“How long before the murder was your conversation?”
“About two weeks,” she says.
“And she never mentioned anything after that?”
“No, I don’t think we even talked again. She was never really that friendly; most of the time she just seemed to keep to herself. I don’t think she was a very happy person.”
“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks.
“Well, for instance, we both grew up near Minneapolis, but she wouldn’t talk much about it. She seemed well read and quite capable of talking about many subjects, as long as the subject wasn’t herself.”
“Any idea why that was?”
“Well, Richard mentioned one day that she had a difficult childhood. And then there were the problems with Richard. People from abusive households often enter into abusive relationships when they become adults. Don’t they?”
I’m not really up for psychobabble now; I’m in my pretuxedo bad mood. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “I TiVo’d Dr. Phil.”
Kevin and I leave, and I drop him off at the office before heading home. He’s worried about my meeting with Petrone but agrees to my request to call Marcus and tell him not to interfere.
I had left a message for Laurie that I was going to a black-tie gathering, and told her she was more than welcome to come along. My investigative instincts help me anticipate her answer before she says anything; she is wearing sweatpants and has put my tuxedo out on the bed.
I don’t know much about fashion history, and as an example, I don’t know who invented the tuxedo. But whoever the father of the tuxedo might have been, he should have been neutered as a child. The tuxedo is as dumb an item as exists on the planet.
Actually, maybe the invention was a joint effort; maybe it was idiocy by committee. One dope created the bow tie, another the suspenders, another the iridescent shoes, and still another the ridiculous cummerbund.
As bad as each item is, when they are put together, especially on my body, they reach a perfect symmetry of awfulness. If you put me in Giants Stadium with sixty thousand men wearing tuxedos, I would still feel as though everybody were staring at me. I don’t just feel stupid when I wear a tuxedo. I am by definition stupid, or I wouldn’t be wearing one.
I go outside at 6:55 to wait for Vince to arrive, and he is characteristically late. That leaves me standing, penguin style, in front of the house, waving to smiling neighbors dressed in normal clothing.
Vince finally arrives, and I get in the car. He is dressed in khaki pants and a sports jacket with a shirt open at the neck.
“Well, don’t you look snappy!” he says.
I’m about to take my cummerbund off and strangle him with it. “You told me to wear a tuxedo.”
He laughs. “I was kidding. It’s a casino night. Where do you think we’re going, Monte Carlo?”
“So nobody else is going to be dressed like this?” I ask.
Another laugh. “You got that right.”
I tell Vince to wait, and I go back into the house. Within ten minutes I’m dressed like a normal human being and back in the car. “That was your idea of a joke?” I ask.
“No, the way you looked in that monkey suit is my idea of a joke.”
I’m so pissed at Vince that I don’t talk to him for the twenty-minute ride to our destination. He spends most of the time whistling and listening to the Mets game; I don’t think my silent treatment is bringing him to his knees.
The charity event is being held at a ballroom called the Fiesta, on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights. Vince parks in the general parking area rather than using the valet service, explaining that with the valet it will take too long to get out. The true reason is that this way there will be no one for him to have to tip.
We walk into the lobby, where we are required to pay for entry and to buy chips. It costs me five hundred dollars, plus another five hundred for Vince, who seems to have forgotten where his checkbook might be. Vince tells me that it’s tax deductible, as if I should be grateful for the opportunity he’s giving me.
Once I’ve paid we enter the ballroom, which is already quite crowded. There are bars in all four corners of the room, and blackjack, roulette, and craps tables are set up throughout. The only people wearing tuxedos are the dealers.
Casino nights are among the more ridiculous inventions of modern man. The chips we have purchased are merely props that give us something to gamble with; they are not worth any money. The only problem is that gambling is one hundred percent about money; it is essential to the process.
I glance over at a blackjack table where a woman is agonizing over whether to double down with eleven against a dealer showing nine. She just can’t decide whether she wants to risk five worthless chips or ten worthless chips. Her children’s college education might well be on the line.
Gambling without money is like playing baseball without a bat and a ball. It’s goofy. Yet everywhere I look, people are laughing and having fun. What kind of a world is this? Why can’t these people spend their time doing something productive, something worthwhile?
They need only look at me to follow my example. I am here to meet with the leading crime figure in New Jersey, to find out if he is trying to kill me. My mother would be proud.
“Where’s Petrone?” I ask Vince.
“How the hell should I know?”
“You said he’d be here and that he would talk to me.”
“And he will. Just relax; play some blackjack.”
I hold up the chips with disdain. “With these?”
“I’ll take them,” he says, and goes off to play with both his chips and mine.
“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and that’s exactly where I head.
I’m on my third Bloody Mary when two men, each ten years younger, four inches taller, and forty pounds heavier than me, walk over. Their very presence is menacing to me, and I instantly wish I were at one of the tables playing fake blackjack.
“This way,” one of them says, and they start walking toward the back exit door. My mind decides to follow them, but my legs don’t seem to be impressed, and I just stand there without moving.
The two men are out the door before they realize I’m not behind them, and they come back. “You coming, or what?”
I nod, and with an enormous effort, I actually start moving. I follow them out the door and down a corridor. They stop, and one of the men frisks me to make sure I’m not armed or wearing a wire.
I’m not a big frisking fan, whether I’m the frisker or the friskee. I prefer the honor system, but these two guys don’t seem familiar with that system. They probably didn’t go to West Point.
Satisfied that I’m not carrying an M-16 in my pocket, they then open a door and stand by it, waiting for me to enter. I do so, and they follow me in.
Petrone sits in an armchair, watching the Mets game on a large-screen television. It appears that we are in some kind of reception area where pictures are taken of wedding couples or Bar Mitzvah boys who have their parties in this facility.
Both men take positions, standing with their backs to the walls. “What’s the score?” I ask.
Petrone doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my presence. It’s not until the end of the inning leads to a commercial that he looks at me. “I understand you want to talk to me,” he says. “You have three minutes.”
I nod; right now three minutes feels like two too many. “I am representing Richard Evans. He did not murder his fiancée.”
Petrone doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to continue.
“I need to find out what really happened, and I think the truth is tied into his job with U.S. Customs.”
Still no response, which is not unreasonable, since I haven’t asked a question.