Thus ends the case of the dead neighbor.
I send the recorded call to Mrs. Rossini and a few minutes later she calls me back. “I never said the murdered manwasher husband. It was pure conjecture on my part. If it wasn’t him, you need to find out whom.”
Besides English teachers, who says whom?“Unless you come up with more evidence, I don’t feel right about taking your money. I’m real sor-”
“Please. I’ll bring another check by tomorrow.” Her desperation moves me but I can’t, in good conscience, continue to work for her.
I doubt she saw anything and even if she did, how in the world would I find some random dead guy in a city of millions.
“There’s really nothing more I can do.” Tapping the red icon, I hang up and open my computer.
I’d go home but my house has no water and is noisy as shit. That’s why I continue working at Petey’s until the dinner crowd comes in. Knowing he’ll need the table, I stand and wave as he pulls a lasagna out of the oven.
“Bye, Pete. Thanks.”
“See youz Sam. Tell Suds I hope he finds a decent plumber.” How could he possibly know we’re tearing up our bathroom?
I swear to God, when it comes to gossip, Bensonhurst resembles a small town and at times like this, I miss the anonymity of living in DC.
As the sun sinks, the brownstones long shadows block the fading light from hitting the street. A few snowflakes swirl around in the wind and I zipper my jacket as high as it will go. With my chin down, I adjust my heavy shoulder strap and hustle home.
In front of the church, the workmen whistle. “Hey chicka-chicka.”
I flip them the bird, enter my building, and after checking my mailbox, I peer into the downstairs window. I’ve never seen anyone inside the tailor’s shop they probably won’t care about the noise next door.
I trudge up the plank stairs, unlock the outside door, and cross the waiting area with three small folding chairs. From there, I enter my living area. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the shopping area as well as the D train platform where a few poor souls shiver and wait.
Switching on the light, I stroll past our multi-purpose table and call up the spiral staircase. “Suds? You home?”
“In here.” His voice resonates from the bathroom to my left.
The door opens and I gasp at the room, gutted down to the bricks. Holy shit. Only the toilet and a few new pieces of plywood remain intact.
“Yikes.”
He grins. “It looks worse than it is.”
“Maybe. But how do you expect to wash off the grime?” I cup his cheeks in my palms and brush my lips across his, tasting chalky dust.
“Unlike you, I am used to getting by with a hose.”
“Huh. You hungry?” I hold up a bag with Petey’s logo. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Will you marry me?” His eyes sparkle and I laugh.
“Sure, tough guy but only if you fix our bathroom.”
A few minutes later, he strips off his shirt, showing off his muscled form by flexing his biceps in a personal Mr. Universe contest.
Thinking about all the women who might own binoculars like Mrs. Rossini, I twist the blinds closed. Good thing, because he drops his jeans and his underwear. Then he strides to the sink, the one meant for making coffee, not bathing.
Sticking his head under the faucet, he rubs liquid soap over it, then rinses off while I nod and clap slowly.
“Impressive.”
He grins. “We Navy SEALS have many talents. Didn’t the FBI teach you any survival skills?” He grabs a washcloth, wets it, lathers, and bathes his whole body.
Swallowing hard, my breasts get tight and my lower lips twinge. “I’m afraid I may have missed that class.” Walking over to him, I raise my arms so he can remove my shirt.
