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Harry Dugan moved forward.
“Howdy,” Grandma said to Harry. “Nice of you to show up here for Jimmy.”
“My condolences,” Harry said, standing at a safe distance, careful not to put his hands on the casket.
* * *
—
Klack had everyone cleared out and the front doors locked by nine o’clock. I exited the side door first and looked around to make sure no one was waiting to ambush Grandma. When I gave the all-clear signal, she scurried to the car with me. We jumped in and locked the doors.
“That was a beauty of a viewing,” Grandma said. “Capacity crowd. The funeral is going to be something.”
The funeral was going to be a freaking disaster.
“It’s Wednesday,” I said. “Why are you waiting until Saturday for the funeral?”
“I couldn’t get all the arrangements made any sooner. And Betty Hauck is getting buried tomorrow. Not that she’s any competition, but Klack had the big flower car already promised to Betty. And mostly it was that I had to find a place for the wake. Your mother didn’t want it at the house, and it wouldn’t have been big enough anyway. Lucky, I remembered Jimmy owned the Mole Hole. They said it would be an honor to hold his wake there Saturday morning.”
The Mole Hole was a strip club that was famous for its massive Angus beef burgers and its cheap drinks. The drinks were cheap because they were all watered down, and half the time the booze was bootleg. Jimmy and his geriatric cronies met in the back room to play cards, plan the occasional whacking, and take naps in their La-Z-Boy recliners.
“You don’t seem very upset about Jimmy,” I said to Grandma.
“You get to be my age and you have relations with an old codger, you got to expect these things are going to happen. It’s not like he’s the first man who kicked the bucket on me. I have to admit it was a shock when it happened, and the first couple hours were rough. I went through a lot of Kleenex. But then I got to thinking it was a pretty good way to go. He hit the jackpot on one of the poker machines. One minute he was real happy and the next minute . . . dead. Death don’t get much better than that.”
There was a stretch of silence in the car while we took it all in.
“I want to go at bingo,” Grandma finally said.
I put the car in gear and drove Grandma home. I idled at the curb until she was safe inside, and then I returned to Hamilton Avenue and drove to my apartment building.
* * *
—
I live in a clunky, three-story, no-frills apartment buildi
ng about fifteen minutes from my parents’ house. My one-bedroom apartment is on the second floor and faces the parking lot at the back of the building. I have a hamster named Rex as a roommate, and a boyfriend named Joe Morelli who does an occasional sleepover. Most of my furniture was handed off to me by my relatives, and since they wouldn’t give their furniture away if it was any good, my decorating style and color palette is shabby blah.
I parked in the lot and looked up at my windows. Lights were on. This meant one of the two men in my life was upstairs, waiting for me. Morelli had a key, and the other guy, Ranger, didn’t need a key. Nothing stopped Ranger, least of all a door lock.
I entered the lobby, sighed at the OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the elevator door, and trudged up the stairs. I let myself into my apartment and called out a Hello.
Morelli answered from the living room. “I’ve got pizza, and there’s beer in the fridge. Hockey is on. Pre-season.”
I grabbed a beer and joined Morelli and his dog, Bob, on the couch.
Morelli is a Trenton PD cop working plainclothes in crimes against persons. Mostly he pulls homicides and gang-related shootings and stabbings. He’s a good cop and an equally excellent boyfriend . . . most of the time. His hair is black and wavy. His eyes are brown and sexy. His body is perfectly put together.
Bob is big and shaggy and sort of orange.
“I thought you could use a diversion after the viewing,” Morelli said. “How bad was it?”
“I don’t know where to begin. I suppose the highlight was when the lid to the casket let go and smashed Angie Rosolli’s fingers.”
“It just fell down on its own?”
“Grandma said it was an act of God. I wouldn’t mind having a police escort for the funeral. It’s on Saturday.”
