The Widow DiMonte 
John Froonjian

John Froonjian has been a reporter with The Press of
Atlantic City for 21 years and is still not a cynic. He
lives in Audubon, N.J. with his wife and three children.
This is his first mystery story. E-mail him at
froonj@ix.netcom.com.
©Copyright 2001
John Froonjian

Tessie heard sneakers slapping the sidewalk, and prepared to be
jumped. She clutched her purse and hunched toward the Paterson
shoe factory where she worked. Too late. The bastard was on her.
The wiry kid took hold of Tessie’s purse. “Give it up, Grandma!”
In her day, Tessie threw shitheads like this out of her husband’s
bar, Knuckles’ Joint. Years of lifting beer cases gave her a solid
build, even at 64. She belted the kid’s ear. When he recoiled, Tessie
dug into her purse. She found her 22-caliber Derringer and tried to
poke her stubby finger through the trigger guard. Damn little pussy
pistol! She had said that to Vincent on the day he gave it to her. The
attacker karate-chopped Tessie’s wrist. The purse fell, spewing
money, cigarettes, a compact and the gun onto the sidewalk.
“Fuck you,” the woman said.
The kid swung his fist into her side. Tessie’s knees buckled. She
absorbed a knee to the ribs and fell. The assailant picked up the
pistol. The dollar bills weren’t worth his effort. He jabbed his foot
into Tessie’s face and ran.
Her cheek swelled. She forced herself up on all fours. Pain
wracked her right side. She collected the bills, then the smokes,
dropping them loose into her purse. She picked up any quarters she
saw, but her vision got fuzzy this close, and she wouldn’t wear
glasses. She strangled a cry in her throat. This could never happen if
Jimmy “The Knuckles” DiMonte were alive. Jimmy’s fat partner Ray
wouldn’t have the bar. Tessie wouldn’t need this crappy job in this
crappy neighborhood dealing with crappy people.
It was seven years since her husband was murdered.
Tessie was kept for observation at Mercy Hospital. Nothing was
broken or bleeding inside. She had to miss work, though. At noon,
a nun pushed her in a wheelchair to the exit and said, “You take
care of yourself.”
“Sister, that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Tessie said.
She waited curbside until a New Jersey Transit bus pulled up. She
squinted to read the destination. “You’re going to Wayne, right?” The
bus left the city and traveled up Route 46 past strip malls and car
dealers. Tessie got off at a supermarket, then took a taxi up a
wooded, hilly lane to a farmhouse set back from the road. She
trudged to the veranda, grunting, and rang the bell.
A scrawny woman appeared at the door. “Tess,” she said through
the screen, her voice as hollow as her eyes.
“Vincent around?” Tessie asked.
The woman left without a word. Tessie fished a cigarette from her
purse. She expelled bursts of smoke in the September air as she
paced. Eventually a man wearing an Army jacket and tinted glasses
came outside. His ponytail was streaked with gray.
“Mom! What are you doing here? Hey, you look like hell.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Tessie said as she entered the house. It
smelled like pot.
“Nice, what you teach the little ones,” Tessie said.
“Right. I should be like my perfect parents,” Vincent said. “They
only dealt in booze and bets.”
“Your father never brought his business home! Ah-h.” Tessie
waved at the air. “Come on. We’re going downstairs.”
“What for? Hey, put that cigarette out first. Jeez, you didn’t lose
the Derringer, did you?”
Vincent followed his mother into his basement. “You’re really too
much,” he complained.
“The way it’s going, you’ll be rid of me soon,” Tessie said.
She walked cautiously through the darkness to a cinder-block
room jutting from a corner. A sign on a door read: “Caution. Farm
Chemicals.” “Call off the booby traps and open up,” Tessie said.
Vincent shook his head, but he flipped switches on an electrical
box, then pulled a key from a breast pocket. Light poured from the
room as he opened the door. Inside, a row of heavy lockers lined
one wall. A dozen guns of varying sizes and calibers lay on a
wooden table. Unmarked crates were stacked around the room.
“Those on the table are sold,” Vincent said. He opened the
lockers, revealing Saturday Night Specials, rifles, semi-automatics
and large-caliber pistols. “You can’t have anything that brings good
money or anything too big to fit in your purse.”
“I ain’t looking to be subtle,” Tessie said. She perused the guns,
removing a few to test their feel. She held them in the shooting
stance she learned from her husband. Tessie peered into an open crate. “What do we have here?” She
picked up a hand grenade. There were a dozen in the crate.
Vincent laughed. “My collector’s items. From Grenada. Wasn’t
much to blow up there except land crabs. But careful. They’re not
toys. One could wipe us out in four seconds.”
Tessie held out the armament and admired it. “Perfect.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m gonna keep it.”
“Don’t be crazy, Mom. You don’t need that.”
“Don’t tell me what the hell I need,” Tessie said in a low hiss.
“What I need, it’s too late for.”
Vincent stared at the ceiling.
“What I needed was someone to set things right after that fat
bastard shot your father. Shot him right through his eyeglasses. Then
he took the bar away with that bullshit paperwork ...” Tessie willed
back tears.
“Ray had an alibi.”
“He wanted the numbers business for himself,” Tessie said. “No
one would have argued a son avenging his father. I could’ve run the
bar. You would be counting the money in that little office out back
every afternoon instead of that monster.”
“I guess I wasn’t cut out for the family business,” Vincent said.
“I’m taking this,” Tessie said, brandishing the grenade. “I know
how they work. I seen it on TV.”
“Bullshit.” Vincent moved toward her.
“I hold the safety like this, and I pull the pin,” Tessie said.
She pulled the pin.
Vincent froze. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” He put up his arms as if to
shield a blast. “Don’t move, Mom. Don’t let go.” He tiptoed to her
and gripped the hand holding the grenade. He took her other hand
and tried guiding the pin back into the safety lock. His hand shook,
so he stopped.
Vincent tried again. He managed to replace the pin.
Tessie yanked the grenade away. Vincent sunk to a crouch and
started quivering. “Crazy bitch,” he whimpered. “Go. Go!”
She put the grenade in her purse. “Thanks.” She started out.
“Hey! You’re won’t let on where you got that.”
Tessie glared at him. “The wife of Knuckles DiMonte doesn’t
snitch. Especially on family,” she said, then added: “Such as it is.”
Tessie waited, impatient, a quart of milk and box of rigatoni on
the counter at the Costa Grocery. Costa, the pencil-necked baldy,
flitted around a young blonde while she agonized over lipstick
shades. Tessie thought of leaving, but she needed cigarettes.
“Hey,” she called, “you have an actual paying customer here.”
Costa smiled at the blonde and rolled his eyes. The smile 
vanished as he slid behind the counter. “That’s all?”
“No. A pack of Salems.”
He punched three items into the register. Costa plucked the
cigarettes off a rack behind him and slapped the pack onto the
counter. “That’s five-thirty-seven.”
“You smashed my cigarettes. I don’t want that pack.”
“I said five-thirty-seven, Toots. Now don’t make trouble.”
“I understand,” Tessie said. “Let me see what I have in my purse.”
She took out a brush, then a wallet. She tipped the purse and her
hand grenade rolled onto the counter.
Costa flung himself back, knocking his head on the cigarette rack.
“Shit! Is that for real?”
Tessie picked up the grenade. She fingered the pin. “I hope this
isn’t any trouble. But here’s what I want, so listen up. My name is
Mrs. DiMonte. Think you can remember that?” Costa nodded. “I
can’t hear you.”
“Yes, Mrs. DiMonte.”
“Next, I want a new pack of cigarettes. And when I come in here,
I don’t want to grow old waiting on you.”
“Yes, Mrs. DiMonte.”
Tessie glanced at the blonde. Her face was ashen.
“Close your mouth, honey,” Tessie said. “Your bubble gum might
fall out.”
“I can’t believe it’s Monday already, and that’s no lie,” Mina said.
“I ain’t ready for work.”
Tessie looked up Broadway. “Should have known the bus would
be late. It’s cold for October,” she said.
“I wanna be back in bed. Tessie, you got an extra smoke?”
A dark man with short, tight hair and a beard approached the
women. He was six feet tall.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m collecting
for the Uptown Ministries, spreading the Word on the street. I’m
sure you ladies want to contribute your fair share, and I think $5
each would satisfy your obligation.”
“Never heard of Uptown Ministries,” Tessie said. “Bug off.”
Mina flinched.
“Maybe you don’t understand,” the man said. “Uptown Ministries
is working hard to keep the streets safe. Nothing bad happens if
people contribute. But those who don’t see the light, sometimes an
act of God occurs. And that can be painful.”
Mina reached for her wallet, but Tessie put her hand on Mina’s
arm. “Back away. I don’t want you to get hurt.” Then Tessie said to
the man, “I have something that can bring you very close to God.”
She whipped out her grenade and held the pin.
“What the ...” 
“This is a live grenade. I’m going to set it off. I figure I can throw
this about 50 feet. Can you run that far in four seconds?”
The man stood, dumbfounded.
“If you’d rather stay and fight me, I don’t care.”
Tessie stared up into his face. “I’ll race you to hell.”
He took off, moving surprisingly fast for a big man. Mina ran to
Tessie’s side, her mouth slack and her eyes wide.
“That was amazing. Totally amazing,” Mina said. “I take it all
back. I can’t wait to get to work. I wanna tell everybody.”
It rained the Thursday before Halloween. The bus was crowded
and humid going home from work. Tessie sat in the back across
from a string bean of a teenage boy.
At Rosa Parks Boulevard, a hard young guy with close-cropped
hair boarded. He wore an oversized trash bag with a hole for his
face. He settled onto the rear seat. When the bus moved, the guy
pulled a boom box from beneath the plastic. He punched a button,
and rap filled the bus.
Tessie turned. She thumbed at a sign that said radio playing was
banned. The guy turned up the volume.
Passengers exchanged nervous glances. The string bean looked at
Tessie. He got up and sauntered back. He cupped his hand to the
guy’s ear and spoke. He pointed at Tessie. The guy narrowed his
eyes.
The string bean slowly arched his hands like a mushroom cloud.
The guy returned his gaze to Tessie, his eyes less confident. Tessie
slowly nodded. The guy swore, then he switched the radio off.
When the string bean sat down, Tessie said, “Thanks, kiddo.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. DiMonte,” he said.
Tessie couldn’t afford to drink in a bar often. But she stopped on
paydays at Gorcey’s, a narrow taproom with high stools and red
vinyl booths. Frank, the bartender, noticed Tessie coming in.
“Look who’s here!” Frank shouted.
A smattering of applause broke out. Tessie smiled and held up
her purse. She sat at the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock. After
Frank brought the frosty mug, he pointed out three construction
workers at the far end. “Those gentlemen would like to pay for
your drinks tonight.” Tessie raised her mug in their direction.
The opening strains of “My Way” came up. The jukebox at
Knuckles’ Joint always boasted an extensive selection of Sinatra. The
song evoked pleasant feelings. Tessie sipped her beer, remembering
times long ago: joking with the boys, serving Vincent soda on
Saturday nights, rooting for the Yankees on the color TV above the
bar.
“Hey, Frank. Can I make a phone call? I don’t think it’s long 
distance.”
“No problem,” he said. Frank handed her a cordless phone.
“You’re one customer we don’t want to piss off.”
She dialed Vincent’s number. She couldn’t remember the last time
she called just to talk. The phone rang four times. The computerized
voice of an answering machine came on.
Tessie thought for a moment. She hung up.
On Saturday morning, Tessie sipped coffee and read The
Star-Ledger in the living room of her duplex apartment. The
doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anybody.
She peered through the peephole. The only person she saw was
a middle-aged black woman watching her house from the sidewalk.
Tessie got her pocketbook, then slowly opened the door.
A boy about 8 years old stood on the porch.
“Hello, lady. My name is Michael. Would you like to donate to
Paterson Little League?”
“Little League, huh? You selling raffle tickets or something?”
The boy looked confused and shrugged.
“I don’t get anything? I just give you money for Little League and
that’s it.”
The boy nodded.
“I think I have something for you,” Tessie said. She reached into
her purse and pulled out two singles.
“Here you go, Michael. Hit a home run.”
Tessie didn’t like leaving work early, but the only appointment
available at the optometrist was at 4:30. The office was in a crummy
neighborhood, but she wasn’t worried. The area was familiar; her
husband’s old tavern was nearby. If she were done in an hour, she
would stop at the grocery. Costa was getting good out-of-season
tomatoes and promised to save her some. She looked at Christmas
decorations as the bus traveled Broadway Street.
She got off at her stop and crossed the avenue. Tessie passed two
pawnshops, an empty brick union hall, dark storefronts. She looked
for an office in a house. The day was cloudy, and the light already
turned gray.
Broken glass crunched under Tessie’s feet. Lights glowed in a few
houses one block ahead. She didn’t notice anyone in the alley
between two gloomy buildings. But a curly redhead in a grimy tan
trench coat appeared at her side and took her arm. He looked at
Tessie with saucer eyes and grinned. A front tooth was missing.
“Bug off!” Tessie shouted. She didn’t shake free of his grip.
“Ooh, you’re just my type,” he said.
Tessie hammered her elbow toward his groin. She struck his
abdomen, but he let go. The redhead’s coat flapped apart. His pants 
were open. Tessie wasted no time. She grabbed the grenade and
flung her pocketbook clear.
“It’s a hand grenade, creepo. It’s live and I’ll use it!”
The man circled. “You’re bluffing.”
He moved forward. Tessie retreated, holding the grenade aloft
and grasping the pin. She backed against a boarded-over storefront.
He smiled. “Come on. You don’t want to die. You’ll like it.” He
moved on her.
Tessie screamed. She jerked the pin from the grenade. The
redhead stopped smiling.
“You don’t want to die, do you?” Tessie asked. She had trouble
suppressing the tremor in her voice. But the man drifted back into
the street. He wrapped his coat around him and walked away.
Tessie exhaled slowly.
She took the pin and gently poked it into the top of the grenade.
It didn’t go back in. She held it closer to look for the hole.
Everything just got blurry. She extended her arm back out, but she
couldn’t see a pinhole. She tried poking the pin repeatedly, hoping
to insert it by luck. The pin was twisting sideways between her
fingers. Tessie tried to adjust her grip.
The pin slipped and fell to the sidewalk.
“Shit.” She scanned the coarse sidewalk around her feet. She
made out only brown broken glass.
Tessie knelt and began feeling the ground. Nothing. She ran her
hand lightly over the glass. She picked up a tiny twig and threw it.
Her knees hurt. Someone came up the sidewalk. Tessie stood and
turned toward a lone man. “Can you help me?” The man’s eyes
bulged, and he fled.
Tessie turned, not sure what she was looking for. The hand
holding the grenade started to ache. She clenched both hands
around the safety. The grenade wouldn’t go off as long as she held
the handle. But she couldn’t hold it forever. In a minute, she
searched the ground again. She wasn’t certain she was even in the
right spot any more.
Struggling to her feet, she held the grenade with both hands
again. Could she throw it somewhere? She didn’t want to hurt
anyone innocent. The wife of Knuckles DiMonte couldn’t go to the
police for help. She grabbed her purse and, feeling numb, walked
in the gathering darkness toward Broadway.
She had no idea where she would go. But as she walked, both
hands on the grenade, a calm came over Tessie. Maybe it was the
unreality of her situation. Maybe deep down, since that day seven
years ago, she knew there would be no easy ending. It was almost
a relief that her world was suddenly so simple. Her worries
evaporated. Her mind cleared as she walked.
Tessie came up to Stryker Street. It ran behind the old Knuckles’ 
Joint, now Ray’s. She remembered that an alley cut through a yard
up to the back door. Tessie turned onto Stryker.
Yes, she was thinking very clearly now. Didn’t want to hurt
anyone innocent.
It was late afternoon. Ray would be in that little office in the
back, counting the numbers receipts. The bastard was too fat to
reach something rolled under his desk, too fat to even get out of his
chair. At least not in four seconds.
Tessie strengthened her grip around the grenade. Time to pay Ray
a visit.