The back door to the funeral home opened to a short hall, which led to the lobby. The door to the basement, the side door to the kitchen, and Con’s office all opened from the hall. A small vestibule and double glass door, located between Con’s office and the basement door, gave access to the macadam driveway running back to the garages. It was through this door that the deceased rolled on his last journey.
Two years ago Con had hired a decorator to spiff the place up. The decorator’s colors of choice, mauve and lime, dotted the walls with pastoral landscapes. The floors were heavily padded and carpeted. Nothing squeaked. The entire house was designed to keep noise to a minimum, and now Kenny was sneaking about and not being heard.
I ran into Spiro in the hall. “I want to know more about Kenny,” I said to him. “Where would Kenny go to hide out? Someone must be helping him. Who would he turn to?”
“Morellis and Mancusos always go back to the family. Someone dies, it’s like they all died. They come in here in their ugly black dresses and coats and cry buckets for each other. My guess is he’s living in a Mancuso attic.”
I wasn’t so sure. Seemed to me Joe would know by now if Kenny was hiding in a Mancuso attic. The Mancusos and Morellis weren’t known for their ability to keep secrets from each other.
“If he wasn’t in a Mancuso attic?”
Spiro shrugged. “He went to Atlantic City a lot.”
“He seeing any girls besides Julia Cenetta?”
“You want to go through the phone book?”
“That many, huh?”
* * *
I left through the side door and waited impatiently while Al from Al’s Auto Body unjacked my car. Al stood and wiped his hands on his coveralls before handing me the bill.
“Weren’t you driving a Jeep last time I gave you a new tire?”
“The Jeep got stolen.”
“You ever think about using public transportation?”
“What happened to the screwdriver?”
“I put it in your trunk. Never know when you need a screwdriver.”
Clara’s Beauty Parlor was three blocks down Hamilton, next to Buckets of Donuts. I found a parking space, gritted my teeth, held my breath, and backed the Buick in at warp speed. Better to get it over with. I knew I was close when I heard glass breaking.
I slunk out of the Buick and assessed the damage. None to the Buick. Broken headlight on the other guy’s car. I left a note with insurance information and made for Clara’s.
Bars, funeral homes, bakeries, and beauty parlors form the hub of the wheel that spins the burg. Beauty parlors are especially important because the burg is an equal-opportunity neighborhood caught in a 1950s time warp. The translation of this is that girls in the burg become obsessed with hair at a very early age. The hell with coed peewee football. If you’re a little girl in the burg you spend your time combing out Barbie’s hair. Barbie sets the standard. Big gunky black eyelashes, electric-blue eye shadow, pointy outthrust breasts, and a lot of platinum-blond phony-looking hair. This is what we all aspire to. Barbie even teaches us how to dress. Tight glittery dresses, skimpy shorts, an occasional feather boa, and, of course, spike heels with everything. Not that Barbie doesn’t have more to offer, but little girls in the burg know better than to get sucked in by yuppie Barbie. They don’t buy into any of that tasteful sportswear, professional business suit stuff. Little girls in the burg go for the glamour.