FIVE
BIG BLUE IS a 1953 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster that’s been retrofitted with seat belts and power brakes. It gets three miles to the gallon, and it does nothing for my self-esteem, as I aspire to be a slick Porsche person. My budget sees me more as a broken-down-junker-car person. My Great Uncle Sandor bequeathed the Buick to my Grandma Mazur, and it now lives in my parents’ garage in anticipation of automotive emergencies. Unfortunately, I have these on a regular basis.
Ranger’s guy met us on Stark, removed my plates from the Explorer carcass, and drove us to the Burg. I got the car keys from Grandma and backed the Buick out of the garage. Lula and Briggs got in, and we drove to North Trenton to scope out Poletti’s rental properties.
“It’s the white house coming up on the right,” Briggs said. “Personally, I can’t see him in any of these rentals. They’re leased through a management company. Strictly investment deals. I’m not sure he even knows he has them.”
“No stone unturned,” I said. “We’ll just do a drive-by unless we see the Mustang or some other sign of Poletti.”
An hour later I dropped Lula off at the office and returned to my apartment.
Briggs followed me in and pulled the wig off his head. “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
“I was going to have a peanut butter sandwich.”
“That’s not dinner. That’s lunch if you’re seven years old.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Steak.”
“Are you buying?”
“My money and my credit cards got blown up.”
“Then I guess you’re not having steak.”
Briggs looked in my fridge. “There’s nothing in here.”
“Not true. I have olives. I put them on my peanut butter sandwich.”
“That’s sick.”
I pulled a box of Froot Loops out of the overhead cabinet. “How about cereal?”
“You don’t have any milk.”
“And?”
“You’re supposed to have cereal with milk.”
“These are Froot Loops. They’re perfect right out of the box. They’re pretty, they don’t stick to your fingers, and the box says they’re filled with vitamins and minerals.”
“Maybe I should rethink this. I’d get better food in prison.”
I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich and ate it while I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked Briggs.
“We could check out the poker players. Of course, one’s dead and two are missing, but last I heard, Buster was still around.”
“The cousin.”
“Yeah. He was tight with Jimmy. He was the guy Jimmy trusted to go to Mexico to solve labor issues.”
“You mean with the cars?”
Briggs ate a handful of Froot Loops. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask questions. I just tapped in Buster’s travel expenses. Hotels and planes and stuff. I came to the dealership on Broad twice a week and cooked the books. It didn’t seem like such a big deal. Everyone hates the IRS, right?”
“Do you know where Buster lives?”
“Downtown Trenton. I don’t know exactly where. His wife kicked him out of the house and took out a restraining order, so now he lives in an apartment over a pizza place. I think he owns the building.”
I went to my computer and ran Buster through a search program.
“He’s on the third block of Stark,” I said. “So far as I can see, he hasn’t got a job.”
“He had some kind of deal with Jimmy. He got money under the table. And there’s a holding company called Bust Inc. that I think is his.”
I gave the last chunk of my sandwich to Rex and grabbed my messenger bag. “Let’s take a look at Buster.”
“Great, but I’m not wearing the wig. It itches. And it’s a stupid disguise. I’m four feet tall if I wear lifts and lie. People figure it out.”
“If those people who figure it out start shooting at you, I’d appreciate it if you’d step away from me.”
I rolled down the third block on Stark and slowed as we approached the pizza place. A bunch of guys were hanging in front of it, smoking whatever, trying hard to look bad. Heck, what do I know … probably they were bad. Probably they were the ones who’d taken my wheels.
“This pizza place is a dump,” Briggs said, “but it’s full of people.”
“Dinnertime,” I told him. “It’s easy food.”
Briggs was sitting on his knees, his nose pressed to the window. “I swear I can smell it! Oh man, would I love a piece of pizza! We should check it out. You want to talk to Buster anyway, right?”
“Right.”
I found a parking place across the street from Buster’s building.
“I’m going to sit here and watch the second-floor windows,” I said to Briggs. “You can run across and get a slice of pizza.”
“I’ll get trampled. You have to come with me.”
“You won’t get trampled. I’ve seen you in action. You’ve destroyed more knees than pro football.”
“Yeah, but then there’s usually a riot.”
This was true.
“Okay, I’ll come with you, but you have to promise not to bite anyone or whack anyone with your iPhone.”
The pizza place was just counter service. Strictly takeout. No tables. The room was packed. A single fan spun overhead. No air. We squeezed in and inched along with the rest of the people who were making their way to the counter.
“Do you see the pizza?” Briggs asked. “What have they got?”
“I can’t see the pizza. I can’t see anything.”
“I want extra cheese and pepperoni.”
“I’m on it.”
“Are we almost there?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
I like pizza, but I was finding it hard to believe the pizza here was that good. There were other options on Stark. There were a bunch of fast-food pizza places, plus you could dial a pizza and have it delivered. Either this pizza was super cheap or it came with a side of weed.
Five minutes later we had our pizza and were out the door. We crossed the street and leaned against the Buick while we ate.
“This is good,” Briggs said. “Greasy, with just the right amount of cheese. Real Jersey pizza.”