1 Breakfast at Madeline's (21 page)

Here Judy's shoulders slumped, and once again she gazed out at the Zamboni. "So what happened?" I pushed her.

With effort, and haltingly, she continued. "He said
he was busy. But we
made an appointment for the fol
lowing Tuesday. Then
, on Monday, the Literacy Volun
teers receives a check in the mail. Unsolicited. From the mayor. A donation—for fifteen thousand dollars. Next day, I go to meet him, like we'd planned. Only he doesn't show up."

The Zamboni was almost done. "Then what?"

Judy closed her eyes. "Nothing. I just forgot about the whole thing." She opened them again and looked at me, begging for understanding. "I co
uldn't help my
self. You know how
I feel about the Literacy Volun
teers. That's my baby. And we're always broke. I figured the mayor's mone
y would keep us from going bank
rupt until we can stay a
live on our own. Is that so hor
rible? I mean, what's more important—uncovering yet another sleazy political deal, or teaching kids how to read?" She waited for an answer, and when she didn't get one, threw up her hands as if surrendering. "That's it, Jacob. That's the whole story."

Not quite. "How did Penn find out?"

Judy's eyes suddenly flamed with anger. "The little shit. Always pretending he was writing, but half the time he was just eave
sdropping. One night after bowl
ing me and Andrea are at Madeline's, and there's no one else in the back room except for Penn, and I figure he's just a harmless nutcase. So like an idiot I start telling Andrea abo
ut this whole kickback and dona
tion
thing
. Next day, Penn walks into my office at the Saratogian. Says if I d
on't make him coffee every morn
ing, he'll tell everyone th
e mayor bribed me into shut
ting up." Judy sighed unhappily and shook her head. "Jesus, I can't believe I g
ot into this mess. This is some
thing they never taught in journalism school."

She eyed me, hoping for a smile. Out on the ice the Red Wing mascot was dancing around to the Village People song "YMCA," while the fans applauded. How
did the gay anthem of the late 70s become so popular at 90s sporting events? It was interesting that my wife never told me any of this stuff about Judy. I was torn between admiring her loyalty to her friend and being pissed off that she hadn't told me. The buzzer sounded, announcing that the second period was about to start.

"Listen, Jacob, I have to go back to the press box," Judy said, with a tentative smile. "You guys can come on up, if you want."

"Just one more thing."

"What?"

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but where were you last Monday morning?"

"Last Monday morning?"

"The morning Penn died."

She stared a
t me, openmouthed, then said, "
'Don't take this the wrong way'? What other way is there to take it?"

Good question. I was still trying to come up with an answer when Judy s
tarted walking away. Oh God, An
drea would throw a fit when she heard about this. "Judy, hey!" I called out after her. "Hey, Judy!"

But
she kept right on going.

25

Just at that moment Andrea appeared from the other direction, loaded down with Gretzky, Ruth, pizza, hot dogs, popcorn, and various sodas. She saw her friend hurrying off through the crowd and called, "Judy!" But Judy didn't hear her, or didn't want to. Andrea eyed me curiously. "Is everything okay? Judy looked upset."

I shrugged nonchalantly. "No, she's fine," I lied. When in doubt, lie. "She invited us up to the press box."

"Cool, let's go. That sounds like fun."

Sure, great fun. A pleasant social evening with my wife's best friend, whom I had just basically accused of murder. "You go, honey. I'm happy here." To change the subject, I turned to Gretzky and Babe Ruth and asked, "How's the grub?"

"Mmf," Babe Ruth answered, his mouth full of hot dog. The original Ba
be once missed half a season be
cause he ate too many hot dogs at one sitting. At the rate my Babe was going, it looked like the same thing might happen to him.

Meanwhile Gretzky was wiggling his butt and hopping up and down as he ate, doing what Andrea and I called "the peepee dance." Andrea bit her lip, frustrated, and told me, "Maybe you can get him to go to the bathroom. I couldn't."

"Hockey players don't make peepee!" Gretzky shouted between bites. I thought about picking him up and carrying him by force to the men's room, but it was four sections away and two floors down, and he'd be kicking and screaming the whole way. Ugh. Even if I didn't get arrested for child abuse, my lower back would spend the rest of the week complaining. Ah well, maybe when his bladder couldn't take it anymore, he'd finally come to his senses.

But then again, maybe not. Gretzky squiggled and squirmed like a crazed amoeba for the next hour and a half, but through it all he held tight to his dream: be just like a real hockey player and never make peepee again. You had to res
pect the little guy's determina
tion.

Andrea went up to the press box with Babe Ruth for a while, and when she came back I scanned her face for a sign that Judy had told her about our
con
versation. But so far, I guess, Judy was staying mum.

Out on the ice, the second and third periods were even more rousing t
han the first, with Wenders con
tinuing to work wonders in the Red Wing goal, and the Red Wing offense madly swarming the Crunch goal whenever there
was even the remotest possibil
ity of a score. Wenders was unable to shut the door entirely, but when the final buzzer sounded, the Red Wings had triumphed 3-2. We were now the official American Hockey League
champions
.

I was thrilled. Growing up in Boston and rooting for the Red Sox, I had reached middle age without my team ever winning a championship. But here my kids were only three
and five years old, and they al
ready had a championship under their belts. Maybe it was a sign their lives would be easier than mine.

My joy would have been complete if only Gretzky weren't so obviously uncomfortable, jumping up and
down like a jack-in-the-box. And I was still feeling pretty jumpy myself, about the whole Judy thing. I wanted to go home, put the kids to bed, then sit down with Andrea and as gently as possible break the news that I sus
pected her bowling buddy of mur
der.

But first the kids insisted on going down to the ice and celebrating. The ecstatic Red Wings and their fans were filling the rink, cheering, clapping, and singing "We Are the Champions." Minor league sports at its best. On the ice Gretzky's jumping and wiggling fit right in; it looked like he was dancing to the song. He and Babe Ruth ran to the Red Wings goal and started playing baseball-hockey with each other.

I noticed Wenders signing autographs nearby. Minus his goalie mask he was odd-looking, scary even. With a pile of shaggy black hair hanging over thick eyebrows an
d a low sloping forehead, he re
sembled a Cro-Magnon Man.
But he was signing au
tographs patiently even though he must have been exhausted, and there was a kind look in his eyes, and suddenly I got an idea. I left Andrea behind and squeezed my way to the front of the crowd that was surrounding him. "Uh, Mr. Wenders."

"Yeah," he said
without looking at me, as he signed a little girl's Red Wings cap.

"I have a rather strange request."

Now he looked up. "The last guy who said that wanted me to autograph his wife's breasts."

The other fans tittered.

"No, it's not that," I assured him. "This request is even stranger."

Wenders's caveman brows lifted all the way up his forehead when I explained what I wanted him to do.

"You're right," he said after I finished. "That is stranger."

"It would mean a lot to me."

"I can imagine." Wenders turned to the other fans and excused himself,
then went with me to find Gret
zky. Andrea watched us, wondering what the hell was going on.

Gretzky stopped his baseball-hockey game and gazed upward in awe as Wenders—a real hockey player—walked over to him. He was so starstruck, he even stopped wiggling.

"So you're Gretzky," Wenders greeted him. "I hear you're an awesome hockey player." He held out a huge, hairy hand, and after staring at it for a while, Gretzky solemnly lifted up his own little hand. They shook.

Then Wenders stooped down to get on Gretzky's level. "Gretzky, there's something I think you ought to know."

He paused, makin
g sure he had the kid's full at
tention. Then he dropped his bombshell. "Hockey players actually
do
make peepee," Wenders said gravely.

Gretzky stared at him, astonished.

"It's true. We make peepee between periods, when the Zamboni is out
there. I
always
make peepee, be
cause then I play better. It's easier to concentrate."

The kid was wide-eyed. I only hoped Wenders's message was getting through.

"Now Gretzky, I h
ave to go. So take care of your
self, buddy. And remember: If you want to be an even better hockey player than you already are, be sure to make peepee."

As he shook Gretzky's hand again and turned to leave, Babe Ruth called out to him excitedly, "Hey, Mr. Goalie, you know what? I make peepee, too!"

I watched Wenders fight back the urge to laugh. Amazingly, he succeeded. I wondered if the guy would be interested in doing babysitting during the offseason. Whatever he might charge, he was worth it.

As Wenders discussed peepee with Babe Ruth, I caught Andrea's eye. Then we both looked over at Gretzky.

The Great One's brow was furrowed in deep thought. He seemed to be trying to puzzle something out, like Einstein on the brink of relativity. Finally he turned to me. "Daddy," he said.

"Yes?"

"I have to make peepee."

Halle-fucking-lujah!
I felt like whooping with glee, but I didn't want to scare him into reconsidering. "Okay," I said with studied casualness, "let's go."

So we went to the bathroom together, and Gretzky pulled down his pants. "I'm going to be a champion hockey player when I grow up," he told me as an ocean of peepee poured out of him.

"You sure are," I said, and hugged him.

We hit Manhattan-style traffic getting out of Glens Falls, but we were all
feeling so terrific no one com
plained. Andrea
started singing songs from
Okla
homa!
and the kids joined in. Between songs, she squeezed my arm and whispered, "I love you." The best way to a woman's heart: toilet train her children.

Andrea was feeling so good about me right now, maybe I could bring up Judy without us getting into a big argument. I tried to think of some opening lines. "Oh, honey, by the
way, you won't be upset if I in
vestigate your best friend for murder, will you?"

I waited for the kids to fall asleep. It was only 7:30, but they'd had such a full day, I figured they'd be
down for the count pretty soon. And sure enough, right in the middle of the chorus about the bright golden haze in the meadow, they started snoring. We were back in Saratoga now, driving up Van Dam Street. Andrea put her hand on my thigh and gazed at me, full of love. Now or never, I thought. I cleared my throat. "Andrea?"

"Yes, beautiful sweetheart?" she cooed, her hand moving higher.

"There's something we need to talk about."

"Okay, baby, let's talk." But the way her hand was reaching into my pa
nts made me think she wasn't ex
actly in the mood for talking.

"Listen, it's really important."

Andrea frowned and withdrew her hand. "What is it?"

"Well, uh..." I stuttered as I turned onto Pearl Street, and then stopped. Stopped talking and stopped the car too, with a sudden screech.

"What's wrong?" Andrea asked in alarm.

I didn't answer.

At the corner of Pearl and Van Dam was the Shoeshine and a Smile Theater School, with a sign out front:
"the devil comes to town—tonight—8:00."
Next to the sign several young girls were hanging out, all decked out in identical costumes for tonight's show. Standing behind them, talking on a portable phone, was Bonnie. Evidently she'd be performing tonight too, because she wore the same costume they did.

Very interesting costume.

Bonnie and the girls were dressed in silver from head to toe. From their silver horns and silver masks...

...
right on down to their
silver high-heeled shoes.

"Honey, are you okay?" Andrea asked fearfully. I
stared out at Bonnie and those shoes. It didn't make sense—or did it?

What if Bonnie
wore her costume shoes to Made
line's one night, just for kicks, and then found out that my house was empty—

Andrea interrupted, touching my forehead. "What is it, the concussion? Does your head hurt?"

"No," I said, and started up the car again.

"Then what is it? What did you want to talk to me about?"

Good question. Not about Judy anymore. But I wasn't ready to share my suspicion
s about Bonnie ei
ther. I needed to get my head straight—if that was possible. Andre
a got panicky. "Jacob, say some
thing."

I forced a smile. "Sorry, honey, I was just thinking about how much I love you."

That line usually works, but this time Andrea eyed me skeptically. I tried again. "It's true. I was just so overwhelmed by sudden love for you, I had to pull over."

Andrea rolled her eyes. "You are so full of shit." But when I reached down and put her hand back on my thigh, things began happening that convinced her I really was thinking about her. In fact, thinking pretty hard.

As soon as we got home and carried the sleeping kids to bed, Andrea and I went to bed, too. We did some deep thinking
for a while and came to some en
joyable conclusions, after which Andrea closed her eyes and instantly fell fast asleep.

I closed my eyes too, but I was far from sleeping. Those silver high-heeled shoes were dancing in my mind. It seemed clear to me that The Penn and his magnum opus had gotten Bonnie so scared and angry that she broke into my house.

Had she also been scared and angry enough to murder The Penn?

I lay there and theorized for as long as I could stand it before I slipp
ed out of bed, grateful that An
drea had gotten so used to my nocturnal comings and goings that she slept right through them. Then I jumped in the car and drove off through the night to the Shoeshine and a Smile Theater School.