PROBLEMATIC

Chapter 7

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I love my Grandma Mazur. She and Grandpa Harry helped me cope with so much crap while growing up, protecting me from my mother's evil ways, the harsh words, the constant criticism and her nastiness. When Grandpa died, Grandma Mazur, moved in with Mum and Dad.

By that time, I was already working and living in a small apartment, number 215, in an old brownstone building at St James and Dunworth, just on the edge of Trenton. You could say it was on a line between Trenton proper and Trenton improper. I chose it because it was cheap, well, it was all I could afford, and, more importantly, it was out of the Burg. The apartment building was an ugly red brick, built before central air and thermal pane windows. There were eighteen apartments distributed between three floors, mostly with elderly tenants. My bathroom was the original hideous orange and brown, and the original refrigerator was avocado green. The bathroom was so very sixties trendy and groovy, so loud in such a small space. Remarkably, with all the mishaps and destruction of my apartment, that woeful bathroom survived! I had the rusty, rickety fire escape right outside my bedroom window, which was nice to sit outside sometimes, pretending it was a balcony.

The thought of having to move in with my parents when I had just about used up my last funds was not high on my list. Each time my apartment was firebombed or destroyed in some way, the morning bathroom fiasco with Dad and Grandma, loomed like an ominous apparition, warning me to stay away. I imagined having to share that one bathroom with four people, Grandma and Daddy fighting over who gets in the bathroom first every morning. Yep. That bathroom fiasco was enough to keep me away. My mother's incessant nagging about clocks ticking and finding an eligible bachelor was another, along with her lectures, which always had a side serving of guilt and criticism. Mostly it was harping on about marrying Morelli, she and his mother, Angie, wanting a Plum-Morelli wedding. Nope. Apparently, it was already foreseen and ordained. NOPE! That's a hard no!

Grandma was a closet free spirit for the first 75 years of her life. Then she kicked open the door when Grandpa died, and nobody has been able to get her back in. Grandma loves to gossip. She lived vicariously through my BEA ventures, both the good and the bad. Of course, my mother always focused on the bad, those much publicised episodes, always more concerned about the opinion of the neighbours, AKA, her community standing. I didn't give a shit about what they thought.

But, I noticed that Grandma changed dramatically when I became a bond enforcement agent, although she preferred the bounty hunter moniker. Dog the Bounty Hunter was apparently one of her favourite shows. Who knew? There was that occasion at dinner, when she shot the roast chicken in the gumpy! My gun was not loaded, but somehow in the brief time she held it, she found bullets and loaded it, aimed at the chicken and shot it. I couldn't believe how fast she had done that. Bernie Kuntz, the appliance man, was the eligible bachelor for dinner that time. He made a fast exit, but waited until after dessert.

My gun usually resides safely on my kitchen bench, in a cookie jar. To be honest, I hate guns. As a rule, I don't carry bullets, since they cost money. Ranger often supplied them, reminding me to carry my gun, as a backup, and protection. I had my pepper spray, and my stun gun. I just had to remember to keep it charged. Those were the early days. I have progressed much further, and better since then.

My share of the bond after I captured a skip was a measly ten percent, which made it hard to make ends meet, like paying my rent, get petrol, pay utilities, buy Rex food and have some staples in my fridge, like peanut butter and olives, pop tarts, frozen mac 'n cheese, and, my best friends, Ben and Jerry, or Häagen-Dazs . I had my priorities.

Ten percent of one thousand dollars, is just one hundred dollars. Ten percent of five hundred dollars, was just fifty measly dollars. Some of those low bond skips were tricky and hard work. Sometimes I got lucky with a higher bond, but in those early days, it was a struggle, so mooching meals from my Mum was a pull-up-your-big-girl-panties type of necessity. However, going home with a bag of left overs, and extra dessert helped in enduring the nagging. I was prepared to compromise. It was when she started drinking her "iced tea" that she got worse, which coincided with when Grandma started to create distractions. My father would mutter under his breath, "Crazy old bat". But she knew exactly what she was doing.

In those days, Morelli and I were in a relationship, an on-and-off type of relationship, more off than on. When my apartment was firebombed, I stayed with him, just a temporary measure. It was better than the alternative… moving in with my parents. But, we never worked out. Looking back, I can easily recognise the red flags.

After all that had happened, I asked myself while looking in the mirror, pointing with my toothbrush, "Why are we in a relationship? How did I get myself involved with Morelli after all that he had done to me? Am I that stupid? Or was he that charming?"

Stupid. Yes. Coerced by my Mother. I was nearly thirty years old then and I was still trying to please her. Yes, he could be charming, especially when he wanted sex. Uncannily, it was Grandma who pointed them out, the red flags. With age comes wisdom.

"Once a Morelli, always a Morelli, I say. Helen used to warn you, "Stay away from those Morelli boys." Now she wants you to marry the horse's patoot! That is so wrong in so many ways. I worry about your future with him, Stephanie. Why has he not settled down with any other Burg girl? You need to fly. He wants to clip your wings and ground you. He wants to own you. You are just a trophy to him, especially now that Ranger is also in the picture, he has become possessive. You deserve to be loved, not owned. You are not a possession. Remember that Baby Granddaughter."

She was right. I just didn't see it. Maybe I didn't want to see it. Being alone was the other option. But there was always that other option, scary, yet tantalising and mysterious.

Morelli and I were not meant to be, despite both our mothers pushing incessantly for a Plum-Morelli wedding. From the ordained, to the prophecy, I fought that to the end. Living that ordained Burg life was not for me.

I no longer trusted Morelli. It wasn't just the lies, but the cheating, just like Dickie. Worst of all, he became more belligerent, especially when he had a few beers. This belligerence was evidenced when he ramped up his Cupcake Rant. But, regardless, he and 'his boys' kept coming back. He said he was "prepared to give me a go, and overlook past indiscretions." Really? Pfft. Hard no. I was expected to make so many changes about my life, my work and my friends. Rangeman, and Ranger especially, were to be excluded from my life. That left me with no choices. Was he prepared to make any changes? No. The issues were about my compliance and fitting the plan, his plan, the image, the Burg mould. I escaped that and dodged a bullet.

One of Grandma's favourite, yet macabre, pastimes was going to the funeral parlour for viewings. Her friends would meet there for the cookies with hopes for an open coffin, Grandma especially. Not all the deceased were known to her. As I said, it was rather a macabre pastime, paying respects to the deceased and their family, on behalf of the community, so to speak.

She was a menace, my Grandma. My mother eagerly gave me Grandma duty, and it was my responsibility to intervene in any of her shenanigans. The worst thing about that? If the coffin was sealed, she found ways to open the coffin to inspect the deceased! Just to check, you know. Was he going to be buried with his toupee? What about the scar and that mole? Were they disguised with the makeup? What about the gunshot wound to the face? Was that remade, like a complete makeover, or what? Oh my God. She even brought tools! Lids were ripped open with screwdrivers, scissors, a chisel, or other tools. Coffins tumbled or collapsed, much to the distress and trauma of family members. She was a piece of work. With one of the open coffins, Grandma Mazur touched Mr Mackey's finger, and it came off. Confirmation! This was all part of her need to have inside information, especially gossip to share with the old ladies at the Clip 'n Curl.

There was the fire at Stiva's funeral parlour, where she had been shoved into a body drawer in the mortuary. She shot and missed Kenny Mancuso when Stiva opened the drawer. However, the stray bullet hit one of the stacked coffins in the mortuary, which happened to contain the stolen weapons I was investigating. That's how the fire started, and lots of explosions from the ammunition. Luckily, we escaped that. Too close. Solving that mystery nearly cost both our lives. Like me, Grandma is very resilient.

At other times, in an effort to get the scoop, she would enhance the limited information to be competitive with the other old biddies. It was all about sensationalism. Just like the newspapers. Here dentures would dance around her mouth in excitement. That's when I put her on notice. No, Grandma. I did not go around shooting people! No, I did not break down doors like Dog, nor did I wear all that black leather and chains. No, I will not get some tattoos to look more badass. She was giving me heart palpitations.

"No more lies. No adding extra. It's bad enough with Mum gossiping on the Burg grapevine all the time. Add to that the Trenton Times with their crap reporting. Enough! Don't get me started on Morelli with his crap!"

Grandma finally agreed. Part of the deal was no touching Ranger, he was off limits, and his men, with her bony fingers. His package impressed her. Oh Grandma.

That photographer gets me every time. Damnit. That reporter at the Trenton Times and the photographer together made my life a misery with those Bombshell Bounty Hunter front page photos after a car bombing, or other purported disaster. They deliberately chose compromising photos which showed me in the worst possible light, looking dishevelled, dirty, or hair singed with a sooty face. The photo captured the scene behind me to add more sensationalism to their story. It fed the Burg grapevine. The reports were not in my favour, always focusing on the negative aspects. News sells, even bad news. Too bad that I was not the cause. Like the time one of the seniors had a fire upstairs from my apartment. I spent the evening knocking on doors and rescuing them to evacuate the building. Yes, I looked a sooty mess. It wasn't my fault. But the report was a sharp contrast to my heroics, which went unreported. Assholes.

The time Valerie and Albert came to dinner, when Joe arrived much to my mother's delight, was a classic example of Grandma's ability to distract. Of course, Mum had planned Morelli's arrival. Conniving, my mother was. Devious. Manipulating. Dinner conversation ran along the dangers in my profession. That was my mother's lead, a deliberate ploy to direct negative attention on my work role. My dangerous job. It was their "I needed to settle down routine."

But Grandma was more interested in whether I was "packing heat". Grandma was up with all the crime lingo from watching TV shows. Earlier that day, Lula and I had been having lunch, when a man got shot, just a metre away from me. It was nothing to do with me or in any way part of my BEA role. It was just lunch and I was asking Howie for some information about Samuel Singh. Suddenly, pop pop, and he collapsed, a bullet hole in his forehead. Dead. Right in front of me!

"I've got to get the facts straight on the shooting. You aren't giving me a lot to work with here."

She had always wanted the inside scoop whether it was for the viewing after dinner, or for her Clip 'n Curl appointment. Gossip was currency. It was all about one-upmanship. Those old ladies had loose lips which was always dangerous. I gave her a warning glare. I thought she had forgotten my ultimatum. But this was all part of her diversion.

However, it appears that Grandma has no filter. Sometimes intel would spill from her lips so randomly, it was uncanny. There was nothing wrong with her memory, even in her mid-seventies. People assume that with age the brain cells weaken. Not with my Grandma, they are sharper than ever.

This episode was so deliberate, since she played off Helen's lead and twisted it deftly back on Morelli. Priceless. Add in Albert's inquisitive and probing questions and Grandma Mazur held court. Sneaky and shrewd my Grandma.

At the dinner in question, Morelli had responded to Albert Kloughn's curiosity about being close to the action with shootings. He denied that by answering, "I'm plain clothes, I investigate. The only time when my life is in danger is when I'm with Stephanie."

Yeah, nice one Morelli. Thanks a lot. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Unexpectedly, coming completely from out of left field, looking directly at Morelli, Grandma asked, "What about last week? I heard from Loretta Beeber, that you were almost killed in some big shoot-out. Loretta said you had to jump out of Terry Gilman's second storey bedroom window."

Seriously? Bedroom window?! Terry's bedroom window? If I wasn't so angry I would have laughed at him dodging Albert's probing questions about whether he had his clothes on, or his shoes even? Without batting an eye, Grandma nailed him with another clincher, a real wild one, the finishing stroke. Way to go Grandma. At the time I was just maintaining self-control.

"I heard Terry didn't hardly have anything on. Loretta's sister lives right across from Terry Gilman and she said she saw the whole thing, and Terry was wearing a flimsy little nightie. Loretta said even from across the street you could see right through the nightie, and she thinks Terry's boobs were perfect."

Grandma had a knack for things like that. Flimsy. Right. Her eyes had that intense Hungarian glare, daring him to deny it. My mother tried to explain but Daddy slammed his knife on the table and glared at her to shut up. He looked expectantly at Morelli. Seriously? My mother was about to defend Morelli?

I had heard enough. Disgusted and angry, I went home, after grabbing a large chunk of dessert, chocolate cake, filled with raging emotions of denial, jealousy and insecurity. Indignation was in the mix too.

However, I ended up shot with a tranquiliser dart, in my parking lot. A dog dart! It was quite an eventful evening that went to shit very quickly. That entire day was just unbelievable, it went from bad to worse and then worst. It's all water under the bridge now.

Terry Gilman. Yes. Another problematic issue. She was a Grizolli by birth, married later, until she divorced, only resuming her maiden name, sometimes, when it suited her. I know Joe and Terry dated for a while all through high school. Now, being a cop, and Terry a mob princess, made it a rather unethical relationship for them. No matter, she was still one of his side pieces, apparently. She was a cool blonde with direct ties to the Mob and that ongoing relationship with Morelli didn't faze her. I know they hooked up regularly. Like I said, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Morelli swore their association was professional and I stupidly, naïvely, believed him. He can be very convincing.

"We both work in vice," was his reply.

Probably at opposite ends of the bedroom, er, spectrum. I couldn't help but feel jealous of her.

Somehow, I always felt a certain degree of inadequacy in her presence. When she spoke to me, rarely as it was, she was all glossy lipstick and carnivorous, perfect white teeth. She was always immaculately dressed, like that expensive grey silk suit with the matching jacket and shoes she wore to the funeral parlour. Her manicure was to die for. I had to give it to her, she always looked classy, an expensive classy package. But, I know that was a front, a clever diversion, a foil for her undisclosed duties.

Vito was a family man, or maybe that was meant more as Family, who ran a dry-cleaning business that laundered a lot more than dirty clothes. Terry Gilman was rumoured to work for her Uncle Vito Grizolli. According to Connie, Terry had started out in collections and was moving up the corporate ladder.

So, the next time I saw her, I asked her what work she did for Uncle Vito.

"Customer relations," she confirmed nonchalantly, when I was with Grandma at the viewing of Martha Deeter.

"Did you know Martha?" Terry asked me. We were being civil, while everyone nearby watched, with bated breath.

"No," I replied, "Grandma likes to come to pay her respects."

When I asked if she knew Martha, she coolly replied, "Business associates."

Yes. Hm, business associates. I nodded, without saying anything. I always did wonder about her. Martha and Larry died of gunshot wounds, just a day apart. Coincidence?

"I need to be moving on," she remarked offhandedly as Morelli approached. Their eyes had an entire conversation, but they seemed outwardly discreet. I pondered that "moving on" comment for a moment… Terry was probably off to whack someone's grandmother.

But of course, she was only a problematic thorn in my side while I was with Morelli. On the surface, it seemed all so very appropriate, with Terry supposedly acting as the go between, or liaison person, for the Grizolli Family with the police, via Morelli as their liaison officer. Hm. Liaison. A professional liaison? Yeah. Go figure. Like the time I went to visit him in the evening, and there he was hopping out of her car, as she dropped him off at his house. I saw red. But then again, at that particular time, I was driving Ranger's Porsche.

Once I removed myself from the idea that I "loved" Morelli, I could see we never were meant to be. I liked him and probably, sort of loved him, but I wasn't in love with him. That's probably why I had trouble uttering the L word to him. Love. Did I love him? It was convenient, we had history, a mixed history, driven and encouraged by our mothers. We were more like friends with benefits.

Therein lies the problem. I was confused. I just couldn't see how problematic my life had become. I couldn't make up my mind. Somehow, I enabled them to manipulate me – Morelli, my mother, the Burg. At certain times I was more vulnerable but also, they wore me down. Relentlessly. Morelli and my mother worked like a tag team, maligning and gaslighting me.

But he had other friends with benefits as well. It was obvious that Morelli was never going to settle down, otherwise he would have done so. Neither of us was able to commit completely. When we realised that, it was easy. With that, Terry Gilman was no longer an issue.

Not that I was totally exclusive with Morelli. Rumours, as rumours are, really did indicate that he was seen with Terry, or Joyce, or a string of other side pieces. I flirted with Ranger, with hot kisses in the alley outside the Bonds Office, and our one magical night of making love. Amazing. The Deal. It was so different, it was more than sex. He was the wizard. Was I being a hypocrite? If I have to be honest, yes, to some degree. But I never strayed while Morelli and I were during one of our On phases. Oh. Except that one time. Vordo. Ranger was that tantalising, alluring forbidden fruit, and I really wanted more of that, the dark side. He was sexy, dangerous and seductive and so very tempting.

In the meantime, that disastrous engaged-to-be-engaged saga was when I was hit by a reality check. It was a long overdue epiphany. There was no ring, but Morelli did buy a pool table, for his mates to come over, which they did immediately. Yes. I did an immediate about face and quickly packed up and moved out. Mooch and Anthony barely gave me a look when I arrived, nor did Joe. Meh. I wasn't hanging around.

Nevertheless, like a bad habit, he tried to come over with a six pack and a pizza, saying 'the boys' miss me. Nah. I was so over that routine. He needed to move on, as I did. All the aggravation that came with our alleged relationship fizzled out. He finally got the message. Dating is more than pizza and beer, watching a game, with the potential of some bedroom antics. Nope. I wanted more than that. I deserved more than that.

Morelli had reached his use by date. It was over. Long overdue over.

That on-off relationship was problematic in so many ways. It's easy to see that now.

Finally, I was adulting.

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