“You go ahead and cut the cake,” I told my mother. “I'll get the coffee going.”
I waited a moment until I had the kitchen to myself, then I promptly did a quiet exit through the back door. I had no intention of going for a ride that would culminate in a body cavity search. Not that a body cavity search would be a new experience. Morelli had already performed this procedure on me at various ages, with varying degrees of success. The new twist would be that this time the search might be done by a prison matron—and that was even less appealing than falling prey to Morelli.
I was wearing jeans and boots and a flannel shirt over a Tshirt, and my teeth were chattering by the time I'd cut through my parents' backyard and run the two blocks to Mary Lou's house. Mary Lou's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. For six years now she's been more or less happily married to Leonard Stankovic of Stankovic and Sons, Plumbing and Heating. She has two kids and a mortgage and a part-time job as a bookkeeper for an Oldsmobile dealership.
I didn't bother with the formality of knocking on her door. I just barged in and stood there stomping my feet and flapping my arms in her living room, and saying, “D-d-damn it's c-ccold!”
Mary Lou was on her hands and knees picking up little plastic cars and men that looked like fireplugs. “Maybe it would help if you tried wearing a coat.”
“I was at my parents' house and Morelli showed up, and so I had to sneak out the back door.”
“I don't buy into that one,” Mary Lou said. “If you were with Morelli just now you'd be missing a lot more clothes than your coat.”
“This is serious. I'm afraid he might want to arrest me.”
Mary Lou's two-year-old, Mikey, toddled in from the kitchen and latched onto Mary Lou's leg dog style.
I thought kids were okay from a distance, but I wasn't all that excited about the way they smelled up close. I suppose when they belong to you it makes a difference.
“You probably should stop shooting guys,” Mary Lou said. “You shoot a lot of guys, and eventually the cops get cranky about it.”
“I didn't t shoot this one. Anyway, I had to sneak out of the house, and I had to leave my coat and everything behind.”
Lenny and the four-year-old were sitting in front of the TV watching a rerun of The Munsters. Lenny was an okay person but sort of a mouth breather. Mary Lou had always gone for that type, preferring brawn to brain. Not that Lenny was entirely stupid. It's just that you'd never get him confused with Linus Pauling.
Mary Lou dumped the fireplug people into a plastic laundry basket that was filled with toys, and the two-year-old let out a howl. He cried flat out with his hands clasping and unclasping, reaching for who knows what. Mary Lou, I suppose. Or maybe for his toys that were being put away for the night. He cried with his mouth wide open and his eyes scrunched tight, and in between sobs he shrieked, “No, no, no!”
Mary Lou took a graham cracker from her pocket and gave it to Mikey.
Mikey shoved the cracker into his mouth and continued to blubber, chewing and rubbing his face with his fat baby hands. Cracker mush mixed with tears and baby snot worked its way into his hair and onto his face. Brown drool rolled off his chin and stained his shirt.
Mary Lou gave Mikey a “been there, seen this” look. “Mikey's tired,” she said.
Like I said before, kids were okay from a distance, but I didn't think they'd ever replace hamsters.
“I need to use your phone to call home,” I said to Mary Lou.
She wiped at the mush with her shirttail. “Help yourself.”
I dialed from the kitchen, straining to hear over the racket in Mary Lou's living room. “Is Morelli still there?” I asked my mother.
“He just left.”
“Are you sure? He's not hanging around outside, is he?”
“I heard his car drive away.”
I borrowed a sweatshirt from Mary Lou and ran back to my parents' house. I cut through the backyard and jogged down the driveway to check the street. The street looked clear. No Morelli. I retraced my steps to the kitchen door and let myself in.
“Well,” my mother said, “what gives?”
“Never catch me walking out on a hunk like Joe Morelli,” Grandma said. “I guess I'd know what to do with a man like that.”
I guessed I knew what to do with him too, but probably it was illegal to neuter a cop. “You didn't give him any spice cake to take home, did you?” I asked my mother.
My mother tipped her chin up a fraction of an inch. “I gave him the whole thing. It was the least I could do after you left him sitting here high and dry.”
“The whole thing!” I shouted. “How could you do that? I didn't get a single piece!”