Traffic was light, allowing me to do the drive from the bail bonds office to my apartment building in less than fifteen minutes. I had the windows open, hoping the gasoline smell wouldn’t linger in the upholstery. I was driving a blue Honda CR-V that wasn’t brand-new, but it was new to me.
I live in a boring but adequately maintained three-story apartment building on the outskirts of Trenton proper. My one-bedroom apartment is on the second floor and looks out at the parking lot. It’s not a scenic location but it’s quiet with the exception of the dumpster collection twice a week. I share the apartment with a hamster named Rex. He lives in an aquarium on my kitchen counter, and he sleeps in a soup can. Until very recently I sometimes shared the apartment with an on-again, off-again boyfriend, Joe Morelli. He’s a plainclothes Trenton cop working crimes against persons. Our relationship is currently in the off-again stage, so these days it’s just me and Rex.
Rex is mostly a nighttime kind of guy, but he peeked out of his soup can when I walked into the kitchen.
“Here’s the deal,” I said to Rex. “I didn’t find Charlie Shine, but I did find his partner Lou. He tried to set me on fire, and he got away, but as you can see I’m perfectly okay. Except for my sneakers that smell like gasoline.”
Rex retreated into his den, so I assumed he didn’t feel compelled to know the details of my ordeal.
I dropped an apple slice into his food dish, and I tossed the sneakers into the trash. I needed new ones anyway.
* * *
My parents live a couple of blocks from the bail bonds office in a residential chunk of Trenton called the Burg. I grew up in the Burg and I feel comfortable there, but it’s not where I want to live. The Burg is a lot like Rex’s glass aquarium. Small and enclosed and open for everyone to see in. I can’t get away from my past in the Burg. Not that my past is so terrible. It’s more that I’d like to be judged on my future… whatever that might be. Since I don’t have a good grip on my future, I’m stuck in the Burg and its surrounding neighborhood, which is another way of saying I’m halfway to who-knows-where.
My parents still live in the house where I grew up. It’s a small house on a small lot. The house is painted mustard yellow and brown, not because anyone likes the colors but because it costs too much money to change. There are three small bedrooms upstairs plus a bathroom. Living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs. Narrow front porch running the width of the house. Small stoop in the back off the kitchen door. Single-car detached garage.
My maternal grandmother lives in the house, too. She moved in when my grandpa Mazur succumbed to years of schnitzel and Marlboros and took up residence in heaven. At least we hope it’s heaven. She was at the front door when I parked at the curb. Possibly checking the weather or maybe experiencing a moment of Grandma ESP that told her I was driving down the street.
“Just in time for lunch,” she said when I walked up to the house. “It’s Monday so that means leftover roast chicken. Your mother made it into chicken salad. And we have little rolls from the bakery.”
Food is important in the Burg. It’s the glue that holds everything together. News travels through the bakery and the deli. Bread is blessed at the church. Charities are funded at bake sales. Families still sit at the table for dinner whether they like it or not. Adult children are bribed into visiting their parents with the promise of pineapple upside-down cake, lasagna, fried chicken and biscuits, Virginia baked ham. Cultural appropriation is a good thing here. Polish housewives share recipes with their Italian neighbors. Kielbasa, macaroni and red sauce, Cozido a Portuguesa, enchiladas, burgers, goulash, pot roast, pirogi, pad thai. We eat it all. The American melting pot is alive and healthy in Burg kitchens. Even death prompts an outpouring of food. Liquor flows at the after-burial reception and the buffet table holds a disturbing number of noodle casseroles.
My father was in his chair in front of the television in the living room. He’s retired from the post office and drives a cab part-time, mostly taking a few regulars to and from the train station. He had a sandwich and a soda on a tray table, and he was tuned in to QVC. Grandma and I tiptoed around him and joined my mother in the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’re here,” my mother said to me. “Your grandmother is talking crazy again about going off on a treasure hunt. You have to speak to her. She won’t listen to me.”
At some point in time, my mother and grandmother reversed roles. My mother is now the voice of maturity and reason and my grandmother is the rebellious family member who is happy to throw caution to the wind and dye her hair flame red.
“They aren’t crazy ideas,” Grandma said. “And that treasure is my legitimate inheritance. My honey, Jimmy, left it to me. He was Keeper of the La-Z-Boys’ Keys, and he left the two keys to me.”
“He didn’t leave the keys to you,” my mother said. “He put them under his chair cushion, he died, one of his mob buddies stupidly gave you the chair, and by dumb luck we found the keys. And now I’m left with that horrible chair in my living room.”
The chair was Jimmy’s ancient Mole Hole La-Z-Boy recliner. My father loved it.
“Anyway, Stephanie promised she would help me find my treasure,” Grandma said.
“Whatever the keys unlock belongs to the six men named on the keys. Not just to Jimmy,” my mother said. “He was only one of the six La-Z-Boys.”
The two keys appeared to be identical and weren’t normal house keys. They were five inches long with a slim barrel handle. Double-sided teeth were cut into one end of the handle and a one-inch square was at the other end. The names of the six La-Z-Boy owners were engraved in the square. We’d checked with Google and determined that the keys most likely opened a safe.
“I get his share of the treasure,” Grandma said. “It doesn’t matter we were only married for forty-five minutes before he had the heart attack. His will said I got just about everything. And on top of that there’s only three of the people named on the keys that are still alive, and two of them are going to jail for murder as soon as Stephanie can find them. The third is Benny the Skootch, and he’s not in good shape.”
This was all true. Three of the La-Z-Boy owners had died, and their chairs remained unoccupied in the back room. Two of the remaining mob guys, Lou Salgusta and Charlie Shine, were wanted for the murder Grandma and I witnessed. Charlie Shine was also in violation of a bail bond Vinnie had written on him over a year ago.
I hung my messenger bag on the back of a kitchen chair. I got a plate and a knife and fork and took my place at the small square table. Grandma sat next to me and my mom sat across from me.
“I think the treasure is here in Jersey,” Grandma said, taking a roll. “I can’t see them putting it far away. I did some checking, and it’s not like any of the six men were world travelers. What we have to do now is find the safe that goes with the keys.”
“That sort of safe usually has a combination lock that works in conjunction with the keys,” I said. “And we don’t know the combination.”
“Yes, but you got Ranger,” Grandma said. “And Ranger knows how to open everything.”
Ranger is the other man in my life. His given name is Carlos Manoso but he goes by Ranger. He’s former special forces, former bounty hunter, and on a few memorable occasions I’ve slept in his bed. He currently owns Rangeman, a high-end, under-the-radar security firm. And Grandma is right. Nothing stops Ranger when he wants entry.