Read Online One for the Money by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online
Authors: Janet Evanovich
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bullets. “It's empty,” I said. “There are no bullets in it.”
Grandma Mazur had both hands wrapped around the gun with her finger on the trigger. She scrinched an eye closed and sighted on the china closet. “Ka-pow,” she said. “Ka-pow, kapow, ka-pow.”
My father was busy with the sausage dressing, studiously ignoring all of us.
“I don't like guns at the table,” my mother said. “And the dinner's getting cold. I'll have to reheat the gravy.”
“This gun won't do you no good if you don't have bullets in it,” Grandma Mazur said to me. “How're you gonna catch those killers without bullets in your gun?”
Bernie had been sitting open-mouthed through all of this. “Killers?”
“She's after Joe Morelli,” Grandma Mazur told him. “He's a bona fide killer and a bail dodger. He plugged Ziggy Kulesza right in the head.”
“I knew Ziggy Kulesza,” Bernie said. “I sold him a bigscreen TV about a year ago. We don't sell many big screens. Too expensive.”
“He buy anything else from you?” I asked. “Anything recent?”
“Nope. But I'd see him sometimes across the street at Sal's Butcher Shop. Ziggy seemed okay. Just a regular sort of person, you know?”
No one had been paying attention to Grandma Mazur. She was still playing with the gun, aiming and sighting, getting used to the heft of it. I realized there was a box of ammo beside the tampons. A scary thought skittered into my mind. “Grandma, you didn't load the gun, did you?”
“Well of course I loaded the gun,” she said. “And I left the one hole empty like I saw on television. That way you can't shoot nothing by mistake.” She cocked the gun to demonstrate the safety of her action. There was a loud bang, a flash erupted from the gun barrel, and the chicken carcass jumped on its plate.
“Holy mother of God!” my mother shrieked, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair over.
“Dang,” Grandma said, “guess I left the wrong hole empty.” She leaned forward to examine her handiwork. “Not bad for my first time with a gun. I shot that sucker right in the gumpy”
My father had a white-knuckle grip on his fork, and his face was cranberry red.
I scurried around the table and carefully took the gun from Grandma Mazur. I shook out the bullets and shoveled all my stuff back into my shoulder bag.
“Look at that broken plate,” my mother said. “It was part of the set. How will I ever replace it?” She moved the plate, and we all stared in silence at the neat round hole in the tablecloth and the bullet embedded in the mahogany table.
Grandma Mazur was the first to speak. “That shooting gave me an appetite,” she said. “Somebody pass me the potatoes.”
* * * * *
ALL IN ALL, Bernie Kuntz had handled the evening pretty well. He hadn't wet his pants when Grandma Mazur shot off the chicken privates. He'd suffered through two helpings of my mother's dreaded brussels sprouts casserole. And he'd been tolerably nice to me, even though it was obvious we weren't destined to hit the sheets together and my family was nuts. His motives for geniality were clear. I was a woman lacking appliances. Romance is good for frittering away a few evening hours, but commissions will get you a vacation in Hawaii. Ours was a match made in heaven. He wanted to sell, and I wanted to buy, and I wasn't unhappy to accept his offer of a 10 percent discount. And, as a bonus for sitting through the evening, I'd learned something about Ziggy Kulesza. He bought his meat from Sal Bocha, a man better known for making book than slicing fillet.
I tucked this information away for future reference. It didn't seem significant now, but who knows what would turn out to be helpful.
I was at my table with a glass of iced tea and Morelli's file, and I was trying to put together a plan of action. I'd made a bowl of popcorn for Rex. The bowl was on the table by me, and Rex was in the bowl, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn, his eyes bright, his whiskers a
Grandma Mazur had both hands wrapped around the gun with her finger on the trigger. She scrinched an eye closed and sighted on the china closet. “Ka-pow,” she said. “Ka-pow, kapow, ka-pow.”
My father was busy with the sausage dressing, studiously ignoring all of us.
“I don't like guns at the table,” my mother said. “And the dinner's getting cold. I'll have to reheat the gravy.”
“This gun won't do you no good if you don't have bullets in it,” Grandma Mazur said to me. “How're you gonna catch those killers without bullets in your gun?”
Bernie had been sitting open-mouthed through all of this. “Killers?”
“She's after Joe Morelli,” Grandma Mazur told him. “He's a bona fide killer and a bail dodger. He plugged Ziggy Kulesza right in the head.”
“I knew Ziggy Kulesza,” Bernie said. “I sold him a bigscreen TV about a year ago. We don't sell many big screens. Too expensive.”
“He buy anything else from you?” I asked. “Anything recent?”
“Nope. But I'd see him sometimes across the street at Sal's Butcher Shop. Ziggy seemed okay. Just a regular sort of person, you know?”
No one had been paying attention to Grandma Mazur. She was still playing with the gun, aiming and sighting, getting used to the heft of it. I realized there was a box of ammo beside the tampons. A scary thought skittered into my mind. “Grandma, you didn't load the gun, did you?”
“Well of course I loaded the gun,” she said. “And I left the one hole empty like I saw on television. That way you can't shoot nothing by mistake.” She cocked the gun to demonstrate the safety of her action. There was a loud bang, a flash erupted from the gun barrel, and the chicken carcass jumped on its plate.
“Holy mother of God!” my mother shrieked, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair over.
“Dang,” Grandma said, “guess I left the wrong hole empty.” She leaned forward to examine her handiwork. “Not bad for my first time with a gun. I shot that sucker right in the gumpy”
My father had a white-knuckle grip on his fork, and his face was cranberry red.
I scurried around the table and carefully took the gun from Grandma Mazur. I shook out the bullets and shoveled all my stuff back into my shoulder bag.
“Look at that broken plate,” my mother said. “It was part of the set. How will I ever replace it?” She moved the plate, and we all stared in silence at the neat round hole in the tablecloth and the bullet embedded in the mahogany table.
Grandma Mazur was the first to speak. “That shooting gave me an appetite,” she said. “Somebody pass me the potatoes.”
* * * * *
ALL IN ALL, Bernie Kuntz had handled the evening pretty well. He hadn't wet his pants when Grandma Mazur shot off the chicken privates. He'd suffered through two helpings of my mother's dreaded brussels sprouts casserole. And he'd been tolerably nice to me, even though it was obvious we weren't destined to hit the sheets together and my family was nuts. His motives for geniality were clear. I was a woman lacking appliances. Romance is good for frittering away a few evening hours, but commissions will get you a vacation in Hawaii. Ours was a match made in heaven. He wanted to sell, and I wanted to buy, and I wasn't unhappy to accept his offer of a 10 percent discount. And, as a bonus for sitting through the evening, I'd learned something about Ziggy Kulesza. He bought his meat from Sal Bocha, a man better known for making book than slicing fillet.
I tucked this information away for future reference. It didn't seem significant now, but who knows what would turn out to be helpful.
I was at my table with a glass of iced tea and Morelli's file, and I was trying to put together a plan of action. I'd made a bowl of popcorn for Rex. The bowl was on the table by me, and Rex was in the bowl, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn, his eyes bright, his whiskers a
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