“Thanks, but I'd rather you stayed home and entertained Joe.”
Grandma winked at Morelli, and Morelli looked like a snake that just swallowed a cow and got it stuck in his throat.
Ten minutes later, I heard a car pull to the curb outside. Rap music thumped through the house, the music cut off and in moments Lula was at the door.
“We got a lot of pot roast,” Grandma said to Lula. “You want some?”
My mother was on her feet, setting an extra plate.
“Pot roast,” Lula said. “Boy, I like pot roast.” She pulled a chair up and shook out her napkin.
“I always wanted to eat with a Negro,” Grandma said.
“Yeah, well, I always wanted to eat with a boney-assed old white woman,” Lula said. “So I guess this works out good.”
Grandma and Lula did some complicated handshake thing.
“Bitchin',” Grandma said.
* * * * *
IT WAS the first time I'd ridden in the new Firebird, and I was feeling envious.
“How can you afford a car like this working as a file clerk? And how come your insurance came through, and I'm still waiting?”
“First off, I got low overhead where I'm living. And second, I just keep leasing these suckers. You barbecue a car and they give you a new one. No sweat.”
“Maybe I should look into that.”
“Just don't tell them about how your cars keep getting blown up. They might think you're a risk, you know what I'm saying?” Lula had taken High to Hamilton. “This guy, Bernie, works at the supermarket on Route Thirty-three. When he's not stacking oranges he's selling wacky tobaccy, which is the common link between Barnhardt and Mama Nowicki. Nowicki talks to Bernie, then Bernie talks to Barnhardt.”
“Joyce said it was a retail connection.”
“Ain't that the truth.”
“From what Connie got on the phone it seems he's also visually challenged.”
“Blind?”
“Ugly.”
She turned into the supermarket lot and rolled to a stop in a front slot. Not many people were shopping at this time of the night.
“Joyce said he was a horny little troll, so if you don't want to buy dope maybe you can promise him favors.”
“As in sexual favors?”
“You don't have to deliver,” Lula said. “All you gotta do is promise. I'd do it, but I think he's more your type.”
“What type is that?”
“White.”
“How do I find him?”
“Name's Bernie. Works in Produce. Looks like a horny little troll.”
I pulled the visor mirror down, fluffed my hair and applied fresh lip gloss. “Do I look okay?”
“From what I hear, this guy won't care if you bark and chase cars.”
I didn't have trouble finding him. He was stickering grapefruits with his back to me. He had a lot of curly black hair on the back and sides of his head and none on the top. The top of his head looked like a big pink egg. He was just under five feet, and built like a fireplug.
I put a sack of potatoes in my cart, and I cruised over to him. “Excuse me,” I said.
He turned, tilted his head back and looked at me. His fat fish lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
“Nice apples,” I said.
He made a gurgling sound, and his eyes slid down to my chest.
“So,” I said, “you have any dope?”
“What are you kidding me? What do I look like?”
“A friend of mine said I could get some dope from you.”
“Oh yeah? Who's your friend?”
“Joyce Barnhardt.”
This got his eyes to light up in a way that told me Joyce probably hadn't paid cold cash for her marijuana.
“I know Joyce,” he said. “But I'm not saying I sold her any dope.”
“We have another mutual friend.”
“Who's that?”
“Her name's Nowicki.”
“I don't know anybody named Nowicki.”
I gave him a description.
“That must be Francine,” he said. “She's a pip. I just never knew her last name.”
“Good customer?”
“Yeah. She buys lots of fruit.”
“See her lately?”
His voice got crafty. “What's it worth to you?”
I didn't like the sound of this. “What do you want?”
Bernie made a smoochy sound.
“Gross!”
“It's because I'm short, isn't it?”
“No. Of course not. I like short men. They, um, try harder.”
“Then it's the hair, right? You want a guy with hair.”
“Hair doesn't matter. I could care less about hair. And besides, you have plenty of hair. It's just not on the top of your head.”
“Then what?”
“You don't just go around making smoochy sounds at women! It's . . . cheap.”
“I thought you said you were friends with Joyce.”
“Oh yeah. I see your point.”
“So how about it?”
“The truth is, I'm not actually attracted to you.”
“I knew it. I could tell all along. It's my height.”
Jeez, the poor schnook really had a thing about his height. I mean, it wasn't as if he could help being born short or having a head like a bowling ball. I didn't want to compound his problem, but I didn't know what to say. And then I thought of Sally! “It's not your height,” I said. “It's me. I'm a lesbian.”
“You're shitting me!”
“No. Really.”
He looked me up and down. “Are you sure? Christ, what a waste! You don't look like a lesbian.”
I guess he thought lesbians had a big L burned into their foreheads, or something. Although, since I don't know any lesbians I'm not exactly an authority.
“You have a girlfriend?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure. She's . . . waiting in the car.”
“I want to see her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't believe you. I think you're just trying to be nice to me.”
“Look, Bernie, I want some information on Nowicki.”
“Not until I see your girlfriend.”
This was ridiculous. “She's shy.”
“Okay, I'll go out there.”
“No! I'll go get her.” Jesus!
I jogged out to the parking lot and leaned in the window at Lula. “I'm in kind of a bind here. I need you to help me out. I need a lesbian girlfriend.”
“You want me to find you one? Or you want me to be one?” I explained the situation to her, and we hoofed it back to Bernie, who was rearranging his grapefruits.
“Hey, little dude,” Lula said. “What's the word?”
Bernie looked up from the grapefruits and almost jumped out of his shoes. “Whoa!”
Guess Bernie hadn't expect my girlfriend to be a two-hundred-pound black woman wearing pink spandex.
“Jeez!” Bernie said. “Jeez!”
“So Stephanie tells me you know old lady Nowicki.”
Bernie vigorously nodded his head. “Yeah.”
“You see her lately?”
Bernie just stared at Lula.
“Earth to Bernie,” Lula said.
“Unh?”
“You see old lady Nowicki lately?”
“Yesterday. She came in to get some, you know, fruit.”
“How often does she like to buy fruit?”
Bernie chewed on his lower lip. “Hard to say. She's not regular.”
Lula draped an arm around Bernie and almost smothered him in her right breast. “See, the thing is, Bern, we'd like to talk to Nowicki, but we're having a hard time finding her on account of she's not staying in her house. Now if you could help us out here, we'd be grateful. Real grateful.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Bernie's face, from his bald dome to in front of his ear. “Oh crap,” he said. And I could tell from the way he said it that he
wanted to help us out.
Lula gave him another squeeze. “Well?”
“I dunno. I dunno. She never says much.”
“She always come in alone?”
“Yeah.”
I gave him my card. “If you remember something, or if you see Nowicki, you give me a call right away.”
“Sure. Don't worry.”
We got to the car, and I had another one of those weird thoughts. “Wait here,” I said to Lula. “I'll be right back.”
Bernie had been standing in the front of the store, watching us through the glass. “Now what?” he said. “You forget something?”
“When Nowicki bought her fruit from you, did she pay you with a twenty?”
He sounded surprised at the question. “Yeah.”
“You still have it?”
He stared at me blank-faced for a minute. “I guess . . .” He took his wallet from his back pocket and looked inside. “Here it is. It's the only twenty I got. It must be it.”
I rooted around in my shoulder bag and found some money. I counted out two tens. “I'll trade you.”
“Is that it?” he asked.
I gave him a sly smile. “For now.”
“You know, I wouldn't mind just watching.”
I patted him on the top of his head. “Hold that thought.”
“We didn't find out much,” Lula said when I got into the car.
“We know she was in Trenton yesterday.”
“Not many places three women can stay in Trenton,” Lula said. “Not like down the shore where there's lots of motels and lots of houses to rent. Hell, the only hotels we got charge by the hour.”
That was true. It was the state capital, and it didn't actually have a hotel. This might leave people to think no one wanted to stay in Trenton, but I was sure this was a wrong assumption. Trenton is cool. Trenton has everything . . . except a hotel.
Of course, just because Nowicki was doing business with Bernie didn't mean she had to be in Trenton proper.
We took one last spin past Eddie Kuntz's house, the Nowicki house and Margie's house. All were dark and deserted.
Lula dropped me off in front of Morelli's house and shook her head. “That Morelli got one fine ass, but I don't know if I'd want to live with a cop.”
My sentiments exactly.
The windows were open to bring air into the house, and Morelli's television carried out to the street. He was watching a ball game. I felt the truck hood. Warm. He'd just gotten home. His front door was open like the windows, but the screen door was locked.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Anybody home?”
Morelli padded out barefoot. “That was fast.”
“Didn't seem all that fast to me.”
He relocked the screen and went back to the television.
I don't mind going out to the ballpark. You could sit in the sun and drink beer and eat hot dogs, and the whole thing was an event. Baseball on television put me into a coma. I dug into my pocket, found the twenty and passed it over to Morelli. “I stopped for a soda in north Trenton and got this in change. I thought it'd be fun to check its authenticity.”
Morelli looked up from the game. “Let me get this straight. You bought a soda, and you got a twenty in change. What'd you give her, a fifty?”
“Okay, so I don't want to tell you where I got it right now.”
Morelli examined the bill. “Goddamn,” he said. He turned it over and held it to the light. Then he patted the couch cushion next to him. “We need to talk.”
I sat down with reservation. “It's phony, isn't it?”
“Yep.”
“I had a hunch. Is it easy to tell?”
“Only if you know what to look for. There's a small line in the upper right corner where the plate is scratched. They tell me the paper isn't exactly right, either, but I can't see it. I only know by the scratch mark.”
“Was the guy you tried to bust from north Trenton?”
“No. And I was pretty sure he was working alone. Counterfeiting like this is usually a mom-and-pop deal. Very small.” He draped his arm over the back of the couch and stroked the nape of my neck with a single finger. “Now, about the twenty . . .”
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
13
IT WAS HOPELESS. Morelli was going to worm this out of me.
“The twenty came from Francine Nowicki, Maxine's mother,” I said. “She passed it to a dope dealer yesterday.”
I told him the rest of the story, and when I was done he had a strange expression on his face.
“How do you walk into these things? It's . . . spooky.”
“Maybe I have the eye.”
As soon as I said it I regretted it. The eye was like the monster under the bed. Not something to tempt out of hiding.
“I really thought it was a one-man operation,” Morelli said. “The guy we were watching fit the profile. We watched him for five months. And we never pegged anyone as being an accomplice.”
“It would explain a lot about Maxine.”
“Yeah, but I still don't get it. During that five-month period this guy never made physical contact with Kuntz or Maxine.”
“Did you actually see him passing the money?”
“No. That was part of the problem. Everything we had on him was circumstantial and coincidence.”
“Then why did you move?”
“It was the Feds' call. There were events that led us to believe he was printing.”
“But he wasn't.”
“No. Not money, anyway.” Morelli looked at the twenty again. “It's very possible there are just a bunch of these twenties floating around, and Nowicki's mother inadvertently passed one on.”
There was a knock on the door, and Morelli went to get it.
It was Sally.
“He's bananas!” Sally said. “He tried to kill me! The poor dumb sonnovabitch tried to fucking kill me.”
Sally looked like an overgrown, demented, testosterone-gone-berserk schoolgirl. Plaid pleated skirt, crisp white blouse, grungy sweat socks and beatup Reeboks. No makeup, no wig, two-day beard, hairy chest peeking out the top of the blouse.
“Who's trying to kill you?” I asked. I assumed it was his roomie, but with the way Sally was dressed it could be most anyone.
“Sugar. He's freaked out. Stormed out of the club after the gig on Sunday night and didn't come home until about an hour ago. Walked in the door with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter and said he was going to torch the place, claiming he was in love with me. Can you believe it?”
“Go figure.”
“He was ranting on about how everything was fine until you showed up, and then I stopped paying attention to him.”
“Doesn't he know you're not gay?”
“He said if you hadn't interfered I would have developed an attraction for him.” Sally ran his hand through his Wild Man of Borneo hair. “My luck, someone goes fucking gonzo over me, and it's a guy.”
“Could have something to do with the way you dress.”
Sally looked down at his skirt. “I was trying this on when he barged in. I'm thinking of changing my image to wholesome.”
Morelli and I both bit into our lower lips.
“So what happened?” Morelli asked. “Did he set fire to the apartment?”
“No. I wrestled the gas can out of his hands and threw it out the window. He tried to set fire to the rug with his Bic, but the rug wouldn't burn. All he did was make big black melt spots and stink the place up. Synthetic fibers, you know. Finally he gave up and ran away to get more gas. I decided I wasn't going to wait around to get turned into a briquette, so I stuffed a bunch of clothes into a couple of garbage bags and took off.”
Morelli had a grim expression on his face. “And you came here.”
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