‘Hasidic Jews.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, somebody died and they covered all the mirrors. She oughta be home doing that.’
Magozzi sighed. ‘She’s not Hasidic, Gino, or even Orthodox. McLaren said they weren’t even religious, remember?’
‘You don’t have to be religious to show respect.’ He looked at his watch and tapped the crystal. ‘What time is it? I told Rose Kleber’s daughter we’d be there at eleven.’
‘Almost that.’
‘We better move it, then. Damn, this is going to be more fun than a barrel of crippled monkeys.’
Marty hadn’t moved since Lily, Magozzi, and Gino had left the greenhouse. Most of the customers were still outside, emptying the sale tables, and for ten full minutes he’d been alone at the counter, staring at nothing, thinking that another six or seven beers from Jack’s cooler might take the edge off the headache that had been with him since yesterday. He’d been stone-cold sober for over twenty-four hours now, and couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Sobriety, he decided, wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.
He glanced out the window and saw Jack passed out on his lawn chair, turning red in the sun. He took one step toward the door to holler at him to get in the shade, then stopped.
Let the bastard fry.
14
Detective Johnny McLaren sat behind the stacks of clutter on his desk, tufts of bright red hair barely peeking over the top. Gloria was sashaying down the center aisle toward him, and there was no hope at all of concentrating on anything else when that body was in motion. She was a big, black, beautiful bulldozer of a woman and most of the time she dressed with all the subtlety of a movie marquee. Today she was wearing an intense yellow sari with a matching headdress and Johnny felt like he was staring into the sun.
‘What are you looking at, you little Irish twerp?’ She poked a pink message slip onto his desk with a long, yellow fingernail.
‘Poetry in motion. The woman of my dreams. My soul mate. My destiny.’
‘Give it a rest, McLaren.’
‘I can’t. I look at you, I look at me, I see little red-haired black children…’
‘Uh-huh. Grand dreams for a little stick man.’ She tapped the message slip again. ‘That guy called three times this morning. Some Brit with an attitude.’
McLaren’s ruddy face wrinkled into a perplexed frown as he read the message. Just a name and overseas number. ‘What the hell would a Brit be calling me for? I don’t know any Brits.’
‘Well, gee, honey, I don’t know. I was hoping it might be your new tailor. Lord knows they would never have sold you that jacket on the other side of the puddle.’
‘What’s wrong with my jacket?’
‘McLaren, madras was over before you were born. Get used to it. And if Langer gets back from the can anytime this century, Chief Malcherson wants you both in his office by three P.M. with some kind of an update on the train track guy he can feed to the media for the five o’clock news. Those jackals are in love with that murder.’
‘Lucky us,’ McLaren grumbled as he pawed through the wreckage on his desk and tried to find the case file.
Gloria moved in a little closer and eyed him shrewdly. ‘Pretty strange doin’s, that one.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Gloria clucked her tongue. ‘That Arlen Fischer must have been one nasty piece of work to end up the way he did.’ She waited for a response, but McLaren was thoroughly engrossed in a month-old Malcherson memo regarding dress code. ‘Honest to God, McLaren,’ she said irritably, ‘Jimmy Hoffa could be buried under that pile of crap.’
‘It’s all this inner-office shit. I can’t keep up with it. How the hell am I supposed to find time to solve crimes when I’ve got to read a god-damned five-page memo on profanity every week?’
Gloria arched one perfectly plucked brow. ‘Well I am purely amazed. And all this time I thought you weren’t reading those at all. Don’t know where I got such a silly idea.’ She reached under a stack of sales circulars and pulled out Arlen Fischer’s file. ‘This what you’re looking for?’
McLaren blinked at her, amazed. ‘Yeah.’
She cocked one hip and made a low humming sound that reminded McLaren of a cello. Gloria always did that when she was fishing for information, and it always worked. ‘Well, speaking of Jimmy Hoffa, I don’t know what you guys are thinking, but this sure sounds like a mob hit to me.’ She waggled the folder under McLaren’s nose before handing it over.
McLaren beamed at her. ‘I keep telling you, Gloria, we’re soul mates. That’s exactly what I thought at first. Out-of-state mobsters messing up Minnesota with their nasty little vendettas. Too bad we couldn’t make it fit.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Well, for openers, Arlen Fischer was a three-bill, eighty-nine-year-old with bad hips. Not exactly your average mob type.’
‘I got two words for you. Marlon Brando.’
‘And I got one word for you. Movie. Besides, this was the king of ho-hum. You know what he did for a living? Fixed watches. Worked at the same damn jewelry store for thirty-some years, lived on social security and a little pension, no family, no friends, no money. I’m telling you, the man was a nobody. Never even made a blip on the radar screen.’
‘Hmm. You know what I think, McLaren?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Honey, I don’t have time to talk about your physical deformities right now. But what I think is, you don’t tie a nobody to a train track and leave him to either die of fright or get chopped in half.’
McLaren sighed. ‘Yeah, well, we’re having a little trouble with that part.’
Gloria folded her arms under her extremely large bosom. ‘You just remember that old Gloria told you to look for a mob connection. And when you end up collaring Tony Soprano for this, you owe me a big, fat lobster dinner.’
McLaren sat up in his chair. ‘I’ll take you out for a big, fat lobster dinner anytime you want.’
‘Who said you were invited?’
McLaren watched helplessly as she glided off to continue her rounds, dropping memos and message slips on other desks in Homicide, all of them vacant with Gino and Magozzi out in the field, and the rest of the guys farmed out to other, busier divisions.
McLaren hated the silence of an empty room. He got enough of that when he went home every night. He breathed a small sigh of relief when Langer came in from the hall, then groaned when he saw the cardboard box he was carrying ‘Oh, come on, Langer, you’re killing me. Not another one.’
Langer set the box on a working table they’d shoved between their desks. ‘This is the last of them.’
‘Gloria says it’s mob related.’
Langer smiled a little. ‘The scary thing about that woman is that she’s right more than she’s wrong, which is better than our average. I don’t know why she doesn’t just sign up and get into the job for real.’
‘I asked her that once. Said she wouldn’t be caught dead in the clothes they make us wear. Do we really have to go through another one of those damn boxes?’
‘We do.’
‘It’s depressing as hell.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Langer started sorting through more of the detritus of Arlen Fischer’s life with little hope of finding anything helpful. So far the contents of the old man’s desks and cabinets had yielded little but confirmation that he filed garbage instead of throwing it away. They’d been through four boxes like this already, and the most interesting thing they’d found was an old, empty Chicklets box that had instantly called up childhood memories for both of them. Apparently mothers of all faiths had surreptitiously doled out those precious little white squares of gum to keep their children quiet during sermons.
Johnny stood up and stretched, peered into the box, and plucked out a cellophane packet of crumbled soup crackers. ‘Oh boy. Here’s a clue.’