Four to Score

8

I HAULED Rex's cage off the front seat. "Now remember," I said, "no sniveling over the fact that our life is sucky. And no getting all mushy because Morelli is so hot. And no crying. We don't want Morelli thinking we're losers."

Morelli was on his small cement front porch. The door was open behind him, and I could see light from the upstairs hall. He was barefoot, dressed in cut-offs that rode his hips. His hair was tousled from sleep, and he had a gun in his hand, hanging loose at his side. "You talking to someone?"

"Rex. He's a little nervous about all this."

Morelli took the cage from me, kicked his door shut and carried Rex into the kitchen. He put the cage on the counter and flipped the overhead light on. It was an old-fashioned kitchen with dated appliances and Formica counters. Cupboards had been recently painted with cream enamel, and there was new linoleum on the floor. A pot sat soaking in the sink. Looked like Morelli'd had spaghetti for supper.

Morelli put a quart of cold milk and a bag of Oreos on the small wood table that pressed against one kitchen wall. He took two glasses from the dish drain, sat down at the table and poured out two glasses of milk.

"So," he said, "you want to talk about it?"

"I was in Atlantic City looking for Maxine tonight, and while I was gone someone pitched a firebomb through my bedroom window. The whole apartment went up. Fortunately, Mrs. Karwatt had a key and managed to rescue Rex."

Morelli stared at me for a beat with his unreadable cop face. "Remember those purple shoes you bought last year?"

"Reduced to ashes."

"Damn. I had plans for those shoes. I've spent a few sleepless nights thinking about you wearing those shoes and nothing else."

I helped myself to a cookie. "You need a life."

"Tell me about it. I spent last weekend laying linoleum." He took a second cookie. "I notice you're driving the Buick. What happened to the CRX?"

"Remember I told you about how someone soaked it with gasoline? Well, it sort of exploded."

"It exploded?"

"Actually, it caught fire first. Then it exploded."

"Hmm," Morelli said, eating the top half of the Oreo.

A tear slid down my cheek.

Morelli stopped eating. "Wait a minute. Is this for real? You aren't making this up?"

"Of course this is for real. Why else do you think I'm here?"

"Well, I thought . . ."

I jumped up, and my chair crashed to the floor. "You thought I made this up so I could come over here in the middle of the night and crawl into your bed!"

The line to Morelli's mouth tightened. "Let me get this straight. Yesterday, someone actually blew up your car and your apartment. And now you want to move in with me? What, do you hate me? You're a walking disaster! You're Calamity Jane in fucking spandex!"

"I am not a walking disaster!" But he was right. I was a walking disaster. I was an accident waiting to happen. And I was going to cry. My chest ached and my throat felt like I'd swallowed a baseball and tears gushed out of my eyes. "Shit," I said, swiping the tears away.

Morelli grimaced and reached out to me. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Don't touch me!" I shrieked. "You're right. I'm a disaster. Look at me. I'm homeless. I'm carless. And I'm hysterical. What kind of a bounty hunter gets hysterical? A loser bounty hunter, that's what kind. A l-l-loser."

"Maybe milk wasn't the right choice here," Morelli said. "Maybe you could use some brandy."

"And there's more," I sobbed. "I lost forty bucks on craps, and I was the only one who didn't have a gun tonight!"

Morelli pulled me into his arms and held me close to him.

"That's okay, Steph. Forty dollars isn't so much. And lots of people don't have guns."

"Not in New Jersey. Not bounty hunters."

"There are some people in Jersey who don't have a gun."

"Oh yeah? Name one."

He held me at arm's length and grinned. "I think we should get you up to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."

"About the bed . . ."

He pushed me toward the stairs. "I have a spare bedroom made up."

"Thanks."

"And I'll leave my door open in case you get lonely."

And I'd lock my door in case I got weak.

* * * * *

I AWOKE DISORIENTED, staring at a ceiling that wasn't mine. The walls were covered with faded green paper patterned with barely discernible viney flowers. Comforting in an old-fashioned way. Morelli had inherited this house from his Aunt Rose and hadn't changed much. My guess was the simple white curtains that hung on the windows had been chosen by Rose. It was a small room with a queen-size bed and a single chest of drawers. The floors were wood, and Morelli had placed a rag throw rug beside the bed. It was a sunny room and much quieter than my own bedroom, which faced out to the parking lot. I was sleeping in one of Morelli's T-shirts, and I was now faced with grim reality. I had no clothes. No clean underwear, no shorts, no shoes, no nothing. First thing would be a trip to Macy's for an emergency wardrobe.

There was a clock radio on the chest of drawers. It was nine o'clock. The day had started without me. I opened my door and peeked into the hall. All was silent. No sign of Morelli. A piece of paper had been taped to my door. It said Morelli had gone off to work and I should make myself at home. It said there was an extra key for me on the kitchen table and towels laid out in the bathroom.

I showered and dressed and went downstairs in search of breakfast. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and looked in at Rex.

"No doubt about it, I made an idiot out of myself last night," I said.

Rex was sleeping in his soup can and didn't show a lot of concern. Rex had seen me in my idiot state before.

I ate a bowl of cereal and took a look at the house. It was clean and orderly. The food in the cupboard was basic, the pots were second generation. Six glasses. Six dishes. Six bowls. Shelf paper left from Aunt Rose. He had a coffeemaker, but he hadn't made coffee, nor had he made breakfast. No dirty dishes. No new dishes in the dish drain. Morelli would stop on the way to work for coffee and whatever. Cops weren't known for their excellent diets.

I remembered Morelli's living room furniture from his apartment. Utilitarian. Comfort without style. It seemed off in the row house. The row house needed overstuffed with magazines on the coffee table and pictures on the walls.

Rooms were shotgunned. Living room, dining room, kitchen. Because Morelli lived in the middle of the block, there were no windows in the dining room. Not that it mattered. I couldn't see Morelli using the dining room. In the beginning, when Morelli had first moved here, I couldn't see him in the house at all. Now it suited him. Not that Morelli had turned domestic. It was more that the house had assumed independence. As if Morelli and the house had reached an agreement to coexist and leave it at that.

I called my mother and told her there'd been a fire and I was staying with Morelli.

"What do you mean, you're staying with Morelli? Ommigod, you're married!"

"It's not like that. Morelli has an extra bedroom. I'm going to pay him rent."

"We have an extra bedroom. You could stay here."

"I've tried that before, and it doesn't work. Too many people using one bathroom." Too many homicidal maniacs wanting to kill me.

"Angie Morelli is gonna have a fit."

Angie Morelli is Joe's mother. A woman both revered and feared in the burg.

"Angie Morelli's a good Catholic woman, and she's not as open-minded as I am," my mother said.

The Morelli women were good Catholics. The men broke every commandment. The men played Monday night poker with the Antichrist.

"I have to go," I said. "I just wanted you to know I was okay."

"Why don't you and Joe come over for dinner tonight? I'm making meat loaf."

"We're not a couple! And I have things to do."

"What things?"

"Things."

My next phone call was to the office. "My apartment got firebombed," I told Connie. "I'm staying with Morelli for a while."

"Good move," Connie said. "You on the pill?"

I straightened the kitchen, pocketed the key and took off for the mall. Two hours later I had a week's worth of clothes and a maxed-out charge card.

It was noon when I got to the office. Connie and Lula were at Connie's desk eating Chinese.

"Help yourself," Lula said, nudging a cardboard carton. "We got lots. We got fried rice, shrimp clumps and Kung Fu something."

I picked at a shrimp clump. "Heard from Vinnie yet?"

"Not a word," Connie said.

"How about Joyce? Heard from her?"

"Nope. And she hasn't brought Maxine in, either."

"I been thinking about Maxine," Lula said. "I think she's in Point Pleasant. And I wouldn't be surprised if her mama was there, too. That Atlantic City thing was a big phony wild-goose chase to keep us away from Point Pleasant. Her getaway don't feel right. That car was sitting there waiting for her to come out and take off. I think her mama set us up."

I tried some of the Kung Fu stuff. "I've been thinking the same thing."

* * * * *

LULA AND I stood in the middle of the boardwalk, across from the Parrot Bar, and clipped our pagers onto our shorts. I was wearing Day-Glo orange running shorts that had been on sale at Foot Locker, and Lula was wearing yellow-and-black tiger-striped spandex. She'd had her yellow ringlets beaded so that all over her head were four-inch strands of fluorescent pink, poison-green and bright yellow beads. It was ninety-six in the shade, the ocean was millpond calm, the sky was a cloudless azure, and you could fry an egg on the sand. We were here to find Maxine, but already I could see Lula getting distracted by the frozen custard stand.

"This is the plan," I said to Lula. "You're going to hang out here and keep your eye on the Parrot Bar, and I'm going to canvass the beach and the boardwalk. Page me if you see Maxine or anyone associated with her."

"Don't worry, nobody'll get by me. I'd just like to see that bony-ass mother. I'll grab her by what little hair she's got left, and I'll—"

"No! No grabbing, no shooting, no gassing, no stun-gunning If you spot someone just stick with them until I get to you."

"Suppose it's self-defense?"

"There will be no self-defense. Don't let anyone see you. Try to blend in."

"I need an ice cream to blend in," Lula said, her hair beads jumping around, clacking every time she moved her head. "You give me an ice cream and I'll look like everybody else here."

Well hell, Tallulah, then go get an ice cream.

I walked north first. I'd brought a pair of mini-binoculars that I trained on the beach since Maxine seemed like the sunbather type. I went slowly and methodically, wandering through the arcades and bars. I walked beyond the amusement area to where the boardwalk was plain old boardwalk. After an hour of this I turned and headed back to Lula.

"Haven't seen anybody I know," Lula said when I reached her. "No Maxine. No Maxine's mama. No Joyce. No Travolta."

I stared into the bar across the way, and I didn't see any of those people, either. I took a brush and an elastic scrunchy out of my bag and pulled my hair back, off my neck, into a ponytail. I had a real desire to jump in the ocean, but I decided to settle for a lemonade. I was down to the wire with Maxine. I didn't have time to waste on such frivolity as lowering my body temperature.

I left Lula on the bench, got a lemonade and continued to walk and to scan the south end of the beach. I walked past a series of spin-the-wheel games and came to an arcade. I stepped into the cool shade and moseyed past the claw machines and the skillo ramps. I looked over at the wall where the prizes were displayed and stopped in my tracks. A woman stood at the wall, surveying the prizes. Five pieces of Farberware for 40,000 points. Wooden lighthouse for 9,450. Looney Tunes watch, 8,450. Dirt Devil, 40,100. Boom box, 98,450 points. The woman seemed to be counting the tickets she held in her hand. One hand held the tickets. And the other hand was heavily bandaged. She had brown hair, slim body.

I stepped farther back in the room and waited to see her face. She stood there for a moment longer, turned and walked to the redemption desk. It was Margie. I scooted past the desk, behind Margie's back, out to the boardwalk and paged Lula. She was just a short distance away. She looked up when the pager went off. I caught her eye and gave her a "come here" wave.

Margie was still at the desk when Lula trotted up.

"What's going on?" Lula asked.

"You remember I told you about Maxine's friend, Margie?"

"The one had her finger chopped off."

"Yes. That's her at the redemption desk."

"Point Pleasant sure is a popular place."

Margie took a large box from an arcade employee and moved to the side door that opened to the street. She passed through the door and turned right, away from the boardwalk. Lula and I watched her walk to the end of the block and cross the street. We followed after her, Lula a little less than a block away and me behind Lula. Margie crossed another street, continued on and went into a house in the middle of the next block.

We held our positions and watched for a while, but Margie didn't come out. The house was a single-story bungalow with a small front porch. Surrounding houses were similar. Lots were small. Cars were parked on both sides of the street.

We weren't in a good position to conduct any kind of surveillance. We'd driven to Point Pleasant in a car that drew attention. My only consolation was that even if we had a more generic car, there were no parking places open.

"So I take it you think this Margie is with Maxine. And maybe Maxine's mama is there, too," Lula said.

"Yeah. Problem is, I don't know if Maxine's in the house right now."

"I could be the Avon lady," Lula said. "Ding dong, Avon calling."

"If Maxine's mother is in there she'll recognize you."

"Think maybe we be recognized standing on the street like this, too," Lula said.

Very true. "Okay, this is what we'll do. We'll go see if Maxine's in the house. If she isn't at home, we'll sit down with Margie and watch some TV until Maxine shows up."

"Sounds like a plan to me. You want the back door or the front door?"

"Front door."

"And you probably don't want me to shoot anybody."

"Shooting isn't my favorite thing."

Lula walked along the side of the house to the back, and I went to the front door. I knocked twice and Margie answered.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. "Oh!"

"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for Maxine."

"Maxine isn't here."

"You wouldn't mind if I came in and looked for myself?"

Maxine's mother swayed into view. "Who is it?" She took a long drag on her cigarette and let the smoke curl from her nose, dragon style. "Christ, it's you. You know, you're getting to be a real pain in the ass."

Lula came in from the kitchen. "Hope nobody minds my coming in. The back door wasn't locked."

"Oh God," Mrs. Nowicki said. "Tweedledum."

There was an empty box in the middle of the floor with a lamp sitting beside it.

"You win this lamp at the arcade?" Lula asked Margie.

"It's for my bedroom," Margie said. "Twenty-seven thousand points. Yesterday, Maxine won a deep fat fryer."

"Hell, we won just about everything in this house," Mrs. Nowicki said.

"Where's Maxine now?" I asked.

"She had some errands to run."

Lula sat down on the couch and picked up the channel changer for the TV. "Guess we'll be waiting then. You don't mind if I watch TV, do you?"

"You can't do this," Mrs. Nowicki said. "You can't just waltz in here and make yourself at home."

" 'Course we can," Lula said. "We're bounty hunters. We can do anything we want. We're protected by a dumb-ass law made back in 1869 when people didn't know any better."

"Is that true?" Mrs. Nowicki wanted to know.

"Well, actually the law doesn't cover control of the channel changer," I said. "But it does give us a lot of rights when it comes to the pursuit and capture of a felon."

There was the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway between houses, and Margie and Mrs. Nowicki exchanged glances.

"That's Maxine, isn't it?" I asked.

"You're going to ruin everything for us," Mrs. Nowicki said. "We had this all planned out, and now you're screwing it up."

"I'm screwing it up? Look at you two. You've been scalped and had your finger chopped off. Back in Trenton there's a dead store clerk. And you're still playing this stupid treasure hunt game."

"It isn't that simple," Margie said. "We can't leave yet. They have to pay the price."

A car door slammed and Mrs. Nowicki gave a start. "Maxie!" she yelled.

Lula gave Mrs. Nowicki a bump with her hip. Mrs. Nowicki lost her balance and flopped onto the couch, and Lula sat on her. "I know I'll get hollered at if I shoot you," Lula said. "So I'll just sit on you until you be quiet."

"I can't breathe," Mrs. Nowicki said. "You ever think about cutting back on the helpings?"

Margie had a trapped animal look, like she couldn't decide whether to shout a warning or bolt for the door herself.

"Sit," I told her, pulling an industrial-size can of pepper spray out of my bag, shaking the can to make sure it was active. "Don't go running around confusing things."

I was hidden by the door when Maxine came in, but Lula was in full view, sitting on Mrs. Nowicki.

"Lo," Lula said to Maxine.

"Shit," Maxine said. Then she did an about-face and lunged for the door.

I kicked the door closed and aimed the spray at her. "Stop! Don't make me use this."

Maxine took a step back and raised her hands.

"Now get off me, you big load of blubber," Mrs. Nowicki said to Lula.

I had a pair of cuffs stuck into the waistband of my shorts. I handed the cuffs to Lula and told her to secure Maxine.

"Sorry to have to do this," I said to Maxine. "The charges against you are minimal. If you cooperate you might not even get jail time."

"It's not jail time I'm worried about," Maxine said. "It's dead time."

Lula reached out to snap the cuffs, and without warning the front and back doors crashed open. Joyce Barnhardt, dressed in swat black with "bounty hunter" emblazoned on her T-shirt, charged into the room with guns drawn. There were three other women with her, all dressed like Joyce, all armed like Rambo on rampage, all yelling "Freeze" at the top of their lungs and doing those squatting cop stances you see in the movies.

Margie's new lamp got knocked over and crashed on the floor, and Margie and Mrs. Nowicki and Maxine started yelling and running around, trying to protect their stuff. They were yelling "Oh no!" and "Help!" and "Don't shoot!" Lula dove behind the couch and made herself as small as anyone weighing two hundred pounds could make herself. And I was yelling at everyone to stop yelling.

There was a lot of confusion and a lot of people in that one small room, and it suddenly occurred to me that Maxine wasn't one of them. I heard gravel fly against the house and looked out the window to see Maxine gun the car out of the driveway and take off down the road.

I didn't have a car, so there wasn't much point in my rushing out. And I sure as hell wasn't going to help Joyce catch Maxine, so I didn't say anything. I just backed off and sat down in a big, overstuffed chair and waited for things to calm down. What I really wanted to do was to wade in and beat Joyce to a bloody pulp, but I didn't want to set a bad example for Lula.

Joyce had recruited her cousin Karen Ruzinski and Marlene Cwik to help with the takedown. I didn't know the third woman. Karen had two little kids, and I guess she was happy to get out of the house and do something different.

"Hey Karen," I said, "where are the kids? Day care?"

"They're with my mother. She's got a pool in her yard. One of those big ones with the deck around it." Karen set her gun down on the coffee table and pulled her wallet out of one of the pockets in her swat pants. "Look here," she said. "This is Susan Elizabeth. She starts school this year."

Mrs. Nowicki picked up Karen's gun, squeezed a shot off, and a chunk of plaster fell out of the ceiling onto the television set. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and stared at Mrs. Nowicki.

Mrs. Nowicki leveled the gun at Joyce. "Party's over."

"You're in big trouble," Joyce said. "You're harboring a fugitive."

A humorless smile slashed Mrs. Nowicki's face. "Honey, I'm not harboring anything. Look around. You see a fugitive?"

Understanding registered in Joyce's eyes. "Where's Maxine?"

Now I was smiling with Mrs. Nowicki. "Maxine left," I said.

"You deliberately let her get away!"

"Not me," I said. "I wouldn't do such a thing. Lula, would I do such a thing?"

"Hell no," Lula said. "You're a professional. Although, I gotta say, you haven't got no cool bounty hunter shirt like they do."

"She can't have gone far," Joyce said. "Everybody out to the car."

Mrs. Nowicki searched through her pockets, found a cigarette and stuck it in her mouth. "Maxie's long gone. They'll never find her."

"Just out of morbid curiosity," I said. "What's this all about?"

"It's about money," Mrs. Nowicki said. Then she and Margie laughed. Like that was a good joke.

* * * * *

MORELLI WAS SLOUCHED in front of the television when I got back to the house. He was watching Jeopardy, and there were three empty beer bottles alongside his chair.

"Bad day?" I asked.

"To begin with . . . you were telling the truth about your apartment. I checked. It's a big black cinder. Ditto for your car. Following along in the same vein, word has gotten out that we're living together, and my mother expects us for dinner tomorrow at six."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"The case I've been working on for the last four months collapsed."

"I'm sorry."

Morelli made a disgusted gesture. "It happens."

"Have you had anything to eat?"

An eyebrow raised, and he looked at me sideways. "What did you have in mind?"

"Food."

"No. I haven't had any of that."

I went to the kitchen and said hello to Rex, who was sitting on a small mound of assorted dinner treats. Compliments of Morelli, Rex was feasting on a grape, a miniature marshmallow, a crouton, and a beer nut. I removed the marshmallow and ate it, so Rex wouldn't run the risk of requiring a filling in his fang.

"So what do you want?" I asked Morelli.

"Steak, mashed potatoes, green beans."

"How about a peanut butter sandwich?"

"That would be my second choice."

I made two peanut butter sandwiches and brought them into the living room.

Morelli looked at his sandwich. "What are these lumps?"

"Olives."

He opened the sandwich and looked inside. "Where's the jelly?"

"No jelly."

"I think I need another beer."

"Just eat it!" I yelled. "What do I look like, Betty Crocker? I didn't have a great day, either, you know. Not that anybody asked me about my day!"

Morelli grinned. "What about your day?"

I slumped onto the couch. "Found Maxine. Lost Maxine."

"Happens," Morelli said. "You'll find her again. You're the bounty hunter from hell."

"I'm afraid she's getting ready to bolt big time."

"Can't blame her. There are some scary guys out there."

"I asked her mother what this was all about, and she said it was about money. Then she laughed."

"You saw her mother?"

I filled Morelli in on the details, and he didn't look happy when I was done.

"Something has to be done about Barnhardt," he said.

"Any ideas?"

"Nothing that wouldn't get my shield taken away."

There was a moment of silence between us.

"So," I said, "how well do you know Joyce?"

The grin returned. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"You want a full accounting of my sex life up to this moment?"

"That would probably take days."

Morelli slouched a little lower in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him, his lips curved into a smile, his eyes dark and dreamy. "I don't know Joyce as well as I know you."

The phone rang, and we both gave a start. Morelli had the cordless on the table beside him. He answered and mouthed "Your mother."

I was making no, no, no signals, but Morelli continued to smile and handed the phone over to me.

"I saw Ed Crandle this afternoon," my mother said. "He said don't worry, he'll take care of everything. He's going to drop the forms off here."

Ed Crandle lived across the street from my mother, and he sold insurance. I guessed this meant that I had some. Ordinarily I could look in my desk drawer to check. That wasn't possible now that my desk drawer and everything in it was smoke.

"And that nice superintendent, Dillon Ruddick, called and said your apartment was sealed for security right now, so you can't get in. But he said he was going to start work on it next week. Also, a woman named Sally would like you to call her back."

I thanked my mother and again declined dinner and the use of my room. I hung up and called Sally.

"Shit," Sally said, "I just heard about your apartment. Hey, I'm really sorry. Is there anything I can do? You need a place to crash?"

I told him I was staying with Morelli.

"I would have fucking wrestled him into the ground if I wasn't wearing heels," Sally said.

When I got off the phone Morelli had pulled the plug on Jeopardy and was watching a ball game. I felt gritty from sweat, the back of my neck was scratchy with sunburn, and I could see my nose glowing. Should have used sunblock.

"I'm going to take a shower," I said to Morelli. "It's been a long day."

"Is this a sexual shower?"

"No. This is an I've-been-sweating-all-day-at-the-shore shower."

"Just checking," Morelli said.

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was faded but clean. It was smaller than my apartment bathroom, and the fixtures were older. But the era of construction was more graceful. Morelli had stacked towels on a shelf above the toilet. His toothbrush, toothpaste and razor took up the left side of the sink vanity. I'd placed my toothbrush and toothpaste on the right. His and hers. I gave myself a mental shake. Get a grip, Stephanie . . . this isn't a romance novel. This is the result of a firebombing. There was an over-the-sink medicine cabinet, but I couldn't bring myself to open the door. It seemed like prying, and I was sort of afraid what I might find.

I showered and brushed my teeth and was toweling my hair dry when Morelli knocked on the door.

"Eddie Kuntz's on the phone," Morelli said. "You want him to call back?"

I wrapped the big bath towel around myself, cracked the door, and stuck my hand out. "I'll take it."

Morelli handed me the phone, and his eyes locked on my towel. "Shit," he whispered.

I tried to close the door, but he was still holding on to the phone. I was holding the towel with one hand, and the phone with the other, and I was nudging the door closed with my knee. I saw his eyes darken and soften, like liquid chocolate. I knew the look. I'd seen it before, and it had never turned out well for me.

"This isn't good," Morelli said, his gaze now wandering the length of the three-inch opening between door and jamb, from the towel to my legs and back to the towel.

"Hello?" Kuntz said at the other end of the line. "Stephanie?"

I tried to twist the phone out of Morelli's hand, but he was holding fast. My heart was going ka-thunk, ka-thunk in my chest, and I was starting to sweat in unusual places.

"Tell him you'll call him back," Morelli said.