For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,62

can tell you,” Chris said. “Vinnie said Ethan called him an asshole, and tried to pull out some of Vinnie’s hair.”

“That sounds like Ethan,” I told her, “except the ‘asshole’ part. Why didn’t you call me when this happened?”

Chris blushed just a bit. She had a round face, and looking at it was like looking at one of the Campbell’s soup twins. But in a nice way.

“Tell the truth, I was afraid to. I thought maybe you were an ass-hole, too.”

We both laughed over that one, and I took a bite of the brownie in front of me. Dammit, it was really good. Of course, a bad brownie is like a bad orgasm—still better than a normal day of existence.

“Well, now that I’m here, I’ll tell you that Ethan will be warned against doing anything like that again. But my question stands: do you think Vinnie held enough of a grudge against Ethan to write that on the sidewalk?”

She frowned, and seemed to be thinking deeply. “No. No, I really don’t. It’d be more Vinnie’s style to beat Ethan up in the schoolyard or yell. . . that. . . to his face. He wouldn’t go to the trouble of stealing barbecue sauce and writing it on the sidewalk. For one thing, he’d want to see Ethan’s face when he found it.”

I finished the brownie, considered asking for another, and decided I’d best flee this place as quickly as possible. I thanked Chris for her candor, and for the brownie. As she walked me to the door, she shook her head and chuckled.

“You know, it sounds like we have two sons who act out in the same inappropriate ways,” she said.

“Yeah. It’s a wonder they don’t get along better.” I said my good-byes and left.

Outside, it was cool, but with a whiff of spring in the air. I stepped out of the house and stood on the sidewalk a moment, appreciating the breeze.

I’d still need to change my shirt before the next parent, though. This one was soaked clean through.

Chapter 11

Let’s just say that the next interview didn’t go as well. For one thing, David Meckeroff, the father of the boy in question, had no brownies on hand. And if he had, he probably wouldn’t have offered them to the likes of me.

What he did suggest, in no uncertain terms, was that I had a son who was “a menace” to the school, and who should never have been included in a “normal” class. Apparently, Ethan even went so far as to suggest that Meckeroff’s son, Warren (you think I make these names up, don’t you?), was, and I’m quoting now, “a moron.”

There were about fourteen photographs of Warren, all in the same pose, on a table in Meckeroff’s living room. I recognized the envelope they were sitting on. It was from the school’s photographer. Meckeroff had actually been cutting the one large sheet into individual photographs. Not that this is so unusual, but he was cutting up the tiniest photographs—the ones that come about thirty-two to an 8"x10" sheet and that nobody ever uses.

Warren Meckeroff’s school picture looked like that of, well, a moron. He had the most vacant eyes imaginable in a living person, and had a haircut that was reminiscent of that intellectual giant, Alfalfa Switzer. That can be cute when you’re six, but doesn’t work nearly so well when you’re twelve.

Come to think of it, his father looked roughly the same, but he was at least thirty-eight. And considerably rounder. Still, the biceps bulging in his T-shirt were impressive enough for me not to argue the point too strenuously with him. Clearly, his son was incapable of writing such a vile thing with something intended for human consumption.

I would have gotten into a heated argument with the man, but it was obviously fruitless to try. And there were those biceps to consider. Besides, I wanted to get out the door as quickly as possible with the photograph of Warren that I’d palmed while listening to his father’s lecture.

My next stop was back at Big Bob’s, where once again the proprietor was the only human present. This place was clearly a front for the mob, or it would be out of business by the end of the week.

Bob took one look and started laughing when I walked in. If my screenplays were as funny as my face, I’d be a wealthy man today.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said. “What is it this time, pal? You got a