Part 19 (1/2)
”I lost it.”
”b.i.t.c.h,” Joyce said.
”Snot.”
”Fat a.s.s.”
”Douche bag.”
Joyce whirled around and stormed out of the building. Next time my mother had chicken I was going to wish on the wishbone that Joyce got herpes.
The office was quiet when I got there. Vinnie's door was closed. Lula was asleep on the couch. Connie had Mary Maggie's phone number and Melvin's permission-to-capture paper ready.
”There's no answer at his house,” Connie said. ”And he called in sick from work. He's probably at home hiding under the bed, hoping it's all a bad dream.”
I tucked the permission-to-capture into my bag and used Connie's phone to call Mary Maggie.
”I've decided I want to make a deal with Eddie,” I said to Mason when she answered. ”Trouble is, I don't know how to get in touch with him. I thought since he's using your car he might call you or something . . . let you know the car's okay.”
”What's the deal?”
”I have something Eddie's looking for and I want to trade Mooner for it.”
”Mooner?”
”Eddie will understand.”
”Okay,” Mason said. ”If he calls in I'll pa.s.s it on, but there's no guarantee I'll be talking to him.”
”Sure,” I said. ”Just in case.”
Lula opened one eye. ”Uh-oh, are you telling fibs again?”
”I'm bait,” I said.
”No kidding.”
”What is this thing Chooch is looking for?” Connie wanted to know.
”I don't know,” I said. ”That's part of the problem.”
USUALLY PEOPLE MOVE out of the Burg when they get divorced. Melvin was one of the exceptions. I think at the time of his divorce he was simply too exhausted and down-trodden to conduct any kind of a search for a place to stay.
I parked in front of Selig's house and walked around back to the garage. It was a ramshackle two-car garage with a second-story, one-man, one-room ramshackle apartment. I climbed the stairs to the apartment and knocked. I listened at the door. Nothing. I banged on the door some more, put my ear to the scarred wood, and listened again. Someone was moving around in there.
”Hey Melvin,” I yelled. ”Open up.”
”Go away,” Melvin said through the door. ”I'm not feeling well. Go away.”
”It's Stephanie Plum,” I said. ”I need to talk to you.”
The door opened and Melvin looked out. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bloodshot.
”You were supposed to appear in court this morning,” I said.
”I couldn't go. I feel sick.”
”You should have called Vinnie.”
”Oops. I didn't think of that.”
I sniffed at his breath. ”Have you been drinking?”
He rocked back on his heels and a loopy grin spread across his face. ”Nope.”
”You smell like cough medicine.”
”Cherry schnapps. Someone gave it to me for Christmas.” Oh boy. I couldn't take him in like this. ”Melvin, we have to sober you up.”
”I'm okay. Except I can't feel my feet.” He looked down. ”I could feel them a minute ago.”
I steered him out of the apartment, locked the door behind us, and went down the rickety stairs in front of him to prevent him from breaking his neck. I poured him into my CR-V and buckled him in. He hung there suspended by the shoulder harness, mouth open, eyes glazed. I drove him to my parents' house and half dragged him inside.
”Company, how nice,” Grandma Mazur said, helping me haul Melvin into the kitchen.
My mother was ironing and tunelessly singing.
”I've never heard her sing like that,” I said to Grandma.
”She's been doing it all day,” Grandma said. ”I'm starting to get worried. And she's been ironing that same s.h.i.+rt for an hour.”
I sat Melvin at the table and gave him some black coffee and made him a ham sandwich.
”Mom?” I said. ”Are you okay?”
”Yes, of course. I'm just ironing, dear.”
Melvin rolled his eyes in Grandma's direction. ”Do you know what I did? I urrrrrinated on the cake at my ex-wife's wedding. p.i.s.sssssed all over the icing. In front of everyone.”
”It could have been worse,” Grandma said. ”You could have p.o.o.ped on the dance floor.”
”Do you know what happens when you p.i.s.sss on icing? It gets rrrruined. Makes it all drippy.”
”How about the little bride and groom at the top of the cake,” Grandma said. ”Did you p.i.s.s on them, too?”