark tonight,” Lula said. “We got some cloud cover. Not a star in the sky and it looks like someone already took out the streetlight.”

I looked at Lula and grimaced.

“Hey, don't give me that grimace. I expected you'd compliment me on my shooting. I actually hit that freaking lightbulb!”

“How many shots did it take?”

“I emptied a whole clip at it.” Lula cut the engine and pulled her ski mask back over her head. “Come on. Time to rock and roll.”

Oh boy.

We got out of the Firebird and waited for an SUV to pass before crossing the street. The SUV driver caught a glance at Lula in the ski mask and almost jumped the curb.

“If you can't drive, you shouldn't be on the road,” Lula yelled after him.

“It was the mask,” I said. “You scared the crap out of him.”

“Hunh,” Lula said.

We got to the store and Lula tried the front door. Locked. “How many other doors are there?” she asked.

“Just one. It's in back. But it's a fire door. You'll never get through it. There aren't any windows back there either. Just a couple big exhaust fans.”

“Then we got to go in through the front,” Lula said. “And I don't mind doing it because I'm justified. This here's a righteous cause. It's not every day I can find a sweater like that.” She turned to me. “You go ahead and pick the lock.”

“I don't know how to pick a lock.”

“Hell, you were the big bounty hunter. How could you be the big bounty hunter without knowing how to pick a lock? How'd you ever get in anywhere?” She stood back and looked at the store. "Ordinarily I'd just break a window, but they got one big-ass window here. It's just about the whole front of the place.

It might look suspicious if I broke the window."

Lula ran across the street to the Firebird and came back with a tire iron. “Maybe we can pry the door open.” She put the tire iron to the doorjamb and another car drove by. The car slowed as it passed us and then took off.

“Maybe we should try the back door,” Lula said.

We went around to the back and Lula tried to wedge the tire iron under the bolt. “Don't fit,” she said. “This door's sealed up tight.” Lula gave the door a whack with the tire iron and the door swung open. “Will you look at this,” Lula said. “Have we got some luck, or what?” “I don't like it. They always lock up and set the alarm.” “They must have just forgot. It was a traumatic day.” “I think we should leave. This doesn't feel right.” “I'm not leaving without my sweater. I'm close now. I can hear my sweater calling to me. Soon's we get inside I'll switch on my Maglite, and you can work that gizmo that makes the clothes go around, and before you know it we'll be outta here.”

We both took two steps forward, the door closed behind us, and Lula hit the button on the Maglite. We cautiously walked past the commercial washers and dryers and the large canvas bins that held the clothes. We stopped and listened for sirens, for someone else breathing, for the beeping of an alarm system ready to activate.

“Feels okay to me,” Lula said.

It didn't feel okay to me. All the little hairs on my arm were standing at attention, and my heart was thumping in my chest.

“We got the counter right in front of us,” Lula said. “You switch on the whirly clothes thing.”

I reached for the switch and every light in the store suddenly went on. It was as bright as day. And there was Mama Macaroni, perched on her chair, a hideous crone dressed in a black shroud, sighting us down the barrel of a gun, her mole hairs glinting under the fluorescent light.

“Holy crap,” Lula said. “Holy Jesus. Holy cow.”

Mama Macaroni held the gun in one hand and Lula's dry cleaning in the other. “I knew you'd be back,” she said. “Your kind has no honor. All you know is stealing and whoring.”

“I quit whoring,” Lula said. “Okay, maybe I do a little recreational whoring once in a while...”

“Trash,” Mama Macaroni said. “Cheap trash. Both of you.” She turned to me. “I never want to hire you. I tell them anything that come from your family is bad. Hungarians!” And she spat on the floor. “That's what I think of Hungarians.”

“I'm not Hungarian,” Lula said. “How about giving me my dry cleaning?”

“When hell freezes. And that's where you should be,” Mama Macaroni said. “I put a curse on you. I send you to hell.”

Lula looked at me. “She can't do that, can she?”

“You never get this sweater,” Mama Macaroni said. “Never. I take this sweater to the grave with me.”

Lula looked at me like she wouldn't mind arranging that to happen.

“It'd be expensive,” I said to Lula. “Be cheaper just to buy a new sweater.”

“And you,” Mama Macaroni said to me. “You never gonna see that car again. That my car now. You leave it in my lot and that make it mine.” She squinted down the barrel at me, leveling it at forehead level. “Give me the key.”

“You don't suppose she'd actually shoot you, do you?” Lula asked.

There was no doubt in my mind. Mama Macaroni would shoot me, and I'd be dead, dead, dead. I pulled the car key out of my pocket and gingerly handed it over to Mama.

“I'm gonna leave now,” Mama said. “I got a TV show I like to watch. And you gonna stay here.” She backed away from us, past the washers and dryers to the rear door. She set the alarm and scuttled through the fire door. The door closed after her, and I could hear her throw the bolt.

I immediately went to the front of the store and stood behind the counter so I could look out the window. “We'll wait until we see her drive away, and then we'll leave,” I said to Lula. “We'll trip the alarm when we open the door, but we'll be long gone before the police get here.”