all.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m fifteen!” Halah said, all huffy.
“I was talking about Cleo,” Max said.
“Can I drive your Corvette?” Halah asked Cleo.
“Sure.”
“She’s only fifteen,” Cristina gasped.
“You know, she’s gotta learn sometime.” Cleo slapped an arm around Halah. “But first things first. Girlfriend, we are going shopping.”
Halah dove into the passenger seat. “I can’t believe I’m going to the symphony.”
Cleo kicked the car in gear. “Do you like tattoos?” she said and sped away.
Cristina cringed. “Is my little girl safe with that woman? I mean she’s not really unhinged or anything, right?”
I stared at her. Cristina pulled her daughter out of school, drove her across country in an unsound, gutless wonder, checked into a sleazy hotel in a city where a big, bad man was itching to gun her down. I wasn’t getting Mrs. Brady here.
“No worries. I’d trust Cleo Jones with my life.”
***
Max and Cristina drove to the deli and swapped the sputtering late-seventies Subaru for Max’s Hummer. I tucked my hair under the blonde wig again and drove Tino’s bullet-proof Buick back to the hotel. Halah’s violin, computer, and clothes were waiting to be rescued on the second floor. Every teenager thinks she can’t live without a few things. These were hers. Room 225. The key was in my pocket. I promised I’d get them for her.
The black Lexus sedan that Tierney’s guys were driving was parked in front of the hotel. No sign of their sorry, battered faces though. They could be waiting in the lobby, but I doubted it. Whatever plan they had for the missing bartender wouldn’t beg for witnesses. I was guessing they got a room. And it would be as close to Cristina’s room as possible. Waiting, probably smoking cigarettes and sucking on black licorice whips. Or even worse, waiting in Cristina’s room.
I plucked my phone from my pocket and called Mama.
“Caterina, is that you?” Mama doesn’t trust caller ID.
“You know it’s me, Mama. I wanted to ask if Inga can have a sleepover tonight. You can pick her up at Tino’s.”
“What’s to ask? You should be out with that nice boy from the FBI. The one with insurance.”
“I wish, Mama. I’ll be working late.”
Mama made a disapproving clicking sound with her mouth. “This work of yours. A hootchie stalker. Taking dirty pictures. Seeing things a good Catholic girl should never see.” She shuddered.
“Mama, I wish you’d stop telling people I’m a hootchie stalker. I’m a professional private investigator. It’s like being a cop.”
“A cop without insurance. This life is no good for a girl who should be married and having babies like her sister.”
My sister Sophie is a baby factory. She loves to point out that I’m thirty, divorced, and missing all the fun of childbirth. When we were kids, Sophie was busy playing with her perfect little family in her perfect little dollhouse. I was busy skinning my knees and hanging from trees with my brother Rocco. Don’t get me wrong. I like kids. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll give Mama grandkids instead of gas. Right now, my future’s a mucky blur. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. But with the way Sophie pumps out those kids, I’m pretty sure her uterus is going to fall out.
Mama groaned. “Oh! There’s a horrible, stabbing pain in my chest.”
I made a soothing sound. “Oh, Mama. Take some Tums.”
“It’s not gas. It’s a daughter who breaks her mama’s heart.”
I worked my throbbing temples. “I have to go now, Mama. Thanks for taking Inga.”
Mama sniffed. “She wants to come home to grandma. Tino feeds her too many sausages.”
I tucked the phone away, slipped out of the car, and made my way to the alley around back. I maneuvered around two big, stinky dumpsters heaped high with garbage. I tried not to breathe. I picked out a wooden crate from one, rotting at the edges, but sound enough to stand on. Scooting close to the brick
“I’m not a kid. I’m fifteen!” Halah said, all huffy.
“I was talking about Cleo,” Max said.
“Can I drive your Corvette?” Halah asked Cleo.
“Sure.”
“She’s only fifteen,” Cristina gasped.
“You know, she’s gotta learn sometime.” Cleo slapped an arm around Halah. “But first things first. Girlfriend, we are going shopping.”
Halah dove into the passenger seat. “I can’t believe I’m going to the symphony.”
Cleo kicked the car in gear. “Do you like tattoos?” she said and sped away.
Cristina cringed. “Is my little girl safe with that woman? I mean she’s not really unhinged or anything, right?”
I stared at her. Cristina pulled her daughter out of school, drove her across country in an unsound, gutless wonder, checked into a sleazy hotel in a city where a big, bad man was itching to gun her down. I wasn’t getting Mrs. Brady here.
“No worries. I’d trust Cleo Jones with my life.”
***
Max and Cristina drove to the deli and swapped the sputtering late-seventies Subaru for Max’s Hummer. I tucked my hair under the blonde wig again and drove Tino’s bullet-proof Buick back to the hotel. Halah’s violin, computer, and clothes were waiting to be rescued on the second floor. Every teenager thinks she can’t live without a few things. These were hers. Room 225. The key was in my pocket. I promised I’d get them for her.
The black Lexus sedan that Tierney’s guys were driving was parked in front of the hotel. No sign of their sorry, battered faces though. They could be waiting in the lobby, but I doubted it. Whatever plan they had for the missing bartender wouldn’t beg for witnesses. I was guessing they got a room. And it would be as close to Cristina’s room as possible. Waiting, probably smoking cigarettes and sucking on black licorice whips. Or even worse, waiting in Cristina’s room.
I plucked my phone from my pocket and called Mama.
“Caterina, is that you?” Mama doesn’t trust caller ID.
“You know it’s me, Mama. I wanted to ask if Inga can have a sleepover tonight. You can pick her up at Tino’s.”
“What’s to ask? You should be out with that nice boy from the FBI. The one with insurance.”
“I wish, Mama. I’ll be working late.”
Mama made a disapproving clicking sound with her mouth. “This work of yours. A hootchie stalker. Taking dirty pictures. Seeing things a good Catholic girl should never see.” She shuddered.
“Mama, I wish you’d stop telling people I’m a hootchie stalker. I’m a professional private investigator. It’s like being a cop.”
“A cop without insurance. This life is no good for a girl who should be married and having babies like her sister.”
My sister Sophie is a baby factory. She loves to point out that I’m thirty, divorced, and missing all the fun of childbirth. When we were kids, Sophie was busy playing with her perfect little family in her perfect little dollhouse. I was busy skinning my knees and hanging from trees with my brother Rocco. Don’t get me wrong. I like kids. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll give Mama grandkids instead of gas. Right now, my future’s a mucky blur. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. But with the way Sophie pumps out those kids, I’m pretty sure her uterus is going to fall out.
Mama groaned. “Oh! There’s a horrible, stabbing pain in my chest.”
I made a soothing sound. “Oh, Mama. Take some Tums.”
“It’s not gas. It’s a daughter who breaks her mama’s heart.”
I worked my throbbing temples. “I have to go now, Mama. Thanks for taking Inga.”
Mama sniffed. “She wants to come home to grandma. Tino feeds her too many sausages.”
I tucked the phone away, slipped out of the car, and made my way to the alley around back. I maneuvered around two big, stinky dumpsters heaped high with garbage. I tried not to breathe. I picked out a wooden crate from one, rotting at the edges, but sound enough to stand on. Scooting close to the brick
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