Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (20 page)

There was a thud from the other side of the closet, and Dan jerked. “Shit, he’s down. What the fuck?”

Trying to force myself back in to the here and now, I leaned a little harder on the door than necessary. There was entirely too much happening for a post-orgasmic burglar to process. “I can’t see him.”

The goddamn door swung in a heart-stopping jolt. With Dan’s hand in my underwear, my pants around my hips, and my dick slathered in semen, we tumbled with nothing to catch ourselves on except each other. Off balance, we rode the door until it hit something solid on the floor. We tipped sideways, landing in a pile about a foot away from Brandon, who was facedown on the wood floor. He twitched.

Dan scrambled to his feet, wiping his hand on his shirt. I guess that was the least of our worries as someone was still banging on the front door. I stuffed myself back into my jeans, appalled that I’d almost landed dick first onto this poor guy.

“Check his pulse.” Dan scoped the hallway. “I wish I had my gun.” He shifted into his cop persona—coolly efficient. It was startling.

He disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the water run.

Brandon’s heartbeat was erratic, he was sweating, but he was breathing on his own. He was out cold. The smell of peanut butter filled the air. His nose was bleeding on the floor and damn, the guy was running a fever. I ran my hands along his back, checking for injuries. “Brandon. Hey. Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?”

Obviously we missed a critical incident while I was having the most intensely exciting orgasm of my life, again, in the hall cupboard.

Dan came back, his face harsh, and handed me a towel. “Roofie. We need to get an ambulance. I bet whoever did this did it to Shep on Friday night as well. Don’t touch anything.”

I tried to wipe Bran’s nose, poor bastard. His sandwich was stuck to his shirt. I peeled it off.

The front door banged again. “Caesar! Open the door!” Jesus. It was my father. “I know you’re in there!”

“Everyone out,” Dan yelled, but no one moved. He should have said, Ollie ollie oxen free. He strode down the hall banging on doors. “I called the police, they’re on their way.”

That got everyone moving. Doors flew open. Shep came stumbling from the bathroom, his shoes wet. Mallory and Peter crawled out from under the table.

Shep said, “Where’s Poppy? Oh my God, what happened to Bran?”

He hadn’t made a sound. “Dan thinks someone slipped him a roofie.”

“I meant his face.”

I sat there blinking at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the van parked on the curb. I thought you were holding out on me.” He was hiding something, damn actor, because he seemed utterly sincere. One thing he couldn’t hide was the shift in his complexion. He didn’t like blood, I remembered, and he’d faint or puke. He was definitely turning green.

“Shep.” Dan nodded at Brandon. “I think this is what was done to you the other night.”

Shep nodded. “I think so too. Because…I don’t go upstairs with people who aren’t memorable.”

I decided right there that Shep and Jean Luc were perfectly suited.

Dan went to the front door and my father came stomping down the hall, only to stop at the sight of Brandon, unconscious and bleeding on the floor.

Pop pointed at me with two fingers. “You! You need to get outta here right now.”

“Who the hell is he?” Peter pointed back at my father with his long skinny index finger. He and Mallory were rumpled and pale.

Mallory seemed confused. “Is he having an allergic reaction to peanut butter? I’ve seen that before. Look at his face. Did someone call an ambulance?”

Dan spoke to his aunt. They were side by side, and now the resemblance was striking. “I did. Please, Mallory. You need to leave. Everyone.” Somewhere on the street emergency vehicles fought the morning traffic with horn blasts.

“I’m sorry, Daniel. I shouldn’t have told Peter where you were. He was…is obsessed. I trust you to do your job.”

Dan squatted next to me. “Caesar, you need to go. Now.” He retrieved Brandon’s cell phone from where it lay on the floor and scrolled through his calls with one hand. He made no effort to hide what he was doing. “Missed call from Dr. Bronner. Three unidentified calls. Four calls from Posh Nosh.”

“Hey. Where’s Poppy?” Shep asked again.

“That’s a good question.” Dan’s face was hard. “She cut and run.”

We all turned and stared at the back door. It was wide open.

“Poppy didn’t do this.”

“Of course not,” my father piped in. He gave Dan a chilling look. “She’s like a daughter to me. You watch yourself.”

“We’ll see.”

And then the cops were coming in the front door, and we all fled like rats from a sinking vessel into the alley. My father nabbed my collar and yanked me in the opposite direction. “You don’t go with those people.”

“I have to move the van.” But when we turned the corner, Poppy’s pink delivery truck was gone.

My father and I walked back to Rocco’s and I told him everything. How it seemed Brandon might be framing Poppy, how Poppy was broke, how my boss had stolen a painting from Mallory, and now it was missing—

“Enough.” My father threw his hands in the air. “That man with the swollen face, he works for Poppy—he was her muscle, you know, he’s the one who goes and sees people pay her. Nothing illegal, he’s the man who checks in. He was strong-armed by someone else.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You need Tino?”

“No, but thanks anyway.”

He sucked his lip. “Joey give you that idea to break in?”

“The door was actually open—”

“Caesar, you’re the most honest, loyal person I ever met. You work hard. You look after your grandmother, you take care of Poppy, you make that boss look good—but you’re the worst liar in the state of New York. No breaking the law. Hear me?”

I sighed. “Yeah, Pop. I know.”

“Joey. He’s in law school now. He oughtta know better. You know he’s seeing Poppy?”

“What?”

“See. You need to get out more. Have some fun. You mark my words. They’re gonna get married.”

“Poppy Romano? No way.”

“You’ll see.” He gave me a bag of cannoli, a hot veal parmesan sandwich, an ice-cold San Pellegrino, and he loaded me into a cab. He paid my fare. He was my pop. I sat digesting the union of Poppy McNamara and Joey Romano, while my father tried to send me off with words of wisdom. “You never ask for help from nobody, you know? But the people who love you want to help you. So you let them. That’s what family does. You go find Poppy. She’s a good girl. And you tell that Dan he better wise up. You need him to watch your back. Understood?”

Fifteen minutes later the cabbie deposited me in front of the gallery. It should be open, but the doors were locked tight and the studios were dark. Peter was neglecting his duties. Color me surprised.

I walked down the alley. Captain and Joseph sat in their usual spot, the cardboard filthy and stained. It was sunny and it was lunchtime. They were eating gyros wrapped in oily tinfoil. Joseph’s nose was buried in another steamy romance novel. A scrawny flea-bitten kitten scratched at its ears between them. “Did you…get a cat?”

“Ayup.” Joseph stroked the white fur ball. It had to be crawling with vermin. “She come out of the dumpster.” He fed her a tiny sliver of lamb.

“She needs kitten food. That’ll make her sick.”

“Got some. This be her treat.”

Captain reached into the pocket of his buffalo plaid coat, and I stepped warily away. He withdrew a scrap of paper and handed it to me. His hand touched mine. Was it the same one he’d used to blow his nose? I didn’t flinch. I took the note carefully between my fingertips. “We wrote down what we remember. You seem like a nice guy.”

I unfolded the paper and struggled to read what it said. They’d tried, but penmanship wasn’t their strong suit. “Well. Thank you. This is unexpected. And I have something for you, but you can’t have it out here.”

The men pulled themselves stiffly from the ground, pocketing their gyros. Joseph scooped the pathetic kitten and carried her in the crook of his arm. From the corner of their bedding, a splash of color showed. I couldn’t take my eyes off it—splotches of cadmium orange and cobalt blue cerulean contrasted against the bleak shit-brindle-brown of their greasy, filth-stained pallet. If I had to guess, I’d say those were circus colors.

I nudged the cardboard with my foot. “So. The orange guy. He paid you guys to hide a painting?”

The men shifted. They looked at each other, then at me. “Is it stolen?” Captain asked. “We didn’t do it. That guy just handed us some money and told us to take it. He said he was comin’ back, but he still hadn’t come.”

Joseph said, “Ain’t worth nothin’. Ain’t no Modigliani. Or Klee. This is paint-by-number.”

“I like Klee too. Can I have that painting? It’s someone’s mother’s. She was partial to it.”

Captain bent down and uncovered the canvas. It was smashed from where they’d sat on it, and stained from what I prayed was alcohol and not urine. Captain tried to hand me The Circus of Despair, the subject a sad clown riding an even more tragic carousel horse in a strange muddied tent of woeful onlookers. There appeared to be a juggler and a ringmaster in the background—it was difficult to tell. I could see Peter stealing this, hell, I could picture him humping it while wearing those wing-tipped clown shoes. I shook my white Rocco’s takeout bag. “Could you carry it in for me? My hands are full.” I was not about to touch that canvas.
Hep C. Typhoid. Rabies!
my mind screamed.

Wordlessly, we climbed the steps to the back door of the gallery, and I unlocked the door and punched the alarm.

Captain stopped at the door. “You bringing us inside? You didn’t like dat de other day.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day. C’mon.” They followed me into the kitchen, while their odor followed them.

Captain leaned the missing painting against the wall. Unschooled Acrylic, Dan had said. Mallory was a better bullshit artist than I, for sure, because Salvation Army would have passed on this one. I set my bag on the counter, found the paper plates, a couple forks, and then I carefully unveiled the cannoli. Pop had put a little powdered sugar in a takeout container. I sprinkled that on top and handed the plates to the guys.

“What’s dis for?”

“I told you I’d bring you Rocco’s. You can’t eat my pop’s food with your hands. You need a plate. And a fork. You want coffee?”

Captain snatched the plate from my hand as if he feared I’d change my mind. He stared at the dainty pastry. “How many these you got?”

“Four. That’s all he could spare. I have napoleon too, if you prefer.”

“We’ll take the lot. You got soda? I don’t like coffee much.”

I smiled. “So. Gentlemen. I want to know how this went. Guy left here with a box and a painting? Or is there someone you’re not supposed to tell me about.”

Joseph’s eyes squinted into slits. He looked to Captain, then back to me. Captain chewed slowly. “We in trouble?”

“No. I just need to know if I’m right. That’s all.”

Joseph piped in. “Ayup. I didn’t see, but the door was propped open wit’ a chair or something like. First guy come out and asks us to hide the painting. Gives us fifty bucks and two bottles, and den he say he’ll be back later on.”

“That was the orange guy?”

“He weren’t orange then. And then ’bout half hour later, ’nother guy comes through dat door. Wearing a coat, though, and pushing this huge box.”

Two guys. Well my father was right. Brandon wasn’t the brains in that outfit—he was most probably the one left to take the fall. Poor bastard. I let the guys take the cannoli outside with their forks, Peter’s plates, a couple cans of soda, and the bag of goodies. Captain stuck his hand out. “Thanks…what’s your name?”

“Caesar.” I shook it. I had Purell.

“Well, you de only decent person dat works in dis place. You’re okay. So look it. The guy come back the next morning, and he was orange. He told us to hold on to the painting. We was supposed to leave that envelope with the ear thing…but we forgot so Joseph stuck it on yer truck.”

“So it’s not really mine, right?”

“I dunno about dat.”

“You know,” Joseph drawled, “you oughta git yerself a different truck. That one ain’t very manly.”

I let the men and their kitten outside the back door, handing them a couple creamers for the cat, then I stuck my resignation on the refrigerator with Peter’s Andy Warhol magnet and went to Poppy’s.

I came around the corner to Posh Nosh. It was well after two and the streets of Manhattan bustled with tourists. The after-lunch crowd had hit the Village. Poppy’s place would be doing a fair trade in dessert and coffee.

I was halfway down the street when Rachel stepped from the glass door to Posh Nosh. She was in baggy jeans and a T-shirt, her hair hidden under a ball cap—and from this distance, despite those amazing gravity-defying knockers, she looked more like a striking, effeminate young man than I’d ever noticed. Like a luscious tranny in the broad light of day. She opened the back of a Jeep Cherokee and slid a cardboard box filled with wine into her arms. She was hauling the leftovers from Shep’s party out of her brother’s car. She lugged the box through the door, disappearing from view.

Dan would meet me any minute now. He’d called to tell me Brandon was stable, somewhat lucid, but scared into silence. My father was right. Someone had their thumb on the bartender/model, and it wasn’t my best friend.

I entered the side alley, passing the Posh Nosh van where it was tucked in the narrow lot. On the stoop, where the kitchen door entered the back of her place, Poppy sat on a stack of milk crates, looking wan and smoking a cigarette. Her hair was drawn back, her mouth pinched in anger.

“I thought you quit.”

“This? It’s an invisible cigarette. I’m not inhaling anyway, just holding it. What’s with you, Ce? You never answer the phone.”

I shrugged. “I’m tired of people calling me. I thought I’d come by in the flesh. I hear you’re seeing my cousin.”

“Are you mad? I was afraid you’d be mad.”

“Of course not. Do you love him? Or at least, can you stand him?”