sidestep when questioned, inevitably some guest persists in probing the blood-and-guts skinny.
It seems the world divides into two camps: those who can’t get enough and those who prefer to hear nothing at all. Ryan and I called them Diggers and Dodgers.
“Diggers?” Ryan asked.
“Yes. Except for Vecamamma and Klara. Autopsy talk gives Veca-mamma gas.”
“Do they know about-” Ryan wagged a finger between his chest and mine. Us?
“No. But they have pack instincts.” I continued my list of directives. “And don’t even think of accepting an invitation to overnight.”
“Holiday Inn all the way.”
“And one other suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Lose the John Boy routine.”
Things went better than I would have expected. Ryan accepted and praised Gordie’s rotgut bordeaux. He talked Big Moe and Bizzy Bone with Bea and Allie. He delighted Vecamamma, Emilija, and Connie by twisting the napkins into crook-necked swans.
No one asked about his marital status. No one queried our personal relationship. No one grilled him on current commerce in murder and mayhem.
Then, as we were gathering in the dining room, Cukura Kundze bustled in.
What to say about Mrs. Cukurs?
The Cukurs were pillars of the small church that welcomed the immigrant Petersons to the New World. More liberal than most ladies of her generation, over the years Laima Cukurs’s exploits had inspired considerable gossip among her more proper Lutheran peers. The explicit sculptures. The colorful lingo. The hippie period mentioned only in whispers. The unfortunate tattoo.
Eighty-four, and widowed for a decade, Cukura Kundze had recently begun dating an octogenarian Hungarian named Mr. Tot. No one had gotten the gentleman’s first name. Now, four months and many pot roasts and casseroles down the road, no one asked.
Or perhaps the more formal appellation just seemed more appropriate. Though Laima’s first name had been known to the Petersons for half a century, Cukura Kundze had always remained Cukura Kundze.
Tonight, Cukura Kundze arrived Totless but bearing a torte.
“It’s raspberry.” Cukura Kundze handed the cake to Vecamamma. “Who’s that?”
“A policeman friend of Tempe’s.”
“Good.” Cukura Kundze wore glasses with clear plastic frames probably designed for combat soldiers. She nodded so emphatically the things hopped the hump on her nose. “Husbands cheat. Women have needs.”
“Pete wasn’t cheating.” The cake smacked the table.
Cukura Kundze gave one of those harrumphs old ladies deliver so well.
“He and Tempe just decided it was time to skedaddle.” Turning to me. “Right?”
Mercifully, Emilija emerged from the kitchen balancing bowls of kraut, limp broccoli, and sour cream cucumbers. Connie followed with tomato slices, potatoes, and gravy. Aunt Klara brought rye bread and some odd species of little gray sausage. Juris carried a platter of pork the size of Nebraska.
We all took our places. Plates filled quickly, then, just as quickly, began to empty. I made a preemptive conversational strike.
“Are the Bears having a good season?”
Ten minutes of sports analysis followed. When interest waned, I veered toward hockey.
“The Blackhawks-”
Cukura Kundze made an end run at Ryan.
“You carry a Taser?” Jabbing the nose piece of her glasses with a red lacquered finger. “People are getting their asses capped with Tasers.”
“I’ve never used one.”
“You have a real gun, right?” Ted’s tone showed disdain for Cukura Kundze’s question. “A Glock? A SIG? A Smith and Wesson?”
“Ever kill anyone?” Cukura Kundze was cranking up.
“Montreal has very little violent crime.” Ryan nodded thanks as Gordie refilled his glass. I couldn’t believe he was going for more. Pete once described Gordie’s wine as a delicate Meritage hinting of goat piss and krill.
“But you must have sprayed some brains on a wall.”
Dual clucking from Vecamamma and Klara.
“Will the Blackhawks make the playoffs this year?” I asked.
“Pass the potatoes?” Ludis said.
“I read about a biker war in Montreal.” Cukura Kundze looked like a Hobbit between Allie and Bea. “You here to kick some Hells Angels butt? Or you working the streets, busting corner boys?”
“Ryan and I are here on administrative business,” I said. “By the way, he’s a Canadiens fan.”
“Collaring pimps?”
“Nothing that exciting,” Ryan laughed. “Tempe and I spent the day at the morgue.”
“Potatoes?” Ludis repeated.
The spuds were passed, followed by the meat, et al. Then there was a lot of jockeying to find space for the bowls and platters.
Gordie poured Ryan more wine. Amazingly, he downed half the glass.
“Yep. Ryan is a Habs fan.” Again I tried hockey. “Owns a Saku Koivu jersey.”
“The Chicago morgue?” Cukura Kundze’s eyes were wide behind the thick lenses.
“Our visit involved paperwork on a closed investigation.”
“Like
“You know people at the city morgue?” I recognized Cukura Kundze’s tone. And look.
“I do.” Wary.
“Do I ever ask favors, Tempe?”
The last request had been for an NYPD Crime Scene cap. Before that it was over-the-counter aspirin with codeine from Canada. I said nothing.
“Will you do something to make an old woman happy? Before I die?”
Vecamamma’s snort fluttered the perm-crimped curls on her forehead.
“I really-”
“It’s not for me, no, no. I wouldn’t ask for myself. It’s for poor Mr. Tot.”
At an observatory high up on Haleakala, an intergalactic monitoring device beeped softly, alerted by a black hole of silence that suddenly popped into being in a midwestern suburb.
“Mr. Tot?” Total stillness. I could feel twenty-four eyes fixed on my face.
“His grandson is missing and the navy says the kid’s gone AWOL. It’s horseshit. Lassie would never have abandoned his duties.”
