"You mind?" said his sister, who was rolling out dough for the crust.
O'Hearn glared at the other two cops.
"Bull-fucking-shit, Joe," he yelled. "I say bull-fucking-shi-"
He stopped, ashamed, as he realized Mary was there. She hadn't even turned her head.
"Uh- sorry, Mrs. Adams, I didn't, uh-"
" 'S okay, pal. I'll survive," she said, never taking her eyes off the rolling pin. "I've heard worse."
"Worse? You've heard worse? Jee-sus Keee·riste!"
"Lemme get that name," said Sam between clenched teeth.
"DeLucca killed Johnny. This guy Carmen DeLucca killed my partner."
While all this was going on, Joe's expression had not changed. Still the zombie look, the Thousand-Yard Stare. He announced he was going outside for a little walk. We watched him go, staring after him as the door shut. Joe does not take walks. Joe does not like the New England countryside; he likes crowded bars and sports events. Something was wrong.
We finished our tasks as Mary trimmed the dough on the big pan and spread her homemade tomato sauce on it. We slid it into the hot oven, heaped with all the cheese and goodies, then looked out the kitchen windows at Joe, who was pacing back and forth through the grape arbor. His head was down and he was smoking furiously, lighting one cigarette off another. Kevin, who worked with him almost daily, was especially concerned. He told us he hadn't seen Joe so worked up since the Blue Hill Butcher case.
"If it is DeLucca, then that means several things," he explained. "First, it's a giant-sized headache in general for all of us, since he's as brutal and bloodthirsty as they come. It's like Dracula coming out of his coffin. Second, as regards this case, it means it's big. It involves the Mob, the Wise Guys… and that alone makes it big."
"But Kevin, it was the Outfit that wanted DeLucca dead in the first place. Two of their henchmen swore to this. They talked, then walked," said Brian.
"Yeah I know. And that's another thing too: it doesn't figure. But even if he's not working for the Wise Guys, then he's gotta be working against them, or something like that. Any way you lay it out, Brian, the Mob's got to be involved. jeez, DeLucca was into the Outfit like Folger's into coffee. But to even show his face around… I just don't get it-"
"You mean either he's off their shit list or else he's risking his neck," said Brian.
"Exactly. And there appears to be quite a number of guys involved in this. How many to kill Johnny? The way we've got it figured, at least three: one to tag Johnny in town, the other two at Robinson's with the bomb. How many to pull these B and E's? At least two at Sam's for a burn job like that, plus the hole in the roof, right? Add to that one, maybe two guys here. Then there's Johnny's towed car. I figure two more. There are probably half-a-dozen men working the street side of this caper, which means two or three times that many upstairs. Now you see why he's upset."
"Could be more than that. Don't forget the guy in the mill and our hot-rod friend on Route Three."
Mary slid the hot pizza out and onto a rack. It smelled great.
"It's more than that," she said. "I know Joey better than all of you put together. It's something else he's not telling us."
She watched her brother pacing and smoking outside, then went out to call him in. We saw him turn and shake his head.
"Not hungry?" said Kevin as he leaned on the countertop and stared out the window. "Joe Brindelli not hungry?"
They came in and Joe sat and smoked in the corner while we ate. He had a Laphroaig on the rocks with a splash and fiddled with the television. He said nothing, and we left him alone. When we all finished he rose first and went to the door. He turned and faced all of us.
"The way I figure it," he said, "this thing has taken an unexpected turn. All I've got to say is- and Kev, I'm not trying to speak for you, so disagree if you want- all I'm saying is that it now appears to be a Mob action. Therefore I'm turning any business I may have had with this thing, or any I might have in, the future, over to the O.C. unit. As far as I'm concerned, it's a local killing- as much as I loved Johnny, Sam, and I mean that. I'm out of it and the state is out. Let O.C. handle it if they want. Good-bye."
He turned and left and got into his cruiser. We all stared after him.
"What the hell was that all about?" asked Brian.
"I have no idea," said Kevin, "except I don't believe it."
We walked the rest of them out to their cars. Kevin got in the shotgun seat next to Joe. Mary stuck her head in and kissed her brother; her long black hair hung down and cascaded all over the door. Most women over forty say they can't wear their hair long. But Mary can. She looks under thirty. She leaned back and brushed her hair aside and Joe motioned me over with his finger.
"Doc, stay away from this business. Stay away from it!"
He and the others drove off, and Mary and I went back into the house. She sat down and put her chin on her lists.
"What's the O.C.?"
"Organized-crime unit. But I can't understand the sudden turnaround. Nobody liked Johnny better than Joe. And he was keen on this case too, especially since it involved us. Can't understand it."
"I can."
"What?"
She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. 'Not telling!"
"Why not?"
"You know why. Remember, I said I'd get even with you. Well here's round one: Joe told me why he's dropping the whole thing, and why he's upset. But I'm not telling you and neither will he. Then maybe next time you and Janice- "
"How'd you know that- uh- what makes you think I-"
She waved her hand through the air impatiently.
"I just know, Charlie. And the next time you get even a pinky finger near her it's going to be all she wrote!"
She jumped up and stomped out, leaving me to clean up the luncheon mess. I opened another Bass and regarded the task before me, contemplating recent vicissitudes.
The needle wasn't moving up out of the Dead Zone. Sumbitch appeared to be stuck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I finished cleaning up, relighted my pipe, and went to find Mary. It was time for a Long Talk, in which I would tell her that I really hadn't meant to grab Janice like that. I would explain that it was all her fault, not mine. That's all.
Swell, Adams.
To hell with it, I decided as I passed the door of her workroom. Besides, Long Talks are like summit meetings; when they're over things are more screwed up than they were before. I went for a medium-long run, did a hundred sit-ups on the inclined board, and took a sauna. I dressed and left the house as the first of the insurance claim officers arrived, and I left a warm note for Mary which explained that I would be at the residence of Morris Abramson, M.D. I thought it best to communicate by diplomatic note until the crisis d la frottage au derriere blew over.
There was a darkening cloud cover, with a chilly blowing drizzle, as I turned into Walden Breezes trailer park. It's right across from Walden Pond, where Thoreau wrote the famous tract. But old Henry David would get the fantods if he glimpsed the horrendous assemblage of mobile homes permanently parked across Route 126 from the pond. Most are vintage fifties and sixties, with a few more recent additions. Moe's dwelling was at the end of the circle, right by the deep pine woods. This was a good thing because he keeps two Nubian goats in a miniature corral and they can be noisy. I got out of the car and felt better immediately. Although I have no firsthand knowledge of how good a therapist he is, I can say that being with him is good therapy for me. After being in his company even briefly, you begin to sort out what's important and what isn't. And it's amazing how many things in twentieth-century middle-class American life aren't at all. I sauntered down the tiny gravel path lined with myrtle and climbed the two narrow wooden steps to the side door of the old Airstream trailer.