“Ansella didn’t have high blood pressure. In fact, aside from being dead, he was in excellent health.”
“Not to mention, he probably wouldn’t take his prescription medication sprinkled over a large buttered,” I noted, mostly to myself.
“Probably not.”
“Any prints on the vial?”
He grinned. “Besides your father’s? No. But I’m letting him go because he’s only got one reason to be in the theatre.”
“Speaking of which, when can I have my theatre back?” I asked. “I saw a bunch of your storm troopers retreating from the place. I assume you haven’t found anything else on the premises I need to know about.”
O’Donnell’s eyelids fluttered at the term “storm troopers, ” but he kept it to himself. “As a matter of fact, we didn’t,” he said. “We’re pulling out of here. You can have your theatre back tonight.”
He stood up to leave, and a thought occurred to me. “What about his wife? Did Amy Ansella have a prescription for clonidine?”
Sergeant O’Donnell’s face closed, and he said what cops always say when you’ve hit on something they wanted to take credit for themselves. “This is an ongoing investigation, ” he said. “No comment.”
12
FRIDAY
Horse Feathers (1932)
and Bootylicious (today)
"You think I just have extra wheels for this thing lying around the store waiting for you?” Bobo Kaminsky, the largest bicycle store owner in Central New Jersey (and no, that doesn’t mean he owns the largest bicycle shop), stared down on me with what was supposed to look like disdain but instead resembled bemusement.
“Come on, Bobo, it’s a twenty-six-inch wheel and you’ve got hundreds of them. Who’s a better customer for you than I am? I need the wheel by tonight so I can ride home from the theatre after the show.”
“You could take a cab.” But he was already looking through his stock in the back room where we were arguing, trying to match the right width to the frame I’d dragged in from Sharon’s car. Sharon, cursing slightly under her breath, had demurred at the idea of seeing Bobo, and driven away almost before I’d managed to get both feet and one wheel onto the sidewalk.
“A cab. Very nice, the owner of Midland Cyclery telling me to take a cab.” I was sure he’d find what I needed. Bobo was annoyed because his solution to every problem I’ve ever brought into his place is that I should upgrade to a four-thousand-dollar bicycle. Bobo is among those who believe that I made millions off of Hollywood and am being obstinate about spending my fortune.
He scanned a rack of wheels, then turned and walked to the other side of the room to scan another. “So what’s with this guy who croaked at your place?” he asked in his usual delicate tone. “I hear you can’t trust the popcorn.”
“You can trust the popcorn,” I bristled. “Whoever did it brought the poison with them. Come on, Bobo, move it. It’s already one o’clock, and I’ve got to get the place ready to open by seven.”
“You come in here asking a favor and now it’s ‘move it, Bobo’? Why don’t you go out to Sports Authority or Sears and ask them to move it with the wheel on this twenty-year-old bike?” Bobo’s glasses, hung on a chain around his neck, were making a clicking sound as he moved from rack to rack.
“Because they wouldn’t have it,” I recited.
“You’re damn right they wouldn’t have it,” he agreed, then looked at the rack and checked a stock number. “Ah! Here we go!”
He pulled out a wheel, tire already on, and beckoned to me. “Give me the frame,” Bobo said. I handed it over, and he carefully maneuvered the wheel into the fork and locked it in. “Perfect. Am I good or am I good?”
“It’s a bicycle wheel, Bobo. You didn’t cure erectile dysfunction.”
He waved a large hand. “Been done,” he said.
Once again mobile, my next stop was 91 Guilden Street, where Anthony shared an apartment with three other Rutgers students. It was
“Not to mention, he probably wouldn’t take his prescription medication sprinkled over a large buttered,” I noted, mostly to myself.
“Probably not.”
“Any prints on the vial?”
He grinned. “Besides your father’s? No. But I’m letting him go because he’s only got one reason to be in the theatre.”
“Speaking of which, when can I have my theatre back?” I asked. “I saw a bunch of your storm troopers retreating from the place. I assume you haven’t found anything else on the premises I need to know about.”
O’Donnell’s eyelids fluttered at the term “storm troopers, ” but he kept it to himself. “As a matter of fact, we didn’t,” he said. “We’re pulling out of here. You can have your theatre back tonight.”
He stood up to leave, and a thought occurred to me. “What about his wife? Did Amy Ansella have a prescription for clonidine?”
Sergeant O’Donnell’s face closed, and he said what cops always say when you’ve hit on something they wanted to take credit for themselves. “This is an ongoing investigation, ” he said. “No comment.”
12
FRIDAY
Horse Feathers (1932)
and Bootylicious (today)
"You think I just have extra wheels for this thing lying around the store waiting for you?” Bobo Kaminsky, the largest bicycle store owner in Central New Jersey (and no, that doesn’t mean he owns the largest bicycle shop), stared down on me with what was supposed to look like disdain but instead resembled bemusement.
“Come on, Bobo, it’s a twenty-six-inch wheel and you’ve got hundreds of them. Who’s a better customer for you than I am? I need the wheel by tonight so I can ride home from the theatre after the show.”
“You could take a cab.” But he was already looking through his stock in the back room where we were arguing, trying to match the right width to the frame I’d dragged in from Sharon’s car. Sharon, cursing slightly under her breath, had demurred at the idea of seeing Bobo, and driven away almost before I’d managed to get both feet and one wheel onto the sidewalk.
“A cab. Very nice, the owner of Midland Cyclery telling me to take a cab.” I was sure he’d find what I needed. Bobo was annoyed because his solution to every problem I’ve ever brought into his place is that I should upgrade to a four-thousand-dollar bicycle. Bobo is among those who believe that I made millions off of Hollywood and am being obstinate about spending my fortune.
He scanned a rack of wheels, then turned and walked to the other side of the room to scan another. “So what’s with this guy who croaked at your place?” he asked in his usual delicate tone. “I hear you can’t trust the popcorn.”
“You can trust the popcorn,” I bristled. “Whoever did it brought the poison with them. Come on, Bobo, move it. It’s already one o’clock, and I’ve got to get the place ready to open by seven.”
“You come in here asking a favor and now it’s ‘move it, Bobo’? Why don’t you go out to Sports Authority or Sears and ask them to move it with the wheel on this twenty-year-old bike?” Bobo’s glasses, hung on a chain around his neck, were making a clicking sound as he moved from rack to rack.
“Because they wouldn’t have it,” I recited.
“You’re damn right they wouldn’t have it,” he agreed, then looked at the rack and checked a stock number. “Ah! Here we go!”
He pulled out a wheel, tire already on, and beckoned to me. “Give me the frame,” Bobo said. I handed it over, and he carefully maneuvered the wheel into the fork and locked it in. “Perfect. Am I good or am I good?”
“It’s a bicycle wheel, Bobo. You didn’t cure erectile dysfunction.”
He waved a large hand. “Been done,” he said.
Once again mobile, my next stop was 91 Guilden Street, where Anthony shared an apartment with three other Rutgers students. It was
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