Roast Mortem

life was endangered not just his cover. Believe me, Clare, by the end of it all, Mike was ready to punch out a choirboy, never mind the cousin who pawed you up.”

I opened my eyes. “Do you think Mike knows I never meant for it to happen? Does he know I’m not Leila?”

Sully put a hand on my shoulder. “Of course he does. Mike knows who you are, Clare. And he knows who his cousin is.”

“Mike trusts me?”

“Not just trusts, Clare. The man loves you. When he lost it last night at that pub, the reason was his cousin, not you.”

“Yeah...” Franco shifted, scratched the side of his head. “What he said.”

“So have you got anything more on this guy, Tassos?” Sully asked.

“Just his business card.” I went to my bag, brought it over.

Franco nodded as soon as he saw it. “I know this club. The Blue Mirage? It’s in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, on the same block as the coffeehouse that burned down.”

“That’s two connections,” Sully looked to me. “Right, Clare?”

“That’s right.” The pieces were falling into place. “Lorenzo Testa was hassled by guys from the Red Mirage club. The neighborhood busybody confirmed that to me the night of the fire.”

“How about the coffeehouse owner in Brooklyn?” Franco asked. “Was he hassled by Mirage club goons, too? That’ll seal the deal.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You have to find out,” Sully said. “Do you know the owner’s name?”

“Jason Wren. He was at the bake sale yesterday. One of my baristas even pointed him out to me. I could kick myself for not speaking to the man then, finding out more about his fire...”

“Take it easy,” Sully said. “You didn’t have these other leads then. Now you do. Just don’t let this guy Wren clam up on you.”

Easier said than done. “I don’t know anything about this man. I mean, I could confide that my own coffeehouse was threatened, but if he’s been threatened in the past, he might ask me why I’m not getting answers from the police, then start to wonder if I’m working for Dean Tassos...”

“She’s right,” said Franco. “We need an angle for her.”

“I’ve seen Wren give interviews on television,” I said, thinking it through. “If I could get him to believe I’m a reporter, I could actually get his statements about any threats from Tassos or his people on tape.”

“Do you need a video camera?” Franco asked.

“My barista Dante Silva is a serious painter. He has a lot of friends in the art world. He could probably borrow something convincing, act like my cameraman. I just need a credible way to set it up...”

We drank more coffee, discussed some options. None seemed very strong. Finally, the shop’s front bell jangled.

“Well, hello, gang!” Tucker called, his actor’s basso booming through the quiet shop. “What’s up? Will I read about it... in the papers?”

As my assistant manager waved his favorite New York tabloid, he continued talking about the headlines in a perfect Pat Kiernan accent. Pat Kiernan, the famous local anchor-man. Pat Kiernan the well-known voice of NY1.

Sully and I exchanged glances. Franco smiled.

“Oh, Tucker...” I sang. “I need a little favor.”

Thirty-Six

“Mr. Wren?” I called. “I’m Clare... Clare Stanwyck.”

(The alias wasn’t my idea. The name came to Tucker as a last minute improvisation. “It’s a lock, Clare. I think intrigue and I channel Barbara’s performance in Double Indemnity.” At least Tuck didn’t ask me to wear an ankle bracelet — although he did suggest the business suit and stacked heels. I also agreed to the blond wig. A drag queen customer was nice enough to drop it off. It did make me look more “TV polished,” and if Dean Tassos saw me on the street, it would cloud immediate recognition.)

“Hey, there!” Jason Wren rose from the floor. He had been using an acetylene torch on the base of a booth in his restored shop. Now he turned off the blue-white flame, yanked off his safety googles, and dropped them next to a box of matches. “You’re the people from New York One, right? I spoke with Pat Kiernan this morning about your coming.”

Even in my stacked heels, Wren was much taller than I. He pumped my hand, then pulled off his flameproof apron and took his time rolling up the sleeves of a scarlet University of Phoenix tee. His eyes were smoky brown, his hair cut into a spiky mop, and a barbed-wire tattoo ringed one leanly muscled arm.

I placed his biological age at thirty — but when I realized he was watching me for a reaction to his working man’s strip tease, I placed his mental age as much younger.

“Hang on a second,” Wren said.

Four flat screens adorned the shop walls. Each was broadcasting the same drag racing sequence from The Fast and the Furious. Wren fiddled with a remote control. The screens went blank. He ejected the DVD and tossed it on a pile of films, all of which involved car racing, with the odd exception of the Alfred Hitchcock classic Strangers on a Train.

“So, what do you think of Speedway Pizza?” Wren asked as he popped in a new DVD. Now the screens lit up with an animated loop of his logo revving up and driving away.

I glanced around the unfinished interior. The walls were white with red racing stripes, the tiled floor looked like a black-and-white checkerboard flag. In the window, a neon sign welcomed customers: Speedway Pizza: Home of the Cone.

I wasn’t all that surprised the man’s coffeehouse was now a pizzeria. Before Dante and I had driven to Brooklyn, I’d dug up every article I could find on Jason Wren. He never mentioned threats, but he did say that his shop was so badly damaged by the fire he decided to make a “big change.”

“You’re smart, Mr. Wren,” said Dante, who was acting the part of my cameraman. “With the Blue Mirage next door, you should do well. Boozing and raving make people real hungry. I worked a pizzeria on club row. We spun dough until five AM.”

Wren happily nodded at the comment.

I was glad Dante said something positive. This neighborhood had changed so much since I’d last visited that I had no idea what businesses would work here anymore. Years ago, a little Italian bistro sat on the corner of Avenue P. That bistro was now an Asian karaoke bar. The old-time movie palace was now a Dim Sum Palace Buffet, and the Italian pork store now hawked Chinese herbs.

“So what are you working on today, Mr. Wren?” I asked, warming him up with an easy one.

“Installing booths for my customers,” Wren said. “I’m using partial shells of restored classics. That’s a Trans Am over there, that’s a ’Vette, and over there’s a Pontiac Firebird.”

“I’m seeing a theme here.”

“You’re seeing a franchise, Ms. Stanwyck. These booths, this décor, it’s all going to be trademarked. This is only the first Speedway Pizza. The first of many.”

“Impressive,” I said.

He preened. “After I hooked into the cone pizza idea, the rest was easy.”

“Cone pizza?” I said. “I assumed you were doing a combo pizza/ice-cream shop thing. You aren’t actually going to serve pizza — ”

“In a cone?” Dante finished.

“You got it!” Wren fired twin finger guns at us. “The crust is a cone. The cheese, sauce, and toppings are melted inside. I’m putting cone holders in the booths for convenience. They’re trademarked, too.”

“Cool,” Dante said unconvincingly.

“Best of all, no ovens!” Wren grinned.