Two for the dough

Chapter Two

I crammed myself behind the wheel, locked the doors, and furtively looked around to see if I'd been spotted committing a federal offense. I had my pocketbook pressed to my chest, and there were little black dots dancing in front of my eyes. Okay, so I wasn't the coolest, baddest bounty hunter ever. What mattered was that I was going to get my man, right?

I stuck the key into the ignition, cranked the engine over, and pulled out of the lot. I slapped Aerosmith into the tape deck and punched up the volume when I hit Route 1. It was dark and raining, with bad visibility, but this was Jersey, and we don't slow down for anything. Brake lights flashed in front of me, and I fishtailed to a stop. The traffic light turned green, and we all took off with our foot to the floor. I cut over two lanes to line up for the turnoff, beating out a Beemer. The driver flipped me the bird and blew his horn. I responded with some derisive Italian hand gestures and commented on his mother. Being born in Trenton carries a certain responsibility in these situations. Traffic dragged along city streets, and I was relieved to finally cross over the train tracks and feel the burg growing closer, sucking me forward. I reached Hamilton, and the tractor beam of familial guilt locked onto my car.

My mother was peering out the storm door when I parked at the curb. "You're late," she said.

"Two minutes!"

"I heard sirens. You weren't in an accident, were you?"

"No. I wasn't in an accident. I was working."

"You should get a real job. Something steady with normal hours. Your cousin Marjorie got a nice secretarial job with J and J. I hear she makes big money." Grandma Mazur was standing in the hall. She lived with my parents now that Grandpa Mazur was scarfing down his normal two-eggs-and-a-half-pound-of-bacon breakfast in the hereafter.

"We better get a move on with this dinner if we're gonna make the viewing," Grandma Mazur said. "You know how I like to get there early, so I can get a good seat. And the Knights of Columbus will be there tonight. There'l be a big crowd." She smoothed the front of her dress. "What do you think of this dress?" she asked me. "You think it's too flashy?"

Grandma Mazur was seventy-two and didn't look a day over ninety. I loved her dearly, but when you got her down to her skivvies, she resembled a soup chicken. Tonight's dress was a fire-engine-red shirt-waist with shiny gold buttons. "It's perfect," I told her. Especially for the funeral home, which would be cataract central.

My mother brought the mashed potatoes to the table. "Come and eat," she said, "before the mashed potatoes get cold."

"So what did you do today?" Grandma Mazur asked. "You have to rough anyone up?"

"I spent the day looking for Kenny Mancuso, but I didn't have much luck."

"Kenny Mancuso is a bum," my mother said. "All those Morelli and Mancuso men are trash. You can't trust a one of them."

I looked over at my mother. "Have you heard any news about Kenny? Anything going through the gossip mill?"

"Just that he's a bum," my mother said. "Isn't that enough?" In the burg it is possible to be born into bumhood. The Morelli and Mancuso women are above reproach, but the men are jerks. They drink, they cuss, they slap their kids around and cheat on their wives and girlfriends.

"Sergie Morelli will be at the viewing," Grandma Mazur said. "He'll be there with the K of C. I could grill him for you. I'd be real sneaky about it too. He's always been kind of sweet on me, you know."

Sergie Morelli was eighty-one years old and had a lot of bristly gray hair coming out of ears that were half the size of his withered head. I didn't expect Sergie knew where Kenny was hiding, but sometimes bits and pieces of seemingly benign information turned out to be useful. "How about if I come to the viewing with you," I said, "and we can grill Sergie together?"

"I guess that would be okay. Just don't cramp my style." My father rolled his eyes and forked into his chicken.

"Do you think I should carry?" Grandma Mazur asked. "Just in case?"

"Jesus," my father said.

We had warm homemade apple pie for desert. The apples were tart and cinnamony. The crust was flaky and crisp with a sprinkling of sugar. I ate two pieces and almost had an orgasm. "You should open a bakery," I said to my mother. "You could make a fortune selling pies."

She was busy stacking pie plates and gathering up silverware. "I have enough to do to take care of the house and your father. Besides, if I was to go to work, I'd want to be a nurse. I've always thought I'd make a good nurse."

Everyone stared at her openmouthed. No one had ever heard her voice this aspiration. In fact, no one had ever heard her voice any aspiration that didn't pertain to new slipcovers or draperies.

"Maybe you should think about going back to school," I told my mother. "You could enroll in the community college. They have a nursing program."

"I wouldn't want to be a nurse," Grandma Mazur said. "They gotta wear them ugly white shoes with the rubber soles, and they empty bedpans all day. If I was going to get a job, I'd want to be a movie star."

There are five funeral homes in the burg. Betty Szajack's brother-in-law, Danny Gunzer, was laid out at Stiva's Mortuary.

"When I die you make sure I'm taken to Stiva," Grandma Mazur said on the way over. "I don't want that no-talent Mosel laying me out. He don't know nothing about makeup. He uses too much rouge. Nobody looks natural. And I don't want Sokolowsky seeing me naked. I heard some funny things about Sokolowsky. Stiva is the best. If you're anybody at all, you go to Stiva."

Stiva's was on Hamilton, not far from St. Francis Hospital, in a large converted Victorian sporting a wraparound porch. The house was painted white with black shutters, and in deference to the wobbly old folks, Stiva had installed green indooroutdoor carpeting from the front door, down the stairs to the sidewalk. A driveway ran to the back, where a fourcar garage housed the essential vehicles. A brick addition had been added to the side opposite the driveway. There were two viewing rooms in the addition. I had never been given the full tour, but I assumed the embalming equipment was there as well. I parked on the street and ran around the Jeep to help Grandma Mazur get out. She'd decided she couldn't do a good job of worming information out of Sergie Morelli in her standard-fare tennis shoes and was now precariously teetering on black patent leather heels, which she said all babes wore.

I took a firm grip on her elbow and ushered her up the stairs to the lobby, where the K of C

were massing in their fancy hats and sashes. Voices were hushed, and footsteps muffled by new carpet. The aroma of cut flowers was overbearing, mingling with the pervasive odor of breath mints that didn't do much in the way of hiding the fact that the K of C had shored themselves up with large quantities of Seagram's.

Constantine Stiva had set up business thirty years ago and had presided over mourners every day since. Stiva was the consummate undertaker, his mouth forever fixed in Muzak mode, his high forehead pale and soothing as cold custard, his movements always unobtrusive and silent. Constantine Stiva . . . the stealth embalmer. Lately Constantine's stepson, Spiro, had begun making undertaker noises, hovering at Constantine's side during evening viewings and assisting in morning burials. Death was clearly Constantine Stiva's life. It seemed more a spectator sport to Spiro. His smiles of condolence were all lips and teeth and no eyes. If I had to venture a guess as to his industry pleasures I'd go with the chemistry—the tilt-top tables and the pancreatic harpoons. Mary Lou Molnar's little sister went to grade school with Spiro and reported to Mary Lou that Spiro had saved his fingernail clippings in a glass jar. Spiro was smal and dark with hairy knuckles and a face that was dominated by nose and sloping forehead. The uncharitable truth was that he looked like a rat on steroids, and this rumor about the fingernail-saving did nothing to enhance his image in my eyes. He'd been friends with Moogey Bues, but he hadn't seemed especially disturbed by the shooting. I'd spoken to him briefly while working my way through Kenny's little black book. Spiro's response had been politely guarded. Yes, he'd hung with Moogey and Kenny in high school. And yes, they'd stayed friends. No, he couldn't think of a motive for either shooting. No, he hadn't seen Kenny since his arrest and hadn't a clue as to his whereabouts.

Constantine was nowhere to be seen in the lobby, but Spiro stood directing traffic in a conservative dark suit and crisp white shirt.

Grandma looked him over as one would a cheap imitation of good jewelry. "Where's Con?" she asked.

"In the hospital. Herniated disk. Happened last week."

"No!" Grandma said on a sharp intake of air. "Who's taking care of the business?"

"Me. I pretty much run the place, anyway. And then Louie's here, of course."

"Who's Louie?"

"Louie Moon," Spiro told her. "You probably don't know him because he mostly works mornings, and sometimes he drives. He's been with us for about six months." A young woman pushed through the front door and stood halfway into the foyer. She searched the room while she unbuttoned her coat. She caught Spiro's eye, and Spiro did his official undertaker nod of greeting. The young woman nodded back.

"Looks like she's interested in you," Grandma said to Spiro. Spiro smiled, showing prominent incisors and lowers crooked enough to give an orthodontist wet dreams. "A lot of women are interested in me. I'm a pretty good catch." He spread his arms wide. "This will all be mine someday."

"I guess I never looked at you in that light," Grandma said. "I suppose you could support a woman in fine style."

"I'm thinking of expanding," he said. "Maybe franchising the name."

"Did you hear that?" Grandma said to me. "Isn't it nice to find a young man with ambition." If this went on much longer I was going to ralph on Spiro's suit. "We're here to see Danny Gunzer," I told Spiro. "Nice talking to you, but we should be running along before the K of C takes up all the good seats."

"I understand perfectly. Mr. Gunzer is in the green room." The green room used to be the parlor. It should have been one of the better rooms, but Stiva had painted it a bilious green and had installed overhead lighting bright enough to illuminate a footbal field.

"I hate that green room," Grandma Mazur said, hustling after me. "Every wrinkle shows in that room what with all those overhead lights. This is what it comes to when you let Walter Dumbowski do the electric. Them Dumbowski brothers don't know nothing. I tell you, if Stiva tries to lay me out in the green room you just take me home. I'd just as leave be put out on the curb for Thursday trash pickup. If you're anybody at all, you get one of the new rooms in the back with the wood paneling. Everybody knows that." Betty Szajack and her sister were standing at the open casket. Mrs. Goodman, Mrs. Gennaro, old Mrs. Ciak, and her daughter were already seated. Grandma Mazur rushed forward and put her purse on a folding chair in the second row. Her place secured, she wobbled up to Betty Szajack and made her condolences while I worked the back of the room. I learned that Gail Lazar was pregnant, that Barkalowski's deli was cited by the health department, and that Biggy Zaremba was arrested for indecent exposure. But I didn't learn anything about Kenny Mancuso.

I meandered through the crowd, sweating under my flannel shirt and turtleneck, with visions of my damp hair steaming as it frizzed out to maximum volume. By the time I got to Grandma Mazur I was panting like a dog.

"Just look at this tie," she said, standing over the casket, eyes glued to Gunzer. "It's got little horse heads on it. If this don't beat all. Almost makes me wish I was a man so I could be laid out with a tie like this."

Bodies shuffled at the back of the room and conversation ceased as the K of C made its appearance. The men moved forward two by two, and Grandma Mazur went up on tiptoe, pivoting on her patentleather spikes to get a good look. Her heel caught in the carpet and Grandma Mazur pitched back, her body board stiff.

She smacked into the casket before I could get to her, flailing with her arms for support, finally finding purchase on a wire stand supporting a large milk-glass vase of gladioli. The stand held, but the vase tipped out, crashing down onto Danny Gunzer, clonking him square in the forehead. Water sloshed into Gunzer's ears and dripped off his chin, and gladioli settled onto Gunzer's charcoal gray suit in colorful confusion. Everyone stared in speechless horror, half expecting Gunzer to jump up and shriek, but Gunzer didn't do anything.

Grandma Mazur was the only one not frozen to the floor. She righted herself and adjusted her dress. "Well, I guess it's a good thing he's dead," she said. "This way no harm's done."

"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 bil 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 hal 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'l 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 keeps 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.

I parked in front of her, in a no-parking zone, and received a warning glare from the cop. I waved my bond papers at him. "I'll only be a minute," I yelled. "I'm here to take Eula to court."

He gave me an oh yeah, well, good luck look and went back to staring off into space. Eula harrumphed at me. "I ain't goin' to court."

"Why not?"

"The sun's out. I gotta get my vitamin D."

"I'll buy you a carton of milk. It's got vitamin D in it."

"What else you gonna buy me? You gonna buy me a sandwich?" I took the tuna sandwich out of my pocketbook. "I was going to eat this for lunch, but you can have it."

"What kind is it?"

"Tuna on a kaiser. I got it at Fiorello's."

"Fiorello makes good sandwiches. Did you get extra pickles?"

"Yeah. I got extra pickles."

"I don't know. What about my stuff here?"

She had a supermarket cart behind her, and she'd rammed two big black plastic garbage bags filled with God knows what into the cart.

"We'll put your stuff in lockers in the train station."

"Who's gonna pay for the locker? I'm on a fixed income, you know."

"I'll spring for the locker."

"You're gonna hafta carry my stuff. I got a gimpy leg." I looked over at the cop, who was staring down at his shoes and smiling.

"You want anything out of those bags before I lock them up?" I asked Eula.

"Nope," she said. "I got all I need."

"And when I lock away all your worldly possessions, and get your milk, and give you the sandwich, you're going to come with me, right?"

"Right."

I hauled the bags up the steps, dragged them down the corridor, and tipped a porter a buck to help me wedge the damn things into the lockers. One bag to one locker. I dropped a fistful of quarters into the lockers, took the keys, and leaned against the wall to catch my breath, thinking I should try to make time for the gym and some upper body work. I trotted back to the front of the building, pushed my way through the doors to the McDonald's franchise, and bought Eula a container of lowfat milk. I swung back out the main entrance and looked for Eula. She was gone. The cop was gone too. And, I had a parking ticket on my windshield.

I walked over to the first cab in line and rapped on his window. "Where'd Eula go?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said. "She took a cab."

"She had money for a cab?"

"Sure. She makes out pretty good here."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"She lives on that bench. The last one on the right."

Wonderful. I got into my car and made a U-turn into the small, metered parking lot. I waited until someone pulled out, then I parked in their slot, ate my sandwich, drank the milk, and waited with my arms crossed over my chest.

Two hours later a cab pulled up and Eula got out. She waddled to her bench and sat down with an obvious sense of possession. I pulled out of my parking spot and eased to the curb in front of her. I smiled.

She smiled back.

I got out of the car and walked over to her. "Remember me?"

"Yeah," she said. "You went off with my stuff."

"I put it in a locker for you."

"Took you long enough."

I was born a month premature, and I never did learn the value of patience. "You see these two keys? Your stuff's locked up in lockers that can only be opened with these two keys. Either you get in my car, or I'm flushing these keys."

"That'd be a mean thing to do to a poor old lady."

It was all I could do to keep from growling.

"Okay," she said, heaving herself up. "I guess I may as well go. It ain't so sunny anymore anyway."

The Trenton Police Department houses itself in a three-story redbrick block-type building. A sister block, attached at street level, provides space for the courts and related offices. On every side of the municipal complex is the ghetto. This is very convenient, as the police never have to go far to find crime.

I parked in the lot attached to the station and squired Eula through the front hal to the cop at the front desk. If it had been after business hours, or if I'd had an unruly fugitive on my hands, I'd have gotten myself buzzed through the back door directly to the docket lieutenant. None of that was necessary for Eula, so I sat her down while I tried to determine if the judge who'd originally set her bond was working cases. It turned out he wasn't, and I had no recourse but to take her to the docket lieutenant anyway and have them hold her.

I gave her the locker keys, picked up my body receipt, and left through the back door. Morelli was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against my car, hands shoved into his pockets, doing his imitation of a street tough, which probably wasn't an imitation.

"What's new?" Morelli said.

"Not much. What's new with you?"

He shrugged. "Slow day."

"Un-huh."

"Got any leads on Kenny?" he asked.

"Nothing I'd share with you. You swiped the phone bill last night."

"I didn't swipe it. I forgot I had it in my hand."

"Un-huh. So why don't you tell me about the Mexican numbers?"

"Nothing to tell."

"I don't believe that for a second. And I don't believe you're putting all this effort into finding Kenny because you're a good family person."

"You have a reason for your doubts?"

"I have a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach."

Morelli grinned. "You can take that to the bank."

Okay. Different approach. "I thought we were a team."

"There's all kinds of teams. Some teams work more independent of each other." I felt my eyes roll back in my head. "Let me get this straight," I said. "What this comes down to is that I share all my information, but you don't. Then when we find Kenny you spirit him off for reasons as yet unknown to me and cut me out of my recovery."

"It's not like that. I wouldn't cut you out of your recovery." Give me a break. It was exactly like that, and we both knew it.