“No harm? No harm?” Gunzer's widow yelled, wild-eyed. “Look at his tie. His tie is ruined. I paid extra for that tie.”
I mumbled apologies to Mrs. Gunzer and offered to make good on the tie, but Mrs. Gunzer was in the middle of a fit and wasn't hearing any of it.
She shook her fist at Grandma Mazur. “You ought to be locked up. You and your crazy granddaughter. A bounty hunter! Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Excuse me?” I said, slitty-eyed with fists on hips.
Mrs. Gunzer took a step back (probably afraid I was going to shoot her), and I used the space to retreat. I snagged Grandma Mazur by the elbow, gathered her belongings together, and steered her toward the door, almost knocking Spiro over in my haste.
“It was an accident,” Grandma said to Spiro. “I caught my heel on the carpet. Could have happened to anybody.”
“Of course,” Spiro said. “I'm sure Mrs. Gunzer realizes this.”
“I don't realize nothing,” Mrs. Gunzer bellowed. “She's a threat to normal people.”
Spiro guided us into the foyer. “Hope this incident won't keep you from returning to Stiva's,” he said. “We always like to see pretty women come to visit.” He leaned closer, his lips hovering at my ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “I'd like to speak to you in private about some business I need conducted.”
“What sort of business?”
“I need something found, and I hear you're very good at finding. I asked around after you inquired about Kenny.”
“Actually I'm pretty busy right now. And, I'm not a private investigator. I'm not licensed.”
“A thousand dollars,” Spiro said. “Flat finder's fee.”
Time stood still for several heartbeats while I went on a mental spending binge. “Of course if we kept it quiet, I don't see any harm in helping a friend.” I lowered my voice. “What are we looking for?”
“Caskets,” Spiro whispered. “Twenty-four caskets.”
Morelli was waiting for me when I got home. He was slouched against the wall, hands stuffed into pockets, ankles crossed. He looked up expectantly when I stepped out of the elevator and smiled at the brown grocery bag I carried.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Leftovers.”
“Gee, now I know why you made detective.”
“I can do better.” He sniffed the air. “Chicken.”
“Keep it up and you might make the K-9 Corps.”
He held the bag while I opened the door. “Have a tough day?”
“My day passed tough at five o'clock. If I don't get these clothes off soon I'm going to mildew.”
He sidestepped into the kitchen and pulled a foil-wrapped packet of chicken out of the bag, along with a container of stuffing, a container of gravy, and a container of mashed potatoes. He put the gravy and potatoes in the microwave and set it for three minutes. “How'd the list go? Anything interesting turn up?”
I gave him a plate and silverware and took a beer from the refrigerator. “Big zero. No one's seen him.”
“You have any clever ideas about where we go from here?”
“No.” Yes! The mail! I'd forgotten about the mail in my pocketbook. I hauled it out and spread it on the kitchen counter—phone bill, MasterCard bill, a bunch of junk mail, and a postcard reminder that Kenny was due for a dental checkup.
Morelli glanced over while he ladled gravy on the dressing, potatoes, and cold chicken. “Is that your mail?”
“Don't look.”
“Shit,” Morelli said. “Isn't anything sacred to you?”
“Mom's apple pie. So what should I do here? Should I steam the envelopes or something?”
Morelli dropped the envelopes on the floor and smushed them with his shoe. I picked them up and examined them. They were torn and dirty.
“Received in damaged condition,” Morelli said. “Do the phone bill first.”
I paged through the statement and was surprised to find four overseas calls.
“What do you make of this?” I asked Morelli. “You know any of these codes?”
“The top two are Mexico.”
“Can you put names to the numbers?”
Morelli set his plate on the counter, slid the antennae up on my portable phone, and dialed. “Hey, Murphy,” he said, “I need you to get me names and addresses for numbers.” He read the numbers off and ate while he waited. Minutes later, Murphy came back on the line, and Morelli acknowledged information given. His face was impassive when he hung up. I'd come to know this as his cop face.
“The second two numbers are El Salvador. Murphy couldn't get more specific.”
I snitched a piece of chicken from his plate and nibbled on it. “Why is Kenny calling Mexico and El Salvador?”
“Maybe he's planning a vacation.”
I didn't trust Morelli when he went bland like this. Morelli's emotions were usually clear on his face.
He opened the MasterCard bill. “Kenny's been busy. He charged almost two thousand dollars' worth of stuff last month.”
“Any airline tickets?”
“No airline tickets.” He handed the bill over to me. “Look for yourself.”
“Mostly clothes. All local stores.” I laid the bills out on the kitchen counter. “About those phone numbers . . .”
He had his head back in the grocery bag. “Is that apple pie I see?”
“You touch that pie and you're a dead man.”
Morelli chucked me under the chin. “I love it when you talk tough like that. I'd like to stay and hear more, but I have to get moving.”
He let himself out, walked the short distance down the hall, and disappeared into the elevator. When the elevator doors clicked closed I realized he'd walked off with Kenny's phone bill. I smacked the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Unh!”
I retreated back into my apartment, locked my front door, shucked my clothes en route to the bathroom, and plunged into a steaming shower. After the shower I dug out a flannel nightie. I towel-dried my hair and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
I ate two pieces of apple pie, gave a couple chunks of leftover apple and a wedge of crust to Rex, and went to bed, wondering about Spiro's caskets. He hadn't given me any further information. Just that the caskets were missing and had to be found. I wasn't sure how one went about losing twenty-four caskets, but I suppose anything is possible. I'd promised to return without Grandma Mazur so we could discuss case details.
I dragged my body out of bed at seven and peered out the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast and dark enough to look like the end of the world. I dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt and laced up my running shoes. I did this with the same amount of enthusiasm I could muster for self-immolation. I tried to run at least three times a week. It never ever occurred to me I might enjoy it. I ran to burn off the occasional bottle of beer, and because it was good to be able to outrun the bad guys.
I ran three miles, staggered into the lobby, and took the elevator back to my apartment. No point to overdoing this exercise junk.
I started coffee brewing and ripped through a fast shower. I dressed in jeans and denim shirt, downed a cup of coffee, and made arrangements with Ranger to meet him for breakfast in half an hour. I had access to the burg underground, but Ranger had access to the underground underground. He knew the dealers and pimps and gun runners. This business with Kenny Mancuso was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and I wanted to know why. Not that it affected my job. My job was very straightforward. Find Kenny, bring him in. The problem was with Morelli. I didn't trust Morelli, and I hated the possibility that he knew more than I did.
Ranger was already seated when I got to the coffee shop. He was wearing black jeans, hand-tooled, high-shine, black snakeskin cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt that spanned tight across his chest and biceps. A black leather jacket was draped across the back of his chair, one side hanging lower than the other, weighted by an ominous pocket bulge.
I ordered hot chocolate and blueberry pancakes with extra syrup.
Ranger ordered coffee and half a grapefruit. “What's up?” he asked.
“You hear about the shooting at Delio's Exxon on Hamilton?”
He nodded. “Somebody buzzed Moogey Bues.”
“You know who hit him?”
“Don't have a name.”
The hot chocolate and coffee arrived. I waited until the waitress left before asking my next question.
“What do you have?”
“A real bad feeling.”
I sipped my hot chocolate. “I got one of those, too. Morelli says he's looking for Kenny Mancuso as a favor to Kenny's mother. I think there's more to it.”
“Uh-oh,” Ranger said. “You been reading those Nancy Drew books again?”
“So what do you think? You hear anything weird about Kenny Mancuso? You think he did Moogey Bues?”
“I think it don't matter to you. All you've got to do is find Kenny and bring him in.”
“Unfortunately, I'm all out of bread crumbs to follow.”
The waitress brought my pancakes and Ranger's grapefruit.
“Boy, that looks yummy,” I said about Ranger's grapefruit as I poured syrup. “Maybe next time I'll get one of those.”
“Better be careful,” Ranger said. “Nothing uglier than a fat old white woman.”
“You're not being much help here.”
“What do you know about Moogey Bues?”
“I know he's dead.”
He ate a section of grapefruit. “You might check Moogey out.”
“And while I'm checking out Moogey, you could put your ear to the ground.”
“Kenny Mancuso and Moogey don't necessarily move in my neighborhood.”
“Wouldn't hurt, though.”
“True,” Ranger said. “Wouldn't hurt.”
I finished my hot chocolate and pancakes and wished I'd worn a sweater so I could open the top snap to my jeans. I burped discreetly and paid the bill.
I went back to the scene of the crime and identified myself to Cubby Delio, the station owner.
“Can't understand it,” Delio said. “I've owned this station for twenty-two years and never had any trouble.”
“How long had Moogey worked for you?”
“Six years. Started working here when he was in high school. I'm going to miss him. He was a likable person, and he was real reliable. He always opened up in the morning for me. I never had to worry about a thing.”
“He ever say anything about Kenny Mancuso? Do you know why they were arguing?”
He shook his head, no.
“How about his personal life?”
“I don't know much about his personal life. He wasn't married. So far as I know he was between girlfriends. Lived alone.” He sifted through some papers on his desk, coming up with a dog-eared, blacksmudged list of employees. “Here's the address,” he said. “Mercerville. Over by the high school. Just moved there. Rented himself a house.”
I copied the information, thanked him for his time, and got back to my Jeep. I took Hamilton to Klockner, passed Stienert High School, and hung a left into a subdivision of single-family homes. Yards were well tended and fenced for small children and dogs. Houses were mostly white sided with conservative trim colors. There were few cars parked in driveways. This was a neighborhood of double-income families. Everyone was out working, earning enough money to maintain the lawn service, pay off Ms. Maid, and warehouse their offspring at daycare centers.
I ticked off numbers until I came to Moogey's house. It was indistinguishable from the others, with no sign that a tragedy had just occurred.
I parked, crossed the lawn to the front door, and knocked. No one answered. I hadn't expected anyone would. I peeked into a narrow window bordering the door but saw very little: a foyer with a wood floor, carpeted stairs leading up, a hall extending from the foyer to the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in order.
I walked down the sidewalk to the driveway and peeked into the garage. There was a car in there, and I assumed it was Moogey's. It was a red BMW. I thought it looked a little pricey for a guy who worked in a gas station, but what did I know. I took down the plate number and returned to my Jeep.
I was sitting there, thinking “now what?” when my cellular phone rang.
It was Connie, the secretary from the bond office. “I've got an easy recovery for you,” she said. “Stop by the office when you get the chance, and I'll give you the paperwork.”
“How easy is easy?”
“This one's a bag lady. The old babe at the train station. She lifts undies and then forgets her court date. All you have to do is pick her up and get her to the judge.”
“Who posts her bond if she's homeless?”
“Some church group has adopted her.”
“I'll be right over.”
Vinnie had a storefront office on Hamilton. Vincent Plum Bail Bonding Company. Aside from his penchant for kinky sex, Vinnie was a reputable person. For the most part he kept black-sheep miscreants from hardworking blue-collar Trenton families out of the holding pens at police headquarters. Once in a while he got a genuine slimebag, but that sort of case rarely fell into my hands.
Grandma Mazur had a Wild West image of bounty hunters breaking down doors with six shooters blazing. The reality of my job was that most of my days were spent coercing dummies into my car and then chauffeuring them to the police station, where they were rescheduled and rereleased. I picked up a lot of DWIs and disorderlies and occasionally I got a shoplifter or recreational car thief. Vinnie had given me Kenny Mancuso because in the beginning it had looked very straightforward. Kenny was a first-time offender from a good burg family. And besides, Vinnie knew I'd do the takedown with Ranger.
I parked the Jeep in front of Fiorello's Deli. I had Fiorello make me a tuna on a kaiser and then went next door to Vinnie.
Connie looked up from her desk that sat like a guardhouse blocking the way to Vinnie's inner office. Her hair had been teased out a good six inches, framing her face in a rat's nest of black curls. She was a couple years older than me, three inches shorter, thirty pounds heavier, and, like me, she'd gone back to using her maiden name after a discouraging divorce. In her case, the name was Rosolli, a name given a wide berth in the burg since her Uncle Jimmy had been made. Jimmy was ninety-two now and couldn't find his dick if it glowed in the dark, but still he was made all the same.
“Hey,” Connie said. “How's it going?”
“That's a pretty complicated question right now. Do you have the paperwork ready for the bag lady?”
Connie handed me several forms stapled together. “Eula Rothridge. You can find her at the train station.”
I leafed through the file. “No picture?”
“You don't need one. She'll be sitting on the bench closest to the parking lot, soaking up rays.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Try not to get downwind.”
I grimaced and left.
Trenton's placement on the banks of the Delaware River made it ripe for industry and commerce. Over the years, as the Delaware's navigability and importance dwindled, so did Trenton's, bringing the city to its present-day status of being just one more big pothole in the state highway system. Recently, though, we'd gotten minor league baseball, so could fame and fortune be far behind?
The ghetto had crept in around the train station, making it virtually impossible to get to the station without passing through streets of small, yardless, depressed row houses filled with chronically depressed people. During summer months the neighborhoods steeped in sweat and open aggression. When the temperature dropped the tone turned bleak, and animosity sat behind insulating walls.
I drove along these streets with my doors locked and my windows shut tight. It was more out of habit than conscious protection, since anyone with a paring knife could slash through my canvas roof.
The Trenton train station is small and not especially memorable. There's a curved drop-off driveway at the front entrance where a few taxis wait and a uniformed cop kee
ps his eye on things. Several municipal-style benches line the driveway.
Eula was sitting on the farthermost bench, dressed in several winter coats, a purple wool cap, and running shoes. Her face was lined and doughy, her steel gray hair was chopped short and stuck out in ragged clumps from the cap. Her legs were ankleless, feeding into her shoes like giant knockwursts, her knees comfortably spread for the world to see sights better left unseen.
Two for the Dough Page 4
