No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (33 page)

Carla swung by Nick’s to pick up Rocky and Adrian, and Uncle Frankie brought me a cheese steak, figuring I’d be hungry after my “ordeal.” Feeding me cholesterol-packed food is his way of saying “I love you,” which suited me just fine. Paul showed up wearing a Ramone’s T-shirt—it was ‘80’s night at the club, and John trailed in after him, carrying a bag from Victoria’s Secret.

“Thought you might need this,” he said, holding up a lacy, pink nightie. It had a plunging neckline and was, for all intents and purposes, see-through. It looked like something you’d find on the cover of a Victorian bodice-ripper. “Don’t get mad at me, Sunshine,” he said when I made a face. “It was your mother’s idea. She thought you might run across an available doctor and you’d want to look nice.”

I turned to Paul. “Mom knows already?”

“Sh-she knew b-before I did. Th-that woman is a-m-mazing.”

“I’m okay, Paulie,” I said quietly.

He leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. “You bet.”

A nurse came in and handed me my pain meds and something to help me sleep. Then he cleared everybody out. Janine told me she’d be back later to stay the night with me. The nurse, a ruggedly handsome guy in his mid thirties said he’d look forward to seeing her again. Unbelievable.

I turned over in the darkened room and tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t stop those terrifying images from parading around in my brain. I knew from past experience that I’d be living with them for a long time.

“It’s all over,” I kept telling myself. “I’m fine.” And then the tears that I fought to keep inside while everyone was here tumbled out of me. I cried for Ilene and Andi and Turk, and even for Glen and Keith, but most of all I cried for me.

I hadn’t quite finished my little pity party, when I heard a sound at the door. Swiping a hand over my face, I sat up too quickly and groaned. Apparently, the pain meds needed a little time to kick in.

Nick was standing at the entrance. “Hey,” he said.

My heart stopped beating when I saw him. Good thing I’m in a place where that sort of thing happens all the time. “Hey,” I answered, shyly. Except for the brief interlude in the warehouse, I hadn’t spoken to him since we shared his bed. I was off to a running start.

“I brought you something.” Nick slid along the wall in the dark until he found what he was looking for. A moment later, the room was softly illuminated. He’d brought me a nightlight. It was an indescribably thoughtful gesture.

He sat down at my side while I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from bawling again.

“It must be the medication,” I gulped. “I’m
never
like this.”

“Never,” he agreed. “You’re a rock.” He handed me some tissue and I wiped the gunk off my nose.

Nick told me the Feds had busted the Ellenbergs and closed down the casino. “Oh, and Bulldog was picked up again, this time on a weapons charge. The Ellenbergs are a little too busy to bail him out right now, so he decided to turn state’s evidence in return for a shorter jail sentence.”

I shook my head, amazed. “How do you know all this?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got friends in low places.”

The sleeping pill finally kicked in and I sank back into the pillows. Nick stood up and pressed his lips lightly against mine. “Take care, angel,” he said. It sounded suspiciously like the brush off and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

“Um, yeah, you too,” I choked out.

He reached the door and turned to face me again. I could barely make out his features in the low light.

“Remember when you asked me if I ever got scared?” he said.

“I remember. You said nothing scares you.” The corners of his mouth twitched imperceptibly. “I was scared tonight.”

Mike Mahoe stood just outside Bobby’s office, his broad shoulders slumped in a show of contrition. I was still mad at him for his reaction to my fight with Marie. He’d enjoyed it entirely too much.

“I heard you were here,” Mike began.

“Hm hmm.” I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

He shifted uncomfortably in his heavy leather cop jacket. “Well, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re okay—and I’m sorry about—you know—the thing with Father Vincenzio,” he added in a rush. I guess near-death experiences have some advantages. People go out of their way to be nice to you.

“Thanks, Mike,” I said, offering him up a smile.

Bobby sat on the edge of his desk, tossing wads of paper in the wastebasket. I was in the beat up metal chair, waiting for him to miss, so that I could have my turn at “World Domination.”

I had driven myself to the police station in Paul’s Mercedes, having returned the truck to Nick. Now that I was safe, he was going on that business trip he’d been putting off. It was a relief to think he was in some primitive location, without access to a phone. That way, I wouldn’t be hanging around mine, waiting for him to call.

After a rather lengthy interview, I was free to go. Bobby caught me on the way out and dragged me into his office. He shut the door and pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of his desk drawer, showing them to me.

“Separation agreement,” he explained. “And this one gives me temporary sole custody of my little girl.” A visible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. One hundred and thirty pounds, if I were to make a guess.

“So what happens to Marie now?” The woman had left me for dead, but I still couldn’t bring myself to hate her.

“She knows she’s sick. I’m through with our marriage, and if she wants back in Sophia’s life, she’s going to have to commit to some serious therapy. By the way, thanks for not pressing charges against her for stalking you.”

I sank the final shot to take over Poland and stood up. I had to get home to get ready for my blind date with Jason Danski. Actually, I’d forgotten all about him until he called, that morning. It just seemed easier to meet him than to explain why I was out of the mood.

Mike walked me to the elevator. I wanted to go see Toodie, but Mike said they’d released him a few hours ago. A uniformed officer came down the hall, towing a stocky, bald headed guy in cuffs. One of his arms was in a cast. Ivan “Bulldog” Sandmeyer. My stomach lurched when I saw him, but fear soon gave way to intense loathing as I thought about how he had destroyed my parents’ couch in his quest for the thumb drive. That couch had been a part of my life for twenty-eight years. I’d logged thousands of hours watching television on that couch, was nursed through chicken pox and had gotten my first hickey, all on those familiar green velvet cushions.

Before Mike could stop me, I marched up to Sandmeyer, stopping two inches in front of his face. “You owe me a childhood memory.” I reared back and delivered a solid kick to his shin.

Sandmeyer howled. “Son of a bitch!”

The officer made a move for me, but Mike shook his head, a silent warning to back off. “Come on, tiger,” he grinned, throwing a meaty arm around my shoulders. “I think your work here is done.”

Carla was right about Jason. He was pleasant, easy on the eye, had a respectable job and, as far as I could tell, hadn’t murdered anyone recently.

Janine had called during dinner to see if I needed to invoke the “I’ve-got-a-sick friend-it-was-nice-meeting-you” plan.

I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room. “He seems like a good one,” I told her. I’m going to give him a chance.”

On the way back from the restaurant we stopped at Best Buy. Jason, a self-proclaimed “electronics geek” wanted to check out the new high definition and plasma screen TV’s.

We stood surrounded by dozens of televisions of various sizes, all tuned to the same channel.

“Oh, I love this show,” Jason said, zeroing in on a 56 inch monster monitor.

Apparently, the rest of Northeast Philadelphia did too. A large crowd had gathered to watch the final minutes of The Nosy Neighbor. Not wanting to be a spoilsport, I chimed in with, “This show is hilarious. I mean where do they find these people?”

“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” a disembodied voice intoned. “This week’s number one video, sent in by nosy neighbor Doris Gentile of South Philadelphia.”

“Oh my God, Jason, she’s my neighbor!”

But Jason wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to the television as a young woman filled the life-sized screen. She was standing in the front yard of a house, bent over a hose, shampooing her hair in the freezing cold. She wore only a man’s trench coat, which, unbeknownst to her, had fallen open in the front, revealing her womanly wares. This being network TV, they were covered, discreetly, by two fuzzy balls of light. Sadly, her face was not.

Jason appeared even more embarrassed than I did. In the next moment, as I stood amidst snickering onlookers, he reached into his pocket, feigned a phone call, fake-answered it, and told me he hoped I didn’t mind, but he had to leave immediately to visit a sick friend. Truthfully, I didn’t mind so much that he was ditching me (I would have ditched me too), but he didn’t even offer me a ride home.

I took a cab back to my place, made myself a large pot of hot chocolate and settled down on the patio lounge chair I’d borrowed from Fran and Eddie. (I really had to get a new couch.) Adrian sprawled at my feet while Rocky slurped the dregs of the cocoa that were cooling in the pot on the stove.

I turned on Three’s Company, but the comical hi-jinks of Chrissy, Jack and Janet just weren’t doing it for me. The truth is, I was lonely. I couldn’t call anyone. Everybody thought I was on a date, and I didn’t want to disabuse them of that notion just yet. I briefly considered knocking on Mrs. Gentile’s door to tell her how much I enjoyed her home video, or inviting Bobby over, to give her something to talk about. That idea appealed to me a lot more, but in our mutually vulnerable states, I knew it wouldn’t be the smartest move. The doorbell rang, saving me from a major bout of stupidity.

“Maybe it’s a Jehovah’s Witness,” I thought hopefully, heading for the door. “They’re always up for a nice, long chat.” I stood on tiptoe so I could look out the peephole. “Who is it?” I called out.

A ridiculously phony British accent replied, “It’s the butler.”

Joyously, I ripped open the door.

“Hi Roomie.”

A former Philadelphian, Fredman now resides in Santa Monica, California where she splits her "real life" between writing, teaching elementary school, consuming mass quantities of chocolate and enjoying the many characters that manifest themselves in her head (in the non-clinical sense).