Two for the dough

Chapter Ten

Connie and Lula were yelling at each other when I walked into the office.

"Dominick Russo makes his own sauce," Connie shouted. "With plum tomatoes. Fresh basil. Fresh garlic."

"I don't know about any of that plum tomato shit. All I know is the best pizza in Trenton comes from Tiny's on First Street," Lula shouted back. "Ain't nobody makes pizza like Tiny. That man makes soul pizza."

"Soul pizza? What the hel is soul pizza?" Connie wanted to know. They both turned and glared at me.

"You settle it," Connie said. "Tell know-it-all here about Dominic's pizza."

"Dom makes good pizza," I said. "But I like the pizza at Pino's."

"Pino's!" Connie curled her upper lip. "They use marinara sauce that comes in five-gallon cans."

"Yeah," I said. "I love that canned marinara sauce." I dropped my pocketbook on Connie's desk. "Glad to see you two getting along so well."

"Hunh," Lula said.

I plopped onto the couch. "I need some addresses. I want to do some snooping." Connie got a directory from the bookcase behind her. "Who you need?"

"Spiro Stiva and Louie Moon."

"Wouldn't want to look under the cushions in Spiro's house," Connie said. "Wouldn't look in his refrigerator, either."

Lula grimaced. "He the undertaker guy? Shoot, you aren't gonna do breaking and entering on an undertaker, are you?"

Connie wrote an address on a piece of paper and searched for the second name. I looked at the address she'd gotten for Spiro. "You know where this is?"

"Century Court Apartments. You take Klockner to Demby." Connie gave me the second address. "I haven't a clue on this one. Somewhere in Hamilton Township."

"What are you looking for?" Lula asked.

I stuffed the addresses into my pocket. "I don't know. A key, maybe." Or a couple crates of guns in the living room.

"Maybe I should come with you," Lula said. "Skinny ass like you shouldn't be sneaking around all by yourself."

"I appreciate your offer," I told her, "but riding shotgun isn't part of your job description."

"Don't think I got much of a job description," Lula said. "Seems to me I do whatever got to be done, and right now I've done it all unless I want to sweep the floor and scrub the toilet."

"She's a filing maniac," Connie said. "She was born to file."

"You haven't seen anything yet," Lula said. "Wait'll you see me be an assistant bounty hunter."

"Go for it," Connie said.

Lula packed herself into her jacket and grabbed her pocketbook. "This is gonna be good," she said. "This is gonna be like Cagney and Lacey."

I searched the big wall map for Moon's address. "Okay by me if it's okay with Connie, but I want to be Cagney."

"No way! I want to be Cagney," Lula said.

"I said it first."

Lula stuck her lower lip out and narrowed her eyes. "Was my idea, and I'm not doing it if I can't be Cagney."

I looked at her. "We aren't serious about this, are we?"

"Hunh," Lula said. "Speak for yourself."

I told Connie not to wait up, and held the front door for Lula. "We're going to check out Louie Moon first," I said to her.

Lula stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at Big Blue. "We going in this big motherfucker Buick?"

"Yep."

"I knew a pimp once had a car like this."

"It belonged to my uncle Sandor."

"He a businessman?"

"Not that I know of."

Louie Moon lived on the far perimeter of Hamilton Township. It was almost four when we turned onto Orchid Street. I counted off homes, searching for 216, amused that such an exotically named street had been blessed with a lineup of unimaginative crackerbox houses. It was a neighborhood built in the sixties when land was available, so the plots were large, making the two-bedroom ranches seem even smaller. Over the years homeowners had personalized their carbon-copy houses, adding a garage here, a porch there. The houses had been modernized with vinyl siding of various muted shades. Bay windows had been inserted. Azalea bushes had been planted. And still the sameness prevailed.

Louie Moon's house was set apart by a bright turquoise paint job, a full array of Christmas lights, and a five-foot-tall plastic Santa strapped to a rusted TV antenna.

"Guess he gets into the spirit early," Lula said.

From the droop of the lights haphazardly stapled to his house and the faded look to Santa, I'd guess he was in the spirit all year long.

The house didn't have a garage, and there were no cars in the driveway or parked at the curb. The house looked dark and undisturbed. I left Lula in the car and went to the front door. I knocked twice. No answer. The house was one floor built on a slab. The curtains were all open. Louie had nothing to hide. I circled the house, peeking into windows. The inside was neat and furnished with what I guessed to be an accumulation of discards. There was no sign of recent wealth. No boxes of ammo stacked on the kitchen table. Not a single assault rifle in sight. It looked to me like he lived alone. One cup and one bowl in the dish drain. One side of the double bed had been slept in.

I could easily see Louie Moon living here, content with his life because he had a little blue house. I toyed with the idea of illegal entry, but I couldn't produce enough motivation to warrant the intrusion.

The air was damp and cold and the ground felt hard underfoot. I pulled my jacket collar up and returned to the car.

"That didn't take long," Lula said.

"Not much to see."

"We going to the undertaker next?"

"Yeah."

"Good thing he don't live where he do his thing. I don't want to see what they collect in those buckets at the end of those tables."

It was heavy twilight by the time we got to Century Courts. The two-story buildings were red brick with white window trim. Doors were set in four-door clusters. There were five clusters to a building, which meant there were twenty apartments. Ten up and ten down. All of the buildings were set on pipestems coming off Demby. Four buildings per pipestem. Spiro had an end unit on the ground floor. His windows were dark, and his car wasn't in the lot. With Con in the hospital, Spiro was forced to keep long hours. The Buick was easily recognizable, and I didn't want to get caught if Spiro should decide to bop in for a fast change of socks, so I drove one pipestem over and parked.

"I bet we find some serious shit here," Lula said, getting out of the car. "I got a feeling about this one."

"We're just going to scope things out," I said. "We're not going to do anything illegal . . . like breaking and entering."

"Sure," Lula said. "I know that."

We cut across the grassy area to the side of the buildings, walking casually, as if we were out for a stroll. Curtains were drawn on the windows in the front of Spiro's apartment, so we went to the back. Again, curtains were drawn. Lula tested the sliding patio door and the two windows and found them both to be locked.

"Ain't this a bitch?" she said. "How we supposed to find anything out this way? And just when I had a feeling, too."

"Yeah," I said. "I'd love to get into this apartment." Lula swung her pocketbook in a wide arc and crashed it into Spiro's window, shattering the glass. "Where there's a will, there's a way," she said. My mouth dropped open, and when words finally came out they were in a whispered screech. "I don't believe you did that! You just broke his window!"

"The Lord provides," Lula said.

"I told you we weren't doing anything illegal. People can't just go around breaking windows."

"Cagney would of done it."

"Cagney would never have done that."

"Would of."

"Would not!"

She slid the window open and poked her head inside. "Don't look like nobody home. Guess we should go in and make sure this broken glass didn't do any damage." She had the entire upper half of her body shoved into the window. "Could of made this window bigger," she said. "Can't hardly fit a full-bodied woman like me in this sucker." I gnawed on my lower lip and held my breath, not sure whether I should push her through or pull her out. She looked like Pooh when he was stuck in the rabbit hole. She gave a grunt and suddenly the back half of her disappeared behind Spiro's curtain. A moment later the patio door clicked open and Lula poked her head out. "You gonna stand out there all day, or what?"

"We could get arrested for this!"

"Hah, like you never did any illegal entry shit?"

"I never broke anything."

"You didn't this time neither. I did the breaking. You just gonna do the entering." I supposed it was okay since she put it that way.

I slipped behind the patio curtain and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. "Do you know what Spiro looks like?"

"Ratty-faced little guy?"

"Yeah. You do lookout on the front porch. Knock three times if you see Spiro drive up." Lula opened the front door and peeked out. "Everything clear," she said. Then she let herself out and closed the door.

I locked both doors and flipped the dining room light on, turning the dimmer until the light was low. I started in the kitchen, methodically going through cabinets. I checked the refrigerator for phony jars and did a cursory search of the kitchen trash. I made my way through the dining room and living room without discovering anything worthwhile. Breakfast dishes were still in the sink, the morning paper was strewn across the table. A pair of black dress shoes had been kicked off and left in front of the TV. Other than that the apartment was clean. No guns, no keys, no threatening notes. No addresses hastily scribbled on a pad beside the kitchen wall phone.

I flicked on the light in the bathroom. Dirty clothes lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. There wasn't enough money in the world to get me to touch Spiro's dirty clothes. If there was a clue in his pocket, it was safe from me. I went through the medicine chest and glanced at the wastebasket. Nothing.

His bedroom door was closed. I held my breath, opened the door, and almost fainted with the relief of finding the room empty. The furniture was Danish modern, the bedspread was black satin. The ceiling over the bed had been covered with paste-on mirror tiles. Porn magazines were stacked on a chair beside the bed. A used condom was stuck to one of the covers.

Soon as I got home I was going to take a shower in boiling water. A desk hugged the wall in front of his window. I thought this looked promising. I sat in the black leather chair and carefully rifled through the junk mail, bills, and personal correspondence that lay scattered across the polished desk top. The bills all seemed within reason, and most of the correspondence related to the funeral home. Thank-you notes from the recently bereaved. "Dear Spiro, thank you for overcharging me in my time of sorrow." Phone messages had been recorded on whatever was handy . . . backs of envelopes and letter margins. None of the messages were labeled "death threats from Kenny." I made a list of unexplained phone numbers and stuffed it into my pocketbook for future investigation.

I opened the drawers and poked through paper clips, rubber bands, and other assorted stationery flotsam. There were no messages on his answering machine. Nothing under his bed.

I found it hard to believe there were no guns in the apartment. Spiro seemed like the kind of person to take trophies.

I pawed through his clothes in the dresser and turned to his closet. The closet was filled with undertaker suits and shirts and shoes. Six pairs of black shoes lined up on the floor, and six shoe boxes. Hmmm. I opened a shoe box. Bingo. A gun. A Colt .45. I opened the other five boxes and ended up with a tally of three handguns and three shoe boxes filled with ammo. I copied the serial numbers off the guns and took down the information on the boxes of ammo.

I pulled the bedroom window aside and peeked out at Lula. She was sitting on the stoop, filing her nails. I rapped on the windowpane, and the file flew from her fingers. Guess she wasn't as calm as she looked. I motioned to her that I was leaving and would meet her out back.

I made sure everything was as I'd found it, shut off all lights, and exited through the patio door. It would be obvious to Spiro that someone had broken into his apartment, but chances were good he'd blame it on Kenny.

"Give me the shit," Lula said. "You found something, didn't you?"

"I found a couple guns."

"That don't float my boat. Everybody got guns."

"Do you have a gun?"

"Yo, momma. Damn right I got a gun." She pulled a big black gun out of her pocketbook.

"Blue steel," she said. "Got it off Harry the Horse back when I was a ho. You want to know why we call him Harry the Horse?"

"Don't tell me."

"That mother was fearful. He just wouldn't fit in anywhere. Hell, I had to use two hands to give him the poor man's special."

I dropped Lula back at the office and went on home. By the time I pulled into my lot, the sky had blackened under the cloud cover and a light rain had begun to fall. I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and hurried into the building, happy to be home. Mrs. Bestler was doing hall laps with her walker. Step, step, clomp. Step, step, clomp.

"Another day, another dollar," she said.

"True enough," I replied.

I could hear the rise and fal of audience participation as Mr. Wolesky's TV droned on behind his closed door.

I plugged my key into my lock and did a quick, suspicious look around my apartment. All was secure. There were no messages on the machine, and there'd been no mail downstairs.

I made hot chocolate and a peanut butter and honey sandwich. I stacked the plate on top of the mug, tucked the phone under my arm, grabbed the list of numbers I'd retrieved from Spiro's apartment, and carted everything off to the dining room table. I dialed the first number and a woman answered.

"I'd like to speak to Kenny," I said.

"You must have the wrong number. There's no Kenny here."

"Is this the Colonial Grill?"

"No, this is a private number."

"Sorry," I said.

I had seven numbers to check out. The first four were exactly alike. All private residences. Probably clients. The fifth was pizza delivery. The sixth was St. Francis Hospital. The seventh was a motel in Bordentown. I thought this last one had some potential. I gave Rex a corner of my sandwich, heaved a sigh at having to leave the warmth and comfort of my apartment, and shrugged back into my jacket. The motel was on Route 206, not far from the turnpike entrance. It was a cut-rate motel, built before the motel chains moved in. There were forty units, all ground floor, opening to a narrow porch. Lights shone from two. The neon sign at roadside advertised efficiencies available. The exterior was neat, but it was a foregone conclusion that the inside would be dated, the wallpaper faded, the chenille spread threadbare, the bathroom sink rust-stained.

I parked close to the office and hustled inside. An elderly man sat behind the desk, watching a small TV.

"Evening," he said.

"Are you the manager?"

"Yep. The manager, the owner, the handyman."

I took Kenny's picture out of my pocketbook. "I'm looking for this man. Have you seen him?"

"Mind telling me why you're looking for him?"

"He's in violation of a bond agreement."

"What's that mean?"

"It means he's a felon."

"Are you a cop?"

"I'm an apprehension agent. I work for his bonding company." The man looked at the picture and nodded. "He's in unit seventeen. Been there for a couple days." He thumbed through a ledger on the counter. "Here he is. John Sherman. Checked in on Tuesday."

I could hardly believe it! Damned if I wasn't good. "Is he alone?"

"So far as I know."

"Do you have vehicle information?"

"We don't bother with that. We got lots of parking space here." I thanked him and told him I'd hang around for a while. I gave him my card and asked that he didn't give me away should he see Sherman.

I drove to a dark corner of the lot, shut the engine off, locked the windows, and hunkered down for the duration. If Kenny showed up I'd call Ranger. If I couldn't reach Ranger, I'd go to Joe Morelli.

By nine o'clock I was thinking I might have chosen the wrong profession. My toes were frozen, and I had to pee. Kenny hadn't materialized, and there was no activity at the motel to break the monotony of waiting. I ran the engine to warm things up and did some isometrics. I fantasized about going to bed with Batman. He was a little dark, but I liked the look of the codpiece on his rubber suit.

At eleven I begged the manager to let me use his bathroom. I mooched a cup of coffee from him and returned to Big Blue. I had to admit, while the wait was uncomfortable, it was immeasurably better than it would have been in my little Jeep. There was a feeling of encapsulation in the Buick. Sort of like being in a rolling bomb shelter with windows and overstuffed furniture. I was able to stretch my legs across the front bench seat. Behind me, the backseat had real boudoir potential.

I dozed off somewhere around twelve-thirty and woke up at one-fifteen. Kenny's unit was still dark, and there were no new cars in the lot.

I had several choices available to me. I could try to stick it out myself, I could ask Ranger to rotate shifts with me, or I could pack it in for the night and return before daybreak. If I asked Ranger to rotate shifts I'd have to give him a bigger piece of the pie than I'd originally intended. On the other hand, if I tried to stick it out by myself I was afraid I'd nod off and freeze to death like the little match girl. I chose door number three. If Kenny returned tonight it would be to sleep, and he'd still be here at six in the morning. I sang "Row, row, row your boat" all the way home to keep awake. I dragged myself into my apartment building, up the stairs, and down the hall. I let myself into my foyer, locked the door behind me, and crawled into bed fully clothed, shoes and all. I slept flat out until six, when an inner alarm clock prodded me awake.

I stumbled out of bed, relieved to find I was already dressed and could forgo that chore. I did the bare minimum in the bathroom, grabbed my jacket and my pocketbook, and trudged out to the parking lot. It was pitch black above the lot lights, still drizzly, and ice had formed on car windows. Lovely. I started the car, turned the heater on full blast, took the scraper out of the map pocket and chipped the windows free. By the time I was done chipping I was pretty much awake. I stopped at a 7-Eleven en route to Bordentown and stocked up on coffee and doughnuts.

It was still dark when I reached the motel. There were no lights on in any of the units, and there were no new cars in the lot. I parked to the dark side of the office and cracked the lid on my coffee. I was feeling less optimistic today and considered the possibility that the old man in the office had been having some fun at my expense. If Kenny didn't show by midafternoon I'd ask to be let into his room.

If I'd been clever, I'd have changed my socks and brought a blanket. If I'd been really clever, I'd have given the guy in the office a twenty and asked him to call me if Kenny showed up.

At ten minutes to seven a woman drove up in a Ford truck and parked in front of the office. She gave me a curious look and went inside. Ten minutes later the old man came out and ambled across the lot to a beat-up Chevy. He waved and smiled and drove off. There was no way I could be sure the old guy had told the woman about me, and I didn't want her calling the police to report a strange person loitering on the premises, so I hauled myself over to the office and went through the same drill as the night before. The answers were the same. Yes, she recognized the picture. Yes, he was registered as John Sherman.

"Good-looking guy," she said. "But not real friendly."

"Did you notice the car he was driving?"

"Honey, I noticed everything about him. He was driving a blue van. Wasn't one of those fancy conversion vans. Was more of a work van. The kind without all the windows."

"Did you get a plate number?" I asked.

"Hell no. I wasn't interested in his plates."

I thanked her and retreated to my car to drink cold coffee. Every now and then I got out and stretched and stomped my feet. I took a half-hour break for lunch, and nothing had changed when I got back.

Morelli pulled his cop car beside me at three. He got out and slid onto the seat next to me.

"Christ," he said. "It's freezing in this car."

"Is this a chance meeting?"

"Kelly drives by here on his way to work. He saw the Buick and started a pool on who you were shacked up with."

I gritted my teeth. "Unh."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Through some superb detective work, I discovered that Kenny is staying here, registered as John Sherman."

A spark of excitement flickered across Morelli's face. "You have an ID?"

"Both the night clerk and the day clerk recognized Kenny from his picture. He's driving a blue panel van and was last seen yesterday morning. I got here early last night and sat until one. I was back here at six-thirty this morning."

"No sign of Kenny."

"None."

"Have you been through his room?"

"Not yet."

"The maid been through?"

"Nope."

Morelli opened his door. "Let's take a look."

Morelli identified himself to the day clerk and got a key to number 17. He rapped on the unit's door twice. No answer. He unlocked the door, and we both entered. The bed was unmade. A navy duffel bag sat open on the floor. The bag contained socks and shorts and two black T-shirts. A flannel shirt and a pair of jeans had been tossed across the back of a chair. A shaving kit sat open in the bathroom.

"Looks to me like he's been scared off," Morelli said. "My guess is he spotted you."

"Impossible. I parked in the darkest part of the lot. And how did he know it was me?"

"Sweet thing, everyone knows it's you."

"It's this awful car! It's ruining my life. It's sabotaging my career." Morelli grinned. "That's a lot to ask of a car."

I tried to look contemptuous, but it was hard with my teeth chattering from the cold. "Now what?" I asked.

"Now I talk to the clerk and ask her to call me if Kenny returns." He gave me a fast headto-foot appraisal. "You look like you slept in those clothes."

"How'd it go with Spiro and Louie Moon yesterday?"

"I don't think Louie Moon is involved. He doesn't have what it takes."

"Intelligence?"

"Contacts," Morelli said. "Whoever has the guns is selling them off. I did some checking. Moon doesn't move in the right circles. Moon wouldn't even know how to go about finding the right circles."

"What about Spiro?"

"Wasn't ready to give me a confession." He flipped the light off. "You should go home and take a shower and get dressed for dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Pot roast at six."

"You aren't serious."

The grin was back. "I'll pick you up at quarter to six."

"No! I'll drive myself."

Morelli was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and a red wool scarf. He took the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck. "You look frozen," he said. "Go home and warm up." Then he sauntered off to the motel office.

It was still drizzling. The sky was gunmetal gray, and my mood was equally grim. I'd had a good line on Kenny Mancuso, and I'd blown it. I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'd sat out there in this big dumb Buick. What was I thinking?

The motel was twelve miles from my apartment building, and I berated myself all the way home. I made a quick stop at the supermarket, fed Big Blue more gas, and by the time I pulled into my lot, I was thoroughly disgusted and demoralized. I'd had three chances to nail Kenny, at Julia's house, at the mall, and now at the motel, and I'd screwed up every time.

Probably at this stage in my career I should stick to the low-level criminals, like shoplifters and drunk drivers. Unfortunately, the payout on those criminals wasn't sufficient to keep me afloat.

I did more self-flagellation while I rode the elevator and made my way down the hall. A sticky note from Dillon was taped to my door. Got a package for you, the note said. I went back to the elevator and hit the button for basement. The elevator opened to a small vestibule with four closed, locked doors freshly painted battleship gray. One door led to storage cages for the use of the residents, the second door opened into the boiler room with its ominous rumblings and gurglings, the third door gave way to a long corridor and rooms dedicated to building maintenance, and Dillon lived in rent-free contentment behind the fourth door.

I always felt claustrophobic when I came down here, but Dillon said that it suited him fine and that he found the boiler noises soothing. He'd stuck a note to his door, saying that he'd be home at five.

I returned to my apartment, gave Rex some raisins and a corn chip, and took a long, hot shower. I staggered out red as a boiled lobster and foggy-brained from the chlorine gas. I flopped on the bed and contemplated my future. It was a short contemplation. When I woke up it was quarter to six, and someone was pounding on my door. I wrapped myself in a robe and padded into the foyer. I put my eye to the peephole. It was Joe Morelli. I cracked the door and looked at him over the security chain. "I just got out of the shower."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in before Mr. Wolesky comes out and gives me the third degree."

I slipped the chain and opened the door.

Morelli stepped into the foyer. His mouth curved at the edges. "Scary hair."

"I sort of slept on it."

"No wonder you have no sex life. It'd take a lot out of a man to wake up to hair like that."

"Go sit in a chair in the living room, and don't get up until I tell you. Don't eat my food, and don't scare my hamster, and don't make any long-distance calls." He was watching television when I came out of my bedroom ten minutes later. I was wearing a granny dress over a white T-shirt, with ankle-high brown lace-up boots, and an oversized, loose-weave cardigan sweater. It was my Annie Hall look, and it made me feel feminine, but it always had the opposite effect on the opposite sex. Annie Hall was guaranteed to wilt the most determined dick. It was better than Mace on a blind date. I wrapped Morelli's red scarf around my neck and buttoned myself into my jacket. I grabbed my pocketbook and shut the lights off. "There's going to be hell to pay if we're late."

Morelli followed me out the door. "I wouldn't worry about it. Once your mother sees you in that get-up, she'll forget about the time."

"It's my Annie Hall look."

"Looks to me like you've put a jelly doughnut in a bag labeled bran muffin." I rushed down the hal and took the stairs. I got to the ground floor and remembered the package Dillon was holding. "Wait a minute," I yelled to Morelli. "I'll be right back." I scrambled down the stairs to the cellar and pounded on Dillon's door. Dillon peered out.

"I'm late, and I need my package," I said.

He handed me a bulky overnight mail envelope, and I ran back up the stairs.

"Three minutes one way or the other can make or break a pot roast," I told Morelli, grabbing him by the hand, dragging him across the lot to his truck. I hadn't intended to go with him, but I figured if we hit traffic he could use his rooftop flasher. "You have a flasher on this truck?" I asked, climbing on board.

Morelli buckled himself in. "Yeah, I have a flasher. You don't expect me to use it for pot roast, do you?"

I swiveled in my seat and stared out the back window.

Morelli cut his eyes to the rearview mirror. "Are you looking for Kenny?"

"I can feel him out there."

"I don't see anyone."

"That doesn't mean he isn't there. He's good at this sneaking around stuff. He walks into Stiva's and chops off body parts, and nobody sees him. He came out of nowhere at the mall. He spotted me at Julia Cenetta's house and in the motel parking lot, and I never had a clue. Now I have this creepy feeling he's watching me, following me around."

"Why would he be doing that?"

"For starters, Spiro told Kenny I'd kill him if he continued to harass him."

"Oh boy."

"Probably I'm just being paranoid."

"Sometimes paranoia is justified."

Morelli stopped for a light. The digital readout on his dashboard clock blinked to 5:58. I cracked my knuckles, and Morelli glanced over at me, eyebrows raised.

"Okay," I said, "so my mother makes me nervous."

"It's part of her job," Morelli said. "You shouldn't take it personally." We turned off Hamilton, into the burg, and traffic disappeared. There were no car lights behind us, but I couldn't shake the feeling that Kenny had me in his sights. My mother and Grandma Mazur were at the door when we parked. Usually it was the differences between my mother and grandmother that caught my attention. Today it was the similarities that seemed obvious. They stood tall, with their shoulders back. It was a defiant posture, and I knew it was my posture, too. Their hands were clasped in front of them, their gaze was unwavering, fixed on Morelli and me. Their faces were round; their eyes were hooded. Mongol eyes. My Hungarian relatives had come from the steppes. Not a city dweller among them. My mother and grandma were small women and had grown even smaller with age. They were dainty-boned and petite, with baby-fine hair. Probably they were descended from pampered, caravan-cosseted Gypsy women.

I, on the other hand, was a throwback to some plow-pulling, rawboned wife of a barbarian farmer.

I hiked up my skirt to jump from the truck, and saw my mother and grandmother flinch at the sight.

"What's this outfit?" my mother demanded. "Can't you afford clothes? Are you wearing other people's? Frank, give Stephanie some money. She needs to buy clothes."

"I don't need to buy clothes," I said. "This is new. I just bought it. It's the style."

"How will you ever get a man when you're dressed like this?" My mother turned to Morelli.

"Am I right?"

Morelli grinned. "I think she's kind of cute. It's the Monty Hall look." I still had the package in my hand. I set it on the foyer table and took my jacket off. "Annie Hall!"

Grandma Mazur picked the envelope up and studied it. "Overnight mail. Must be something important. Feels like there's a box in here. Return address says R. Klein from Fifth Avenue in New York. Too bad it isn't for me. I wouldn't mind getting some overnight mail."

I hadn't thought much about the package until now. I didn't know anyone named R. Klein, and I hadn't ordered anything from New York. I took the envelope from Grandma and peeled the flap back.

There was a little cardboard box inside. It was taped closed. I took the box out, and held it in my hand. It wasn't especially heavy.

"Smells funny," Grandma said. "Like insecticide. Or maybe it's one of them new perfumes."

I ripped the tape away, opened the box, and sucked in my breath. There was a penis inside the box. The penis was neatly sliced off at the root, perfectly embalmed, and secured to a square of Styrofoam with a hat pin.

Everyone stared at the penis in dumbfounded horror.

Grandma Mazur spoke first, and when she did it was with a touch of wistfulness. "Been a long time since I've seen one of those," she said.

My mother started screaming, hands in air, eyes bugging out of her head. "Get it out of my house! What's the world coming to? What will people think?"

My father left his chair in the living room and padded out to the hall to see what the fuss was all about. "What's going on?" he asked, sticking his head into the huddle.

"It's a penis," Grandma said. "Stephanie got it in the mail. It's a pretty good one too." My father recoiled. "Jesus and Joseph!"

"Who would do such a thing?" my mother shouted. "What is it? Is it rubber? Is it one of those rubber penises?"

"Don't look rubber to me," Grandma Mazur said. "Looks to me like a real penis, except it's kind of discolored. I don't remember them being this color."

"That's crazy!" my mother said. "What person would mail his penis?" Grandma Mazur looked at the envelope. "Says Klein on the return address. I always thought that was a Jewish name, but this doesn't look to me like a Jewish penis." Everyone turned their attention to Grandma Mazur.

"Not that I'd know much about it," Grandma said. "It's just that I might have seen one of them Jewish ones in National Geographic ."

Morelli took the box from me and replaced the lid. We both knew the name to attach to the penis. Joseph Loosey.

"I'm going to take a raincheck on dinner," Morelli said. "I'm afraid this is a police matter." He snagged my pocketbook off the hal table and draped it over my shoulder. "Stephanie needs to come too, so she can make a statement."

"It's that bounty hunter job," my mother said to me. "You meet all the wrong kinds of people. Why can't you get a good job like your cousin Christine? No one ever sends Christine these things in the mail."

"Christine works in a vitamin factory. She spends her whole day watching the cotton stuffer to make sure it doesn't malfunction."

"She makes good money."

I zipped my jacket. "I make good money . . . sometimes."