“You have powdered sugar and jelly stains on your tank top.”
“Hunh,” Lula said, looking down at herself. “Guess I was the one ate them.”
“It would be great if you could drive me to my parents’ house so I can borrow Big Blue.”
Big Blue is a ’53 powder blue and white Buick that got deposited in my father’s garage when my Great Uncle Sandor checked himself in to Happy Hills Nursing Home. It drives like a refrigerator on wheels, and it does nothing for my image. Only Jay Leno could look good driving this car. In its favor, it’s free.
THREE
MY PARENTS LIVE in a small mustard yellow and brown two-story house that shares a wall with an identical house that is painted lime green. I suppose the two-family house seemed like an economical idea forty years ago at the time of construction. And there are many of them in the Burg. Siamese twins conjoined at the living room downstairs and master bedroom upstairs, with separate brains. The house has a postage stamp front yard, a small front porch, and a long, narrow backyard. The floor plan is shotgun. Living room, dining room, kitchen. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.
My Grandma Mazur lives with my parents. She moved in when my Grandpa Mazur’s arteries totally clogged with pork fat and he got a one-way ticket to God’s big pig roast in the sky. Grandma was at the front door when Lula eased the Firebird to a stop at the curb. I used to think Grandma had a telepathic way of knowing when I approached, but I now realize Grandma just stands at the door watching the cars roll by, like the street is a reality show. Her face lit, and she waved as we drove up.
“I like your granny,” Lula said. “She always looks like she’s happy to see us. That’s not something happens every day. Half the time we knock on a door and people shoot at us.”
“Yes, but that’s only half the time. Sometimes they just run away. See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, Kemo Sabe.”
“How’s business?” Grandma asked when I got to the door. “Did you catch anyone today? Where’s your car?”
“My car got blown up.”
“Again? How many does that make this month?”
“It’s the only one this month. I was hoping I could borrow Big Blue.”
“Sure, you can borrow it whenever you want. I don’t drive it on account of it don’t make me look hot.”
I suppose everything’s relative, but I thought it would take more than a fast car to make Grandma look hot. Gravity hasn’t been kind to Grandma. She also doesn’t have a license, due to a heavy foot on the accelerator. Still, I suspected lack of license wouldn’t stop her if she had access to a Ferrari.
I heard a car door slam and turned to see Lula coming toward us.
“I smell fried chicken,” Lula said.
Grandma waved her in. “Stephanie’s mother is frying some up for dinner. And we got a chocolate cake for dessert. We got plenty if you want to stay.”
A half hour later Lula and I were at the dining room table, eating the fried chicken with my mom, dad, and Grandma Mazur.
“Stephanie blew up another car,” Grandma Mazur announced, spooning out mashed potatoes.
“Technically some gang guy blew it up,” Lula said. “And the car wasn’t worth much. The battery was dead.”
My mother made the sign of the cross and belted back half a glass of what looked like ice tea but smelled a lot like Jim Beam. My father kept his head down and gnawed on a chicken leg.
“I wasn’t in it,” I said. “It was an accident.”
“I don’t understand how you have all these accidents,” my mother said. “I don’t know of a single other person who’s had his car blown up.” She looked down the table at my father. “Frank, do you know of anyone else who’s ever had their car blown up? Frank! Are you listening to me?”
My father picked his head up and a piece of chicken fell out of his mouth. “What?”
“It’s our job,” Lula said. “It’s one of them occupational hazards. Like another hazard is getting hospital cooties. We had to do some investigating in a hospital today, and I might have got the cooties.”
“I bet you were tracking down Geoffrey Cubbin,” Grandma said. “Connie called me asking about his doctor. I know something about it on account of Lorraine Moochy has a relative in Cranberry Manor, and Lorraine said Cubbin is gonna need a lot of doctors if those people get their hands on him.”
“What else did Lorraine say about him?” I asked Grandma.
“She said he seemed like a real nice man and then next thing he stole all the money. Cranberry Manor’s one of them places you buy into, and it isn’t cheap. Cranberry Manor’s top of the line considering it’s in Jersey. Lorraine says it could close down, and her relative would have her keester tossed out onto the street.”