Fascinated, Johnny turned the smooth wheel of the Rodman. “Yeah, well, there aren’t too many of them around. I got to know one of them in Nam. He was a genius with explosives.”
“Really? That’s what I did in World War II. Demolition. We blew up the swastika of Nürnberg.” He grinned. “Among other things.”
Stan and Johnny gazed at each other with final approval. The record came to an end and Stan hurried over to flip it. “Ah, Puccini,” he sighed.
“Sir?”
“Puccini.”
“Sounds good,” Johnny scratched his forehead, embarrassed.
“So,” Stan sank into his chair, “down to tacks.”
Johnny reminded him of the conflicting numbers he’d reported.
“Oh, yes. You see, my daughter saw this car, and—”
Johnny looked up at Carmela pirouetting into the room. She was wearing a tuxedo and stiletto heels. Her mouth was an indignant fuschia.
“My daughter,” Stan shrugged. “Carmela.”
“Dad, my car won’t start.”
“It’s just the butterfly, knucklehead. It always is.”
“Yes, but I’d rather take yours, if I may.” She looked Johnny over. From the lines of his car she had thought he’d be something. He had good teeth all right, but his Izod La Coste shirt was not a La Coste at all. It was a counterfeit. What’s more, it looked as though it had been slept in. He was obviously ill-bred. Didn’t even stand up. Stan fished in his pocket for keys and handed them over. “Be careful,” he warned and she started to leave.
“You the one who saw the car?” Johnny stopped her.
Carmela gripped her chest. “Me? Of course not. That was Claire.”
“That’s my other daughter … on the porch.”
“Yes, she lives on the porch,” Carmela smiled.
“Oh, she doesn’t live on the porch. Sometimes she sleeps out there.”
“Every night since she’s come home.”
“You see, Claire’s been living overseas—”
“Over a tea shop. In the Himalayas.”
“Yes. Well. She’s not used to being back in civilization yet. And she … she saw this car early in the morning but she thought it would be better if I went down and told about it.”
Johnny’s shoulder’s sank. “I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to her then.”
“Oh, no!” they both said.
Johnny looked at them.
Carmela untangled her bow tie and pulled it up into her hair. “You see, Claire has this thing about policemen.”
“She won’t talk to you,” Stan agreed. “I mean, she’d rather not.”
A gigantic funeral arrangement came in on a pair of men’s legs.
“Freddy!” Carmela cried. “Gladiola!”
Freddy struggled in and lowered the flowers onto Stan’s cluttered desk. He was dressed a la Miami Vice and his hair was shaved stylishly over his ears with a brilliantined dip in the front. “From the restaurant.” His lips pursed of their own accord. “I’ve got so many I don’t know what to do with them all. I’ll bring more by tomorrow when I come to pick up Michaelaen.”
He’s a fruit, thought Johnny.
“Daddy!” Michaelaen, so happy that he had to act mad, marched into the room and butted his head into his father’s designer-jeaned leg.
“Where’s your mother?” Freddy hugged him. “Go tell her I’m here.”
“This is Frederick Schmidt,” Stan introduced him to Johnny. “Detective Bene …”
“Benedetto,” Johnny finished for him, stretching out his hand, remembering AIDS. Daddy?
Uh-oh, thought Freddy and he put up his guard.
“Schmidt? Freddy Schmidt?” Johnny repeated out loud. “You didn’t used to quarterback for Holy Cross?”
“That was me,” Freddy grinned, resigned now to the look of shock, disgust, and pity that was sure to cross Johnny’s face. But it didn’t come. At least he has that much class, Freddy thought. “How’s the writing coming, Carmela? Won any Pulitzers yet?”
Carmela threw herself across the ripped leather sofa and flung one arm behind her head. “If I don’t get some dirt on someone fast, I might very well be forced to go back to writing novels.” She exhaled an elaborate swoon.
“Not that you ever finished one of those,” said Zinnie as she walked in and gave Freddy a kiss on the cheek. “You look good,” she told him generously. “Hi,” she reached over and gave a hand to Johnny.
“Detective Benedetto, meet Officer Breslinsky,” Stan said proudly. He wished Freddy wouldn’t sit like that, so close to the Dahlgren. You never knew when that one would fire. There were still some kinks in it that he would have to work out.
Freddy obligingly stood up and walked over to the bar. “Drink?” he asked no one in particular and helped himself to a Frangelica.
“Officer, huh? Where do you work?”
“Midtown South. Anticrime.”
“Nice house. Who’s your hook?”
“My brother was on the job.” Zinnie suddenly began to search for fleas in Michaelaen’s spanking clean mop of hair.
“No kidding? How long you been on?”
“Three years,” Zinnie smiled.
Nice kid, Johnny thought.
“You want to talk to Claire?” She accepted the bourbon and water Freddy handed her.