On What Grounds

reflection in the window of a parked car. It was scary. I did look like a young man.

“This is creepy,” I moaned.

“Go,” Matt said, thrusting me forward. “Get as close as you can and watch what happens.”

I crossed the street, trying to imitate a man’s walk. I wasn’t sure if I was pulling it off, but I must have been doing something right. As I entered Oscar’s Wiles, a passerby whistled. I almost smiled back. He was kind of cute.

Because of the smoking ban in public places, Oscar’s Wiles was thankfully free of tobacco smoke. Here the odor of burning leaf was replaced by the smells of beer, men’s cologne, and leather—lots and lots of leather.

The style of the interior was vaguely Tudor, with white stucco walls trimmed with some dark wood. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, but the hearth was cold. The tables and chairs were made of heavy dark wood that matched the trim on the walls. Hanging all around were framed lithographs of country squires and gentlemen posing in tight-fitting hunting attire, which I thought appropriate given the sport at hand.

I swaggered up to the bar.

“Gimme a brewski,” I said with a testosterone sneer, tossing a bill on the counter. “An’ keep da’ change.”

To my surprise, the bartender didn’t give me a second look. I took the mug in my hand, blew off some foam, and made a show of gulping from it. But instead of drinking, I stole a peek at my prey through the amber liquid.

Suddenly a thick, hairy arm fell across my shoulders. It was so heavy I was almost pushed to my knees.

“You look lonely, boycheeks,” a husky voice rasped in my ear. “Need a place to stay for the night?”

Oh, crap. It’s Ron.

Ron Gersun, to be exact, the local butcher, and I didn’t want him to recognize me. Ron had a shop in the meatpacking district and was famed for his prime rib. I was used to seeing him in a bloodstained apron and hair net. Tonight he was quite fetching in a leather vest and no shirt, his sweaty pecks, anchor tattoo (who knew?), and tangled chest hair visible for all to see.

Well, well, Ron, I could just hear Tucker saying. It appears you don’t do all of your meatpacking in the butcher shop!

“Uh, no offense, pal, but not tonight,” I huffed in a voice so gruff it tickled my throat. Then I ducked under Ron Gersun’s beefy arm and slipped away.

I made my way across the bar and grabbed a seat closer to the crewcut burglar. He didn’t even glance in my direction, just kept staring at the front door. Outside the tall windows, I could see no sign of Matt. I figured he was still lurking nearby. Otherwise I’d kill him.

The door opened and a short, round figure waddled in. From across the room I recognized the man—

Moffat Flaste.

The man’s beady pig-like eyes scanned the room. He seemed nervous, and there was a patina of sweat on his fleshy cheeks and over his upper lip. He scanned the bar until he saw the burglar. Their eyes met and the youth nodded.

Flaste seemed to get even more tense. He didn’t approach the youth right away. Instead he ordered a drink and lingered at the bar, taking a few sips. Finally the youth got impatient and motioned him over.

Flaste walked right past me, sat down across from the crewcut, and began to talk to him. But I couldn’t hear a damn thing!

They were sitting no more than seven feet from me, but the music was so loud I couldn’t hear a word. I had to get closer.

I rose and lifted my glass, taking a sip of the bitter brew as I moved toward their table. Flaste and the youth were locked in conversation. Finally the young man reached under his jacket and pulled something out. He placed the Allegro family recipe book on the table and slid it toward Flaste, who grabbed the book and tucked it under his own jacket.

What about the plaque? You took the plaque, too, you bastard. Where is it?

“We meet again,” a voice said in my ear. I felt the tickle of a stubbly chin as, once again, a crushing arm fell across my shoulders. This time Ron Gersun pulled me close to his chest and shook me like a doll.

“Ain’t it a small world,” he said in a tone I am sure he thought was seductive. I tried to pull away, but Ron held me tight. He reached up and tickled my chin with a sausage-thick finger.

“Smooth as a baby’s behind,” he purred. I tried to duck under his arm again, but he’d figured out a way to counter that trick.

Great. After a parched decade of living like a nun, I’m finally awash in persistent male suitors, and I can’t do a thing with them!

“Give us a kiss,” Ron said. His lips smacked and I felt his stubbly chin scrape my neck.

Meanwhile, Flaste drew an envelope out of his pocket and pushed it across the table to the youth. The burglar pocketed the envelope and smiled. Flaste stood up. He was going to leave. I moved to follow.

“Where ya’ goin’?” Ron asked, almost hurt. “Give me a chance.”

Stretching his long arm, he reached out to pull me back. The movement caught the bill of my baseball cap and knocked it from my head. My wavy chestnut hair tumbled down to my shoulders.

“Hey! What’s this?” Ron backed up in confusion. “Wait a second. I know you! You’re the coffee lady!”

The entire room full of men turned my way, including Flaste and the crewcut. The flash of recognition crossed their faces.

Crap!

Flaste let out a squeal and bolted for the exit. The blond crewcut was faster and got there ahead of him. But as he yanked the front door open, a tall, broad-shouldered figure draped in a beige trenchcoat appeared on the threshold and blocked the burglar’s escape.

Detective Quinn!

And right behind him came Matteo. Fists clenched, eyes flashing, he was spoiling for a fight.

The burglar pushed at Quinn, but he would have had better luck trying to move the Empire State Building. Quinn slammed the youth against the nearest table, doubled him over, pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him in one continuous, seemingly effortless motion.

Flaste, however, was inching toward the door, clearly hoping to escape while Quinn’s attention was elsewhere.

“Stop Flaste!” I cried. “He’s got the book.”

The fat man paled. Then Flaste squealed again and ran right at Matteo in an attempt to bowl him over. Big mistake. A loud, meaty thwack made every patron in the bar wince. Moffat Flaste exhaled loudly and doubled over. Matteo had sunk a right hook into the man’s prodigious gut. Now Matt stood over him, fist raised for a second strike.

Quinn reached up and seized my ex-husband’s arm.

“That’s enough,” the detective said.

As arm-wrestling matches go, this one could have been a tossup. But Matt backed down. He saw that Quinn was right. After one hard punch from Matt, Flaste had sunk helplessly to the floor. Still wheezing, he didn’t even notice when the Allegro family recipe book spilled out of his jacket.

“You’re under arrest for burglary and receiving stolen goods,” Quinn announced. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Twenty-Nine

“Mystery solved,” I proudly told Quinn ten minutes later on the sidewalk outside Oscar’s Wiles’ front window.

“It would seem so,” he said, looking down at me.

Two patrol units of uniformed NYPD officers had already rolled up to the dirty brick building, their sirens and flashing emergency lights drawing a fairly large crowd. It appeared we were the biggest show in this part of town at