CHAPTER TWO

I dropped Lula off at the bail bonds office on Hamilton Avenue. Her car was parked at the curb, and my cousin Vinnie’s Cadillac was parked behind her. Vinnie’s name is on the store front sign. Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. And on some more or less official papers it looks like Vinnie owns the business. Truth is, his father-in-law, Harry the Hammer, owns the business, and he also owns Vinnie.

Traffic was light, allowing me to do the drive from the bail bonds office to my apartment building in less than fifteen minutes. I had the windows open, hoping the gasoline smell wouldn’t linger in the upholstery. I was driving a blue Honda CR-V that wasn’t brand-new, but it was new to me.

I live in a boring but adequately maintained three-story apartment building on the outskirts of Trenton proper. My one-bedroom apartment is on the second floor and looks out at the parking lot. It’s not a scenic location but it’s quiet with the exception of the dumpster collection twice a week. I share the apartment with a hamster named Rex. He lives in an aquarium on my kitchen counter, and he sleeps in a soup can. Until very recently I sometimes shared the apartment with an on-again, off-again boyfriend, Joe Morelli. He’s a plainclothes Trenton cop working crimes against persons. Our relationship is currently in the off-again stage, so these days it’s just me and Rex.

Rex is mostly a nighttime kind of guy, but he peeked out of his soup can when I walked into the kitchen.

“Here’s the deal, ” I said to Rex. “I didn’t find Charlie Shine, but I did find his partner Lou. He tried to set me on fire, and he got away, but as you can see I’m perfectly okay. Except for my sneakers that smell like gasoline. ”

Rex retreated into his den, so I assumed he didn’t feel compelled to know the details of my ordeal.

I dropped an apple slice into his food dish, and I tossed the sneakers into the trash. I needed new ones anyway.

My parents live a couple of blocks from the bail bonds office in a residential chunk of Trenton called the Burg. I grew up in the Burg and I feel comfortable there, but it’s not where I want to live. The Burg is a lot like Rex’s glass aquarium. Small and enclosed and open for everyone to see in. I can’t get away from my past in the Burg. Not that my past is so terrible. It’s more that I’d like to be judged on my future… whatever that might be. Since I don’t have a good grip on my future, I’m stuck in the Burg and its surrounding neighborhood, which is another way of saying I’m halfway to who-knows-where.

My parents still live in the house where I grew up. It’s a small house on a small lot. The house is painted mustard yellow and brown, not because anyone likes the colors but because it costs too much money to change. There are three small bedrooms upstairs plus a bathroom. Living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs. Narrow front porch running the width of the house. Small stoop in the back off the kitchen door. Single-car detached garage.

My maternal grandmother lives in the house, too. She moved in when my grandpa Mazur succumbed to years of schnitzel and Marlboros and took up residence in heaven. At least we hope it’s heaven. She was at the front door when I parked at the curb. Possibly checking the weather or maybe experiencing a moment of Grandma ESP that told her I was driving down the street.

“Just in time for lunch, ” she said when I walked up to the house. “It’s Monday so that means leftover roast chicken. Your mother made it into chicken salad. And we have little rolls from the bakery. ”

Food is important in the Burg. It’s the glue that holds everything together. News travels through the bakery and the deli. Bread is blessed at the church. Charities are funded at bake sales. Families still sit at the table for dinner whether they like it or not. Adult children are bribed into visiting their parents with the promise of pineapple upside-down cake, lasagna, fried chicken and biscuits, Virginia baked ham. Cultural appropriation is a good thing here. Polish housewives share recipes with their Italian neighbors. Kielbasa, macaroni and red sauce, Cozido a Portuguesa, enchiladas, burgers, goulash, pot roast, pirogi, pad thai. We eat it all. The American melting pot is alive and healthy in Burg kitchens. Even death prompts an outpouring of food. Liquor flows at the after-burial reception and the buffet table holds a disturbing number of noodle casseroles.

My father was in his chair in front of the television in the living room. He’s retired from the post office and drives a cab part-time, mostly taking a few regulars to and from the train station. He had a sandwich and a soda on a tray table, and he was tuned in to QVC. Grandma and I tiptoed around him and joined my mother in the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re here, ” my mother said to me. “Your grandmother is talking crazy again about going off on a treasure hunt. You have to speak to her. She won’t listen to me. ”

At some point in time, my mother and grandmother reversed roles. My mother is now the voice of maturity and reason and my grandmother is the rebellious family member who is happy to throw caution to the wind and dye her hair flame red.

“They aren’t crazy ideas, ” Grandma said. “And that treasure is my legitimate inheritance. My honey, Jimmy, left it to me. He was Keeper of the La-Z-Boys’ Keys, and he left the two keys to me. ”

“He didn’t leave the keys to you, ” my mother said. “He put them under his chair cushion, he died, one of his mob buddies stupidly gave you the chair, and by dumb luck we found the keys. And now I’m left with that horrible chair in my living room. ”

The chair was Jimmy’s ancient Mole Hole La-Z-Boy recliner. My father loved it.

“Anyway, Stephanie promised she would help me find my treasure, ” Grandma said.

“Whatever the keys unlock belongs to the six men named on the keys. Not just to Jimmy, ” my mother said. “He was only one of the six La-Z-Boys. ”

The two keys appeared to be identical and weren’t normal house keys. They were five inches long with a slim barrel handle. Double-sided teeth were cut into one end of the handle and a one-inch square was at the other end. The names of the six La-Z-Boy owners were engraved in the square. We’d checked with Google and determined that the keys most likely opened a safe.

“I get his share of the treasure, ” Grandma said. “It doesn’t matter we were only married for forty-five minutes before he had the heart attack. His will said I got just about everything. And on top of that there’s only three of the people named on the keys that are still alive, and two of them are going to jail for murder as soon as Stephanie can find them. The third is Benny the Skootch, and he’s not in good shape. ”

This was all true. Three of the La-Z-Boy owners had died, and their chairs remained unoccupied in the back room. Two of the remaining mob guys, Lou Salgusta and Charlie Shine, were wanted for the murder Grandma and I witnessed. Charlie Shine was also in violation of a bail bond Vinnie had written on him over a year ago.

I hung my messenger bag on the back of a kitchen chair. I got a plate and a knife and fork and took my place at the small square table. Grandma sat next to me and my mom sat across from me.

“I think the treasure is here in Jersey, ” Grandma said, taking a roll. “I can’t see them putting it far away. I did some checking, and it’s not like any of the six men were world travelers. What we have to do now is find the safe that goes with the keys. ”

“That sort of safe usually has a combination lock that works in conjunction with the keys, ” I said. “And we don’t know the combination. ”

“Yes, but you got Ranger, ” Grandma said. “And Ranger knows how to open everything. ”

Ranger is the other man in my life. His given name is Carlos Manoso but he goes by Ranger. He’s former special forces, former bounty hunter, and on a few memorable occasions I’ve slept in his bed. He currently owns Rangeman, a high-end, under-the-radar security firm. And Grandma is right. Nothing stops Ranger when he wants entry.

I made myself a chicken salad sandwich and took some potato chips from the bag on the table. “Do you have any ideas about where this safe might be located besides New Jersey? ” I asked Grandma.

“Not exactly, ” Grandma said, “but I got a lot of feelers out. And I’m doing what you said about not telling anyone I found the keys. I’m just making it sound like I’m curious. ”

“This is stupid, ” my mother said to Grandma. “You’re going to get kidnapped again. Salgusta and Shine are going to burn our house down. You need to get rid of the keys. If you don’t want to give them to Salgusta or Shine, you should give them to Benny. Maybe he’ll give you some of the treasure. ”

“No way, ” Grandma said, “but I’ll hand some of the treasure over to Benny when I find it, being that he’s the one who was nice enough to give me Jimmy’s old chair. I was thinking Stephanie should talk to him and maybe he’ll spill the beans about the safe. He’s on a lot of meds. He might not know he’s giving up the secret. ”

I had to give credit to Grandma. She was a master schemer. And she could be right about Benny. He was in his golden years that weren’t entirely golden. He had heart issues and weight issues. It took two wise guys to get him out of his La-Z-Boy. He was on prescribed meds and I suspected recreational meds, not to mention he liked a good cigar and never passed up a glass of whiskey. The names on the keys were all geriatric or dead hit men who were mostly okay guys when they weren’t whacking someone. This was true about Benny.

“I hear Benny is at home all depressed, ” Grandma said. “He used to meet up with all his cronies at the Mole Hole, but now they’re either dead or hiding out. He’d probably be happy to have a visitor. I could even go with you. I’m real clever at worming information out of people. ”

My mother did an eye roll and made the sign of the cross.

“I’ll stop in after lunch, ” I said to Grandma. “I’ll go alone this time. If I can’t get anything out of him, we’ll bring you in next time. ”

“Sounds like a plan, ” Grandma said. “I have stuff to do anyway. I have follow-up phone calls to make. Jean Mulanowski said her nephew is a pit boss at one of the casinos in Atlantic City, and he told her that Jimmy was a regular. Her nephew is checking to see if Jimmy gave a local address. We’re thinking he might have kept a second apartment there. ”

Originally, I thought I’d be pretty good at finding a treasure. After all, my real job is finding people and dragging them back to jail. People, treasure, what’s the difference other than the payoff? Finding skips has me living paycheck to paycheck, if I’m lucky. My thinking is, the treasure has to be worth a lot more. Unfortunately, it’s also turning out to be more difficult to find.

When I go after people, I already have a file full of clues assembled by the bond agency. Home addresses, work addresses, names of relatives, a picture. In the case of the treasure, I have to go find the clues before I can put it all together and actually go on the hunt. Then there’s the danger factor. Most of my skips are dangerous, but not usually at the same level as Shine and Salgusta. Grandma and I were lucky to survive our last encounter with them, and I was pretty certain the only thing keeping Grandma and me alive and untortured up to this point is that Shine and Salgusta can’t figure out how to snatch us. They used to have a bunch of wise guys working for them in the past, but not lately. And if they confided their plans to the wrong person, it would spread like wildfire through the Burg. It would be told to the second cousin of a first niece of a friend’s brother who goes to church with his butcher’s son, who happens to be a cop. This could result in not only jail time but also no treasure for Shine and Salgusta. So, I’m thinking they’re being careful right now, but it’s only a matter of time before they come after us.

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