I know I should have kneed him in the groin, but the kiss was delicious. Joe Morelli still knew how to kiss. It had started out slow and tender in the beginning, and it had ended up hot and deep. He pulled back and smiled, and I knew I’d been had.
“Gotcha,” he said.
“Dick breath.”
He reached around me and removed the keys from the ignition. “I don’t want you following.”
“Furthest thought from my mind.”
“Yeah, well I’m going to slow you down a little, anyway.” He walked to the deli’s Dumpster and pitched the keys inside. “Happy hunting,” he said, heading for the van. “Make sure you wipe your feet before you get in my car.”
“Wait a minute,” I yelled after him. “I have some questions. I want to know about the murder. I want to know about Carmen Sanchez. And is it true there’s a contract out on you?”
He hitched himself up into the van and drove out of the lot.
The Dumpster was industrial-sized. Five feet high, five feet wide, and six feet long. I stood on tiptoe and peered over the side. It was one-quarter full and smelled like dead dog. I couldn’t see the keys.
A lesser woman would have burst into tears. A smarter woman would have had an extra set of keys. I dragged a wooden crate to the side of the Dumpster and stood on it for a better look. Most of the garbage was bagged. Some of the bags had split on impact, spewing out half-eaten subs, globs of potato salad, coffee grounds, grill grease, unrecognizable slop, and heads of lettuce turning to primordial ooze.
I was reminded of road kill. Ashes to ashes… mayo to its various components. Doesn’t matter whether it’s cats or cole slaw, death is not attractive.
I did a rundown of everyone I knew, but I couldn’t think of anyone dumb enough to climb into the Dumpster for me. Okay, I told myself, now or never. I swung my leg up and over the side and hung there for a moment, gathering courage. I lowered myself slowly, upper lip curled. If I smelled even the hint of rat breath, I was out of there.
Cans rolled underfoot, giving way to soft, squishy gunk. I felt myself slide and hooked a hand onto the Dumpster rim, cracking my elbow against the side in the process. I swore and blinked back tears.
I found a plastic bread bag that was relatively clean and used it like a glove to carefully paw through the slop, moving cautiously, scared to death I’d fall face first into the artichoke and calf brains vinaigrette. The amount of discarded food was sobering, the wastefulness almost as revolting as the all-pervasive odor of rot that seared the inside of my nose and clung to the roof of my mouth.
After what seemed like an eternity I discovered the keys sunk into some yellow-brown glop. I didn’t see any Pampers nearby, so I hoped the glop was mustard. I stuck my bagged hand in whatever-it-was and gagged.
I held my breath, tossed the keys over the edge onto the blacktop, and didn’t waste any time following. I wiped off the keys as best I could with the bread bag. Most of the yellow stuff came off, rendering the keys good enough for emergency driving. I got out of my shoes by stepping on the heels, and I used the two-fingers sissy approach to peel my socks away. I inspected the rest of me. Aside from some Thousand Island dressing smeared on the front of my shirt, I seemed unscathed.
Newspapers had been stacked for recycling beside the Dumpster. I covered the driver’s seat with the sports section, just in case I’d missed seeing some noxious substance stuck to my ass. I spread paper over the passengerside floor mat and gingerly set my shoes and socks in the center.
I glanced at the remaining section of paper, and a headline jumped out at me. “Local Man Killed in Drive-by Shooting.” Beneath the headline was a picture of John Kuzack. I’d seen him on Wednesday. Today was Friday. The paper in my hand was a day old. I read the story without breathing. Kuzack had been gunned down late Wednesday night in front of his apartment building. It went on to say how he’d been a hero in Nam, getting the purple heart, and how he was a colorful, well-liked neighborhood figure. As of press time, the police had no suspect and no motive.
I leaned against the Cherokee, trying to absorb the reality of John Kuzack’s death. He’d been so big and alive when I’d spoken to him. And now he was dead. First Edleman, the hit and run, and now Kuzack. Of the three people who’d seen and remembered the missing witness, two were dead. I thought about Mrs. Santiago and her children and shivered.
I carefully folded the paper and slid it into the map pocket. When I got back to my apartment I’d call Gazarra and try to get some reassurance of Mrs. Santiago’s safety.
I was beyond being able to smell myself, but I drove with the windows down as a precaution.
I parked in the laundromat lot and slipped in barefoot to get my clothes. Only one other person was in the room, an elderly woman at the folding table on the far wall.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, looking bewildered. “What is that smell?”
I felt my cheeks heat up. “Must be outside,” I said. “Must have followed me in when I opened the door.”
“It’s awful!”
I sniffed, but I couldn’t smell anything. My nose had shut down in self-defense. I glanced at my shirt. “Does it smell like Thousand Island dressing?”
She had a pillowcase pressed to her face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I rammed my laundry into the basket and made my exit. Halfway home I stopped for a light and noticed my eyes were watering. Ominous, I thought. Fortunately, no one was afoot when I swung into the parking lot to my apartment building. The foyer and the elevator were both empty. So far so good. The elevator doors opened to the second floor and no one was about there, either. I breathed a sigh of relief, dragged my laundry to my door, slunk into my apartment, stripped off my clothes, and tied them up in a big black plastic garbage bag.
I jumped into the shower and lathered and scrubbed and shampooed thrice. I dressed in clean clothes and went across the hall to Mr. Wolesky as a test.
He opened the door and instantly clamped a hand over his nose. “Whoa,” he gasped. “What’s that smell?”
