"Fine! Go. I'll walk the dog. Yeesh."
Morelli opened the front door and stopped. "Shit."
"What?"
"We had visitors last night."
FIVE
I tightened my robe and peeked around Morelli. There was graffiti on the sidewalk and graffiti on the Buick. We both stepped out onto the small porch. The graffiti was on the front door.
"What are these marks?" I asked. "They look like little kitty paws."
"These are gang symbols. The Comstock Street Slayers are affiliated with Crud and Guts. Sometimes Crud and Guts is known as Cat Guts. So you have CSS with a paw print." Morelli was pointing as he was talking. "The GKC on the door would stand for Gangsta Killer Cruds."
I moved off the porch, over to the Buick. Every square inch of the car was spray-painted. "Slay the bitch" and "Crud Money" were prevalent themes. Morelli's SUV had been left untouched.
"Seems like there's a message here," I said to Morelli. I wasn't all that fond of the Buick but I hated seeing it defaced. The Buick had from time to time saved my butt. And probably this is a weird thing to say, but sometimes I had the feeling there was more there than just a car. Not to mention, the slogans seemed directed at me. And I suspected they weren't indicators of affection.
" 'Slay the bitch' is self-explanatory," Morelli said. His no-expression cop face was in place with only the tight corners of his mouth giving him away. Morelli wasn't happy. " 'Crud Money' describes the gangster lifestyle of extortion and drug sales. In this case, it could be putting you on notice that you're marked for retribution."
"What does that mean? Retribution?"
Morelli turned to me and our eyes held. "Could be anything," he said. "Could be death."
A greasy wave of undefined emotion slid through me. I suspected fear was heavy in the mix. I didn't know a lot about gangs, but I was coming up to speed fast. I hadn't felt especially threatened by gang-related crime three days ago. Now it was sitting at my curb, and it didn't feel good.
"You're exaggerating, right?" I asked.
"Executions are a part of gang culture. Gangs have been steadily on the rise in Trenton, and the murder rate has been rising with them. It used to be that the gangs were small and composed of kids looking to have a local identity. Now the gangs have their roots in the prison system and have national affiliations. They control the drug sales and territories. They're violent. They're unpredictable. They're feared in their communities."
"I knew there was a problem. I didn't know it was that bad."
"It's not something we like to talk about since we're at a loss how to fix it." Morelli pushed me into the house and closed the door. "I want you to stay here today until I get some intel on this. I'm going to have the Buick picked up and impounded in the police garage, so someone from the street gangs task force can take a look at it."
"You can't take the Buick. How will I get to work?"
Morelli tapped me gently on the forehead with his index finger. "Anybody home in there? Look at that car. Do you want to drive that car around?"
"I've driven around in worse." And that was the honest-to-God sad truth. How pathetic is that?
"Humor me, okay? Stay in the house. You should be safe here. To my knowledge, the Slayers have never burned down a house."
"Just a deli," I said.
"Yeah. A deli."
We both thought about that for a moment.
Morelli took my car keys from my purse and left. I locked the front door and went to the living room window to watch Morelli pull away in his SUV.
"How are we going to go for a walk?" I asked Bob. "How am I going to do my job? What will I do all day?"
Bob was pacing in front of the door, looking desperate.
"You're going to have to do it in the backyard today," I said, not all that unhappy about missing the walk. Bob pooped everywhere in the morning, and I got the privilege of carting it home. It's hard to enjoy a walk when you've got a big bag of poop in your hand.
I hooked Bob up to his backyard leash and tidied the kitchen. By one o'clock the bed was made, the floors were clean, the toaster was polished, the laundry was washed, dried, and folded, and I was cleaning out the fridge. At some point when my back was turned, the Buick disappeared from the curb.
"Now what?" I said to Bob.
Bob looked thoughtful, but he didn't come up with anything, so I called Morelli. "Now what?" I said to Morelli.
"It's only one o'clock," he said. "Give me a break. We're working on it."
"I polished the toaster."
"Un hunh. Listen, I have to go now."
"I'm, going nuts here!"
There was a disconnect and then a dial tone.
I still had the phone in my hand when it rang.
"What's going on?" Connie wanted to know. "Are you sick? You always check in at the office by now."
"I have a car problem."
"And? You want me to send Lula?"
"Sure. Send Lula."
Ten minutes later, Lula's red Firebird was idling in front of Morelli's house.
"Looks like Morelli got his house decorated," Lula said.
"It appears Eugene Brown didn't enjoy getting flipped off my hood."
"I didn't get none of this gang crap on my house, so it looks like you're the only one he's holding a grudge against. I guess that's on account of I was just an innocent passenger."
I gave Lula the squinty-eyed death glare.
"Don't you look at me like that," Lula said. "You should be happy for me that I'm not involved in this. Anyways, Vinnie's not happy either. He said there's just five days left to get Roger Banker's ass hauled into court, or he's gonna be out the bond."
If I had a quarter for every time I tried to snag Roger Banker, I could go to Bermuda for a week. Banker was as slippery as they come. He was a repeat offender, so he knew the drill. I couldn't feed him a load of baloney about just going down to the court to reschedule. He knew once the cuffs were on him, he was going to jail. He was unemployed, living off an indeterminate number of loser girlfriends and loser relatives. And he was hard to spot. Banker had no memorable features. Banker was like the invisible man. I once stood next to him at a bar and didn't recognize him. Lula and I had been collecting photographs of him and committing the photographs to memory with hopes that would help.
"Okay," I said, "let's make the rounds. Maybe we'll get lucky."
The rounds consisted of Lowanda Jones, Beverly Barber, Chermaine Williamson, and Marjorie Best. There were other people and places to include in the Banker hunt, but Lowanda, Beverly, Chermaine, and Marjorie were my top picks. They all lived in the projects just north of the police station. Lowanda and Beverly were sisters. They lived four blocks apart, and they were a car crash.
Lula cruised into the projects. "Who's first up?" Lula asked.
"Lowanda."
The projects covered a large chunk of Trenton real estate that was less than prime. A lot less than prime. The buildings were redbrick, government-issue low rise. The fencing was industrial chain-link. The cars at the curb were junkers.
"Good thing for the gang graffiti or this would be real drab," Lula said. "Wouldn't you think they could grow grass? Hell, plant a bush."
I suspected even God would have a hard time landscaping the projects. The ground was as hard and as blighted as the lives of the people who lived here.
Lula turned onto Kendall Street and parked two doors down from Lowanda's garden apartment. The term garden being used loosely. We'd been here before so we knew the layout. It was a ground-floor unit with one bedroom and seven dogs. The dogs were of varying sizes and ages. All of indeterminate breed. All of them horny buggers willing to hump anything that moved.
We got out of the car cautiously, on the lookout for the pack of beasts.
"I don't see any of Lowanda's dogs," Lula said.
"Maybe they're locked up in the house."
"Well, I'm not going in if they're in the house. I hate those dogs. Nasty-assed humpers. What's she thinking, anyway,
to keep a pack of pervert dogs like that?"
We knocked once. No answer.
"I know she's in there," Lula said. "I can hear her talking, doing business."
Lowanda did phone sex. She didn't look like she was rolling in money, so I was guessing she wasn't all that good at the job. Or maybe she just spent her money on beer, cigarettes, and chicken nuggets. Lowanda ate a lot of chicken nuggets. Lowanda ate chicken nuggets like Carol Cantell ate Cheez Doodles.
I knocked again and tried the doorknob. The door wasn't locked. I held the door open a crack, and Lula and I peeked in. No dogs in sight.
"Not likely Banker's in here," Lula said, following me through the front door. "The door would be locked up. And anyway, jail would look good compared to this pigpen."
We stepped over a suspicious stain on the rug and stared into the jumbled mess that passed for Lowanda's home. There was a mattress on the floor in the far corner of the living room. The mattress was covered with a tattered yellow chenille spread. An open, empty pizza delivery box was on the floor by the mattress. Clothes and shoes were scattered everywhere. A couple rickety folding chairs had been set up in the living room. The backs of the chairs said "Morten's Funeral Parlor." A big brown leather recliner had been placed in front of the television. The recliner had a gash in one arm and in the seat, and some of the stuffing was spilling out.
Lowanda was in the recliner with her back to us, a phone to her ear and a bucket of chicken nuggets balanced on the roll of fat that circled her waist. She was wearing gray sweats decorated with ketchup stains.
"Yeah, honey," she said into the phone. "That's good, baby. Oh yeah. Oh-h-h-h yeah. I just got myself all naked for you. An' I got love oil on myself 'cause I'm gonna get hot."
"Hey!" Lula said. "Lowanda, you paying attention here?"
Lowanda jumped in her seat and whipped around to look at us. "What the hell?" she said. "What are you doing scaring me like that when I'm trying to earn a honest living?" She returned to the phone. "Excuse me, sugar. Lowanda's got a small problem. Could you just work on yourself some? I be right back." She covered the phone with her hand and got up, some of the chair stuffing sticking to her double-wide ass. "What?"
"We're looking for Roger Banker," Lula said.
"Well, he isn't here. Does it look like he's here?"
"Maybe he's hiding in the other room," Lula said.
"You got a search warrant?"
"We don't need a search warrant," Lula said. "We're bounty hunters."
"Whatever," Lowanda said. "Just do your search and get out. I gotta get back to my caller. Soon as you stop talking to Mr. Stiffy he turns into Mr. Softy. And I get paid by the job. I do a volume business here."
Lula moved through the house while I stayed with Lowanda.
"I'm willing to pay for information," I told Lowanda. "Do you have any information?"
"How much you paying?"
"Depends on the information," I said.
"I got an address. I know where he's at if you hurry over there." She handed the phone over to me. "You talk to this guy, and I'll write down the address."
"Wait a minute . . ."
"Hello?" Mr. Stiffy said. "Who's this?"
"None of your business."
"I like that," he said. "Spunky. I bet you'd like to spank me."
"Wait a minute. I know your voice. Vinnie?"
"Stephanie? Christ." Disconnect.
Lowanda came back with the paper. "Here it is," she said. "This is where he's staying."
I looked at the paper. "This is your sister's address."
"And? What happened to my caller?"
"He hung up. He was done."
Lula returned to the living room. "Lowanda," she said, "you better do something about your kitchen. You got a cockroach as big as a cow in there."
I gave Lowanda a twenty.
"This is it? This is all I get?" Lowanda said.
"If Banker's at Beverly's house, I'll be back with the rest of the money."
"Where's the dogs?" Lula wanted to know.
"Out," Lowanda said. "They like to go out when the weather's nice."
Lula opened Lowanda's door and looked around. "How far out do they go?"
"How the hell do I know? They go out. And they stay out all day. Out is out."
"Just asking," Lula said. "No need to get touchy. You don't exactly have the best-mannered dogs, Lowanda."
Lowanda had her hands on her hips, lower lip stuck out, eyes narrowed. "You dissin' on my dogs?"
"Yeah," Lula said. "I hate your dogs. Your dogs are rude. Those dogs hump everything."
"Wasn't so long ago people was saying that about you," Lowanda said. "You got some nerve coming around here asking for information and then dissin' my dogs. I got a mind to never give you no more information."
I grabbed Lula before she removed Lowanda's eyes from her eye sockets, and I shoved Lula out the door.
"Don't provoke her," I said to Lula. "She's probably got guns."
"I got a gun," Lula said. "And I got a mind to use it."
"No guns! And get moving. I don't like standing out here in the open where the dogs can find us."
"I think she insulted me," Lula said. "I'm not ashamed of my past. I was a damn good ho. But I didn't like the tone of her voice just now. It was an insulting tone."
"I don't care what tone she had . . . move your butt to the car before the dogs get us."
"What's with you and the dogs? Here I just been insulted, and all you can think about is the dogs."
"Do you want to be standing here when those dogs come running around the corner of the building?"
"Hunh. I could take care of those dogs if I had to. It's not like I'm afraid of those dogs."
"Well, I'm afraid of those dogs, so haul ass."
And that was when we heard them. Yipping, yipping, yipping in the distance. On the move. Getting closer. Somewhere out of sight, to the side of the building.
"Oh shit," Lula said. And Lula started running for the car, knees up, arms pumping.
I was two steps in front of her, running for all I was worth. I could hear the dogs round the corner. I turned to look, and I saw them galloping after us, eyes wild, mouths open, tongues and ears catching wind. They were closing ground fast, the biggest of them in the lead.
Lula let out a shriek. "Lord help me!"
I guess the Lord was listening because they ran past Lula and took me down. The first dog hit me square in the back, sending me to my knees. Not a good position to be in when you're attacked by a pack of humpers. I tried to regain my footing, but the dogs were on me, and I couldn't get up. I had humpers on both legs, and a bulldog that looked like Winston Churchill humping my head. There was a humper on a humper.
"Keep going. Save yourself!" I yelled to Lula. "Tell my mother I love her."
"Get up!" Lula yelled at me. "You gotta get up! Those dogs'll hump you to death."
She was right. The pack was vicious. It was in a humping frenzy. Dogs in inferior humping positions were snarling and nipping, jockeying for better locations. The leg humpers held tight, grimly determined to finish the job, but the head humper kept losing his grip. The head humper was drooling and panting hot dog breath in my face. He'd hump some and slide off, and then he'd come scrambling back, trying to hump again.
"I can't get up!" I said. "I've got seven humping dogs on me. Seven. Do something!"
Lula was running around, hands in the air. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."
"Get the dog off my head," I yelled. "I don't care about the leg humpers. Just get the dog off my head!"
"Maybe you should let them have their way with you," Lula said. "They'll go away as soon as they're done. That's the way it is with male humping."
"Maybe you should goddamn grab this horny humping bulldog and get him the hell off my freaking head!"
The door to Lowanda's apartment crashed open, and Lowanda yelled out to us. "Hey!" she said. "What are you doing to my dogs?"
"
We aren't doing nothing," Lula said. "They're humping Stephanie."
Lowanda had a bag of dog kibble in her hand. She shook the bag and the dogs stopped humping and looked around. Lowanda shook the bag some more and the dogs gave a couple last halfhearted humps and took off for the kibble.
"Dumb-ass bounty hunters," Lowanda said, disappearing into the house with the dogs, slamming and locking the door behind her.
"I thought you were a goner," Lula said to me.
I was on my back, breathing heavy, eyes closed. "Give me a minute."
"You're a mess," Lula said. "Those dogs humped all over you. And you got something in your hair from that bulldog."
I got to my feet. "I'm going with drool. It looks like drool, right?"
"If you say so."
Lula and I moved to the safety of the car, and Lula drove the distance to Beverly's apartment. Beverly's apartment looked a lot like Lowanda's, except Beverly didn't have a recliner. Beverly had a couch hauled up to her television. The couch was partially covered with a blue sheet, and I feared there was a gross stain under the sheet, too terrible for even Beverly to overlook.
"You can't come in here now," Beverly said, when she opened the door. "I'm busy. I got my honey here, and we were just getting it on."
"More information than I need," Lula said. "I just watched a pack of dogs hump Stephanie. I about reached my humping limit for the day."
"Those must be Lowanda's dogs," Beverly said. "I don't know what the deal is with those dogs. I never seen anything like it. And three of them is female."
"We're looking for an FTA," I said to Beverly.
"Yeah, that's what you're always doing here," Beverly said. "But I'm not FTA. I didn't do nothing wrong. Swear to God."
"It's not you," I said. "I'm looking for Roger Banker."
"Hunh," Beverley said. "That's inconvenient. You gonna arrest him?"
"We're going to take him to the station to get re-bonded."
"Then what? Then you gonna let him go?"
"Do you want us to let him go?" Lula asked.
"Well, yeah."
"Then that's what we'll do," Lula told her. "He'll be in and out. And on top of that, we'll give you a twenty if we get to take him in."
Lowanda and Beverly would give their mother up for spare change.
Plum 10 - Ten Big Ones Page 7