New Tricks - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,10
to this. I can’t imagine there is anything about the ingredients or expertise necessary to make New York pizza that would disintegrate if transported across city or state lines. Why doesn’t one of these pizza geniuses set up shop in Teaneck? Or Philadelphia? Or Omaha? They would throw parades for him; he would be presented with ceremonial keys to those city’s ovens and hailed as an unchallenged genius.
Instead they fight among themselves for a small “slice” of the pizza market, and the rest of the country is left to munch on pizza that comparatively tastes like cardboard soap.
Steven takes me to Sal and Tony’s Pizzeria, on Broadway and 101st Street. Either Sal, or Tony, or both, are truly artists, the pizza is beyond extraordinary. They serve the slices on those cheap, thin, paper plates that cannot even support the weight of the slice, but that’s okay. They clearly are investing their money in the proper place, in the pizza.
Steven starts telling me about Waggy, though he admits he doesn’t know very much. Waggy is the only son of Bertrand, a Westminster champion who was widely regarded as the finest show dog this country has ever produced. Bertrand died suddenly in his sleep about a year ago, an event that sent the dog show world into mourning.
“What about his mother?” I ask.
“Another dog in my father’s stable. I think she did some shows for a while, but Bertrand was the star of the family. Apparently they all hoped that Waggy would follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“They?” I ask. “Not you?”
He grins. “Personally, I don’t give a shit. I think a dog should be a dog, not a performer. Waggy should have fun.”
“He would have fun living with you?”
He nods, perhaps a little wistfully. “I think so. I know a lot about fun, or at least I used to.”
“Not anymore?” I’m finding myself liking him, much as Vince had predicted.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know… it’s all tied in to my father… I’d rather not go there. Self-psychoanalysis isn’t a requirement to take care of Waggy, is it?”
“Have the police talked to you about the murders?”
“Twice, including this morning. I think they’re floundering, because the guy in jail couldn’t have blown up the house. Maybe they think I did it.”
“Does that worry you?”
He shakes his head. “No, I just figure the truth will win out. That’s more your field; isn’t that the way it works?”
“In theory,” I say. “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”
“Blowing up the house? Or killing my father?”
“Let’s start with your father.”
He shrugs. “I assume the guy they arrested. But I can tell you one thing for sure. My father didn’t go to downtown Paterson looking for drugs or a hooker.”
“Those things didn’t appeal to him?” I ask.
“It wouldn’t matter if they did, he could have made any drug he wanted in his lab, and he would have had the hookers come to him. It would never have been my father’s style to do what they say he did; he would never put himself in a situation he couldn’t completely control.”
Steven gets up to get us another couple of slices, and I use the time to check my phone messages at home. There are two. The first is from Laurie, giving me her flight information for her trip here. No matter what the next message is, it can’t be as good as that one.
It isn’t. It’s from Pete Stanton, telling me that he’s done some checking into the Timmerman murders, and he’s learned that Billy Cameron’s client has been released, and that Steven is going to be arrested. “The kid lives in the city,” Pete says. “They’ll probably take him down there. Looks like you’ve got yourself a second dog.”
While waiting for Steven to come back to the table, I find myself with a dilemma. He clearly has no idea what is about to hit him, and will be unprepared for it. Besides the emotional jolt, he will not have time to take care of any matters he might want to before going into custody.
I would not be breaking any confidences by telling him about the impending arrest. Pete attached no such restrictions on it, and in any event I wouldn’t mention Pete. My instincts tell me that Steven was not involved in the murders, but my instincts have been known to be wrong on many occasions. For example, I’m positive the Knicks will win the NBA title every year.
On the other hand, I could conceivably be