Judy hoisted the box higher, juggled her stuff to the front stoop, and leaned the box against the door while she searched for her keys in her backpack. The box was heavy. Maybe the couple on the first floor could buzz her into the front door. She glanced at the first-floor windows, but they were dark. It was only ten o’clock. They were overworked Penn med students and probably at the hospital. Damn.
Judy kept fishing and looked up. The second floor was dark, too. A couple of gay men who liked to say they were in the cruise business. They had to be out cruising. She dug deeper in the bag. Maybe next time she would take her keys out ahead of time, the way it said in the women’s magazines. How had she survived a car bomb? She heard a shuffling noise behind her and peeked timidly over her shoulder. Only a couple in work clothes, walking home. She finally found her key, shoved it into the lock, and pushed open the front door.
“Down! No! No jumping!” Judy yelled, surprised. It was her puppy in the front hall. What was she doing here? How had she gotten out? She was supposed to be up in the apartment, which was locked. Wasn’t it?
Judy’s gut tensed. She struggled to hold the cardboard box while the puppy jumped up on it, then scooted out the door past her. The street!
“No! Penny! Come!” she shouted, dropping everything and running panicky after the dog. “Penny! Come!”
But she needn’t have worried. Goldens chose people over cars every time. Unless the car had a tennis ball. The puppy was bounding over to greet the couple, but they recoiled when she leaked in delight on their shoes.
“Sorry,” Judy said, when she reached the pair. “It’s not her fault, I left her all day.” She grabbed the puppy by the red nylon collar and walked her like Quasimodo back to the front stoop, nervously assessing the situation.
Judy’s box, briefcase, and backpack lay in disarray. Her apartment was evidently unlocked. The house was completely empty, and it didn’t have the tightest security in the first place. The only blunt instrument in her place was a wooden clog. Her only protection was a drippy puppy. No way in hell was she going upstairs.
She unhooked the strap from her briefcase, latched it onto the dog’s collar, and picked up the box. She’d borrow tomorrow’s clothes from the office closet, if she had to. Then she gathered her stuff, moved it and the puppy to the curb, and hailed a cab.
The girls were on the move.
31
Judy sat on the conference room floor at the office and slipped the tape for January 25 into the office boom box. Penny slept peacefully on the navy rug beside her, with a tummy full of chicken lo mein. They both felt well fed and reasonably safe, given the lock on the conference room door, the double lock on the firm’s reception area, and the armed guard at the desk downstairs. Rosato & Associates wasn’t Fort Knox, but it beat Judy’s apartment, for the time being.
She’d called the cops about the break-in, but Detective Wilkins was on the day tour this week and she’d had to settle for filing a complaint with the desk officer, who said they’d check it out when they could. He didn’t know about any follow-up on the car bomb or where her car was. So far the score was Coluzzi Family 1, Golden Lovers 0. It was against nature.
Judy hit PLAY on the tape machine, and Fat Jimmy’s gravelly voice came on the line, by now familiar:
JIMMY: I need that suit.
WOMAN’S VOICE: Sir, I told you Tuesday, not Monday.
JIMMY: So Tuesday, Monday, what’s the difference? I need it today.
WOMAN’S VOICE: Sir, we don’t have it. We sent it out. It will be back Tuesday morning. You can get it then.
JIMMY: Why the fuck did you send it out? I don’t see why you had to send it out. Where the fuck did you send it anyway? Camden?
WOMAN’S VOICE: No, sir, our plant is in Frankford.
JIMMY: Frankford? So get your ass inna car and go there! I need my effin’ suit!
She hit FAST FORWARD. The tapes were hand-labeled by date, but they had been running around the clock, and Jimmy spent more time on the phone than any man in creation. Judy had started listening to them the day before the car crash, on January 25, and gone backward in time from there, in case there was any conversation between Coluzzi and Jimmy that suggested the two men had planned it. She hit STOP, then PLAY:
JIMMY: Is that you?
WOMAN’S VOICE: Who do you think it is? Cher?
JIMMY: I don’t like Cher. Cher don’t do nothin’ for me.
WOMAN’S VOICE: Um, how about Pamela Sue Anderson?
JIMMY: The one with the tits? Her, I like.
WOMAN’S VOICE: Okay, I’m her.
Judy fast-forwarded, with nausea. It made her never want to have sex with an Italian. It made her never want to have sex again, which was turning out to be a given anyway. Poor Marlene. Jimmy Bello was a pig. Judy hit PLAY when she thought she had gone far enough.
MAN’S VOICE: And don’t forget the baby oil.
JIMMY: What do you need that for, Angelo?
It was Angelo Coluzzi, and Judy’s ears pricked up despite her fatigue. His voice was deep and brusque, and his English much better than Pigeon Tony’s. So far there had been just a few conversations between the two men, and they revealed only that Jimmy was a glorified errand boy. He ran personal errands:
ANGELO: I told you, get the Cento. I like the Cento. Sylvia likes the Cento. She don’t want Paul Newman. What the fuck’s she gonna do with Paul Newman?
JIMMY: So I forgot, I’m sorry.
ANGELO: What’s so fuckin’ hard to remember? Cento! Cento Clam Sauce! White! What’s hard? Cento, that’s hard?
JIMMY: Cento, I got it. I’ll bring it this afternoon.
ANGELO: Cento, for fuck’s sake! It’s the only one without the MSG. Sylvia can’t take the MSG, I tol’ you that. You know that.
He also ran pigeon errands:
ANGELO: You mix oil with the malathion, stupid.
JIMMY: Baby oil?
ANGELO: The oil holds the malathion. You mix it and brush it on the perches. The fumes go in the birds’ feathers at night. Kills all the mites.
JIMMY: So you don’t want the borax now?
ANGELO: Of course I want the borax. Bring the borax, too! You’re so fuckin’ stupid! And pick me up at ten tomorrow.
And he wasn’t always the best errand boy at that:
ANGELO: The peanuts you dropped off, they’re the wrong kind.
JIMMY: What? Whatsa matter with the peanuts?
ANGELO: They’re the wrong kind.
JIMMY: They’re normal. They’re normal peanuts.
ANGELO: You need raw Spanish peanuts, not roasted, no salt. The kind you got, they got at the ballpark. You can’t feed ’em to the birds. Why’n’t you just bring ’em a hot dog and a Bud Lite, you idiot? And make it two o’clock tomorrow, not three.
He also ran errands for the construction company:
ANGELO: No, stupid, I said 20,000 square feet of plywood, builder’s grade. They shorted us, the bastards.
JIMMY: You said 2000 square feet. I wrote it down, Ange. 2000.
ANGELO: 2000? I didn’t say 2000! What am I gonna do with 2000 square feet of plywood in a mall, for fuck’s sake? And pick me up at nine o’clock, can you get that right? Don’t be late.
Judy took notes on every conversation between Jimmy and Coluzzi, but as the tapes rolled on, her hopes sank. There was nothing to suggest that they had caused or planned the car accident with Frank’s parents. She flipped back through a legal pad full of notes. The only evidence she’d gotten was on the first tape, for January 25, the day of the crash:
ANGELO: I’ll be ready at ten tonight and I’m gonna be thirsty.
JIMMY: You got it. I’ll bring the Coke.
ANGELO: Good. Don’t be late.
Judy had listened to it over and over, excited when she first heard it. But on her notes she could see it for what it was. Nothing. All it proved was that they were together that night, not that they killed two people together. But still it was interesting, and it motivated her to keep going, despite
her growing fatigue.
Judy checked her watch. It was three in the morning. Maybe she could lie down and listen. She put her legal pad on the floor, stretched out on the soft wool of the conference room rug, and curved her back against Penny’s, which felt surprisingly warm and solid. It was good to have a dog around, and Bennie couldn’t fire her for it, since she did it herself most of the time.
Judy snuggled back against the puppy, who leaned against her in response, then she rested her head on her arm, picked up her pen, and hit PLAY. She closed her eyes and listened to the tape drone on, hoping that, in the still of the conference room, in the middle of the night, she would hear the sound of men planning murder.
A lawyer’s lullaby.
The next thing Judy knew the tape had gone silent and the telephone on the credenza was ringing. She must have fallen asleep. Her navy suit bunched at the skirt. Her brown pumps lay discarded on the carpet. She looked at the windows. It was dawn. An overcast sky, with the clouds showing a pink underbelly.
Ring! Ring! Judy propped herself on an elbow and checked her watch through scratchy eyes. It was 6:30 A.M. Ring! Penny lifted her head and blinked dully, clearly hoping voicemail would pick up.
Ring! Judy got her feet under her, sleepwalked to the credenza, and picked up the phone. “Rosato and Associates.”
“Judy! You there? It’s Matty, Mr. DiNunzio.” His voice sounded urgent, and it woke Judy up.
“Sure, what is it?”
“We been callin’ you all night, at home. What’s the matter with your phone?”
“I don’t know, what’s the matter with it?”
“It don’t work. I called the company, they said there was something wrong with the line, inside the house. They can’t even send a guy to fix it, they only fix the outside lines.”
Judy felt a tingle of fear. Her apartment, unlocked. Her phone, possibly tampered with. It sure sounded like a trap. Her gaze found Penny, who had gone back to sleep curled into a golden circle on the rug, reminding Judy of a glazed doughnut. The dog had saved her life. Judy resolved to be a better mother.
“Judy, you okay?”
“I’m fine. I stayed here and worked. I got these tapes of Coluzzi and Jimmy, but they’re not much help—”
“Judy, I don’t have time to talk. I’m at a pay phone and I don’t have another quarter and I’m almost out of time.”
Judy couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to anybody calling from a pay phone, but it had probably been Mr. DiNunzio. In fact, the DiNunzios still had a black rotary phone at home, resting on something that they called a telephone table. Soon the whole family would be on display in the Smithsonian.
“You gotta come,” Mr. DiNunzio said. “Now.”
“Where? Why?”
“Down by the airport.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but we need your help. Come now. Get a pencil.” He recited an address as if it were familiar, and Judy grabbed a pencil, scribbled it down, and reached for her clogs lying under the table.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
But the line went dead.
The metal scrapyard lay alongside the highway in an industrial section of South Philly, and it was immense, taking up at least three city blocks. Mountains of rusty oil barrels, fenders, bumpers, aluminum duct work, brake drums, and railroad wheels reached like houses to the sky, and between each was a dirt road. It looked like a veritable City of Scrap, and if it was, its city hall sat at its center: a huge metal tower of dark corrugated tin, with a series of conveyor belts reaching to it in a zigzag pattern, like a crazy walkway. Judy had never seen anything like this, except in the cartoon The Brave Little Toaster, but she didn’t say so. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d want your lawyer knowing, much less saying.
Cyclone fencing, concertina wire, and a heavily chained and padlocked gate kept the world out of the scrapyard, although the only world interested in entering was Judy, Tony-From-Down-The-Block, Feet, Mr. DiNunzio, and a golden retriever puppy, sitting patiently and only occasionally nosing Judy’s hand to be petted. Judy hadn’t wanted to leave her at work without telling anybody, and Penny was already turning out to be useful, finding ossified dog turds where nobody else could.
Three senior citizens, the puppy, and the lawyer stood in a stymied line facing the front gate. Everybody but the dog held a take-out coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, and a half a dozen glazed were left in the car. Judy was coming rapidly to the conclusion that no Italian went anywhere or did anything without a saturated fat nearby. It turned a job into a party, even a job this filthy. Trash lay everywhere, litter clung to the Cyclone fencing, and the increasing traffic on the highway spewed air scented with hydrocarbons. Soon it would be the morning rush hour, and they all would suffocate.
Mr. DiNunzio read the sign on the front gate, a long notice posted by order of the court. “No admittance, it says, and then some court lingo. What’s it mean, Jude?”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted, an unlit cigar in the hand with the paper Dunkin’ Donuts cup. “It means you can’t go in, Matty. Whaddaya think it means, siddown and have a cuppa coffee?”
Judy ignored them in favor of the notice. It had been posted by the bankruptcy court and was dated February 15, a year ago. She juggled Penny and the coffee cup to run a finger along the fine print. “Apparently the business that owns and operates the scrapyard went into receivership, and its assets—the land, the machinery, the equipment—were frozen pending the outcome. In other words, this scrapyard is just the way it was on February fifteenth.”
“That’s what Dom from Passyunk Avenue said,” Mr. DiNunzio added, and Judy looked over.
“Tell me how you found it, Mr. D.”
“Well, we figgered that the truck that they died in, Frank and Gemma, was totaled. I mean, the way it went over the overpass, and the fire, it couldn’t not be.” Mr. DiNunzio swallowed at the memory, his eyes, behind his bifocals, still puffy from lack of sleep. He had a fresh shave, a new brown cardigan, a white shirt, and baggy pants. It was a given that he smelled like mothballs.
“So we knew it had to be sold for junk, and the junkyards everybody uses in South Philly are the ones on Passyunk Avenue, because it’s close.”
Feet nodded eagerly. “Also that’s where you get the best deal. They got five or six there, and you can bargain. You can—”
Judy interrupted him with a wave. “Don’t say ‘Jew ’em down,’ okay, Feet?”
Feet’s lips parted in offense. “I wasn’t going to say ‘Jew ’em down.’ I never say ‘Jew ’em down.’ I’m Jewish.”
Judy closed her eyes, mortified. “Sorry. I don’t use that expression either. I never say it. I just know that some people do.”
Mr. DiNunzio cleared his throat. “There are Italian Jews, Judy. Many people don’t realize that. They assume all Italians are Catholic, but they are incorrect.”
Feet resettled his T-shirt huffily. “Well, I hope you don’t use that term, Judy. It’s not nice.”
“I don’t, I swear.” Judy crossed herself, backward. This religion thing was so confusing. Maybe she should get one. She turned to Mr. DiNunzio. “Anyway, you were saying, Mr. D.”
“So we asked all the junkyard dealers ‘til we found the one they brought it to, named Wreck-A-Mend. Ain’t that a stupid name? Anyway, the guy’s name is Dom and he had a record of the title and he said that he sold it to these guys for scrap, right after they were killed, which was on January twenty-fifth. I know because I still got the Mass card. He said if they didn’t scrap it yet, or whatever they do, then the car should still be here.”
“Great work, gentlemen!” Judy said, excited. It was more than she’d hoped when she gave them the assignment, yesterday in the conference room. But her bomb theory wasn’t panning out. “Did the junk dealer really say the truck was still whole, though?”
“Yes. He said he had enough to sell. Got two hundred and fifty bucks for it, which ain’t bad.”
?
??Tullio’s car ain’t worth that now,” Feet said, but Judy was thinking ahead.
“So they couldn’t have planted a bomb on it, or there wouldn’t be anything left. But if they tampered with it somehow, there should be some evidence of it. Or what’s left of it.”
Mr. DiNunzio sipped his coffee reflectively. “I still don’t unnerstan’ why the cops didn’t think that, if it’s really a murder.”
Feet looked over. “They weren’t lookin’ for it. They thought it was an accident. It’s possible that it wasn’t, and we’ll know when we find it, like Judy said. She said she’d get it tested, like from a professional car tester guy. Right, Judy?”
“Right. A car tester guy.” She nodded, relieved that Feet had apparently forgiven her gaffe. “Way to go, gentlemen.” Judy felt a cool nose under her hand and petted the dog, who apparently felt left out of the praise. “So where are the junked cars?” Feet pointed to the left, and Judy looked over with a start. On the far side of the scrapyard, behind piles of dark, shredded metal and bales of crushed aluminum cans, sat junked cars stacked as high as skyscrapers. Judy almost dropped her coffee. “Are you serious? There have to be a zillion cars there.”
Feet shook his head. “No, only two thousand forty-four. We counted while we were waitin’ for you. We had nothin’ else to do.”
Judy blinked, astounded. “But how will we know which one it is?”
“It’s an ’81 red Volkswagen, a pickup. He used it for the construction business. It had a gold Mason emblem on the back, because Frank was a Mason.”
Judy smiled. “How do you know their truck, Feet?”
“Frank and Gemma lived down the block from me. We all know each other’s cars in South Philly. How else you gonna double-park?”