Going rogue, p.3
Going Rogue, page 3
An alarm went off in my brain. What if the something this person has is Connie?
“Did you get a phone number?” I asked Lula.
“Hell no. It was probably one of those scam calls that turns out to be for phony car insurance.”
The thought stuck with me. The storeroom looked like it had been searched. And Connie was missing. Vinnie has something that’s mine and now I have something that belongs to him, the caller had said. Yes, but something is different from someone, I told myself. Too early to panic. And even if Connie had been snatched, it wasn’t death and destruction. Vinnie would simply have to return whatever it was that the man wanted. Most likely something that had been posted for bail.
“If he calls again hand him over to me,” I said to Lula.
“Whatever,” Lula said. “Lord knows I got more important things to do. I gotta pick out fabric for the new couch. And I need a new desk chair. This chair I’m in has no personality, you see what I’m saying?”
“You should run all this by Vinnie before you order,” I said to Lula.
“Like heck,” Lula said. “He’ll say no. He’s a big cheapskate and he has no taste.”
This is true. He’s also a sexual deviant who cheats on his wife, cheats at cards, and is a compulsive gambler, and his pants are too tight. As Grandma puts it, he’s a festering pimple on our family’s behind. Setting all this aside, he’s a good bail bondsman. And our boss.
“What was that phone call all about with Lula?” Grandma asked.
“She hasn’t heard from Connie and she’s busy redecorating the office. She also had a phone call from someone who said Vinnie has something that belongs to him, and now he has something that belongs to Vinnie.”
“Probably one of those scam calls about phony car insurance,” Grandma said. “They’ve got all kinds of gimmicks to suck you into signing up.”
“I thought it might have been about Connie.”
“That would have been my second guess,” Grandma said. “Now what?”
“We wait for him to call back.”
“That’s uncomfortable. Don’t you think we should go proactive?”
“I have no starting point. I ran down the few leads I had. And I have no real proof that Connie is in trouble.”
I dialed Vinnie.
“Now what?” Vinnie said.
“Connie is still missing.”
“Maybe she’s having a hot flash somewhere.”
“Lula is taking her place in the office and—”
“Hold on. Are you shitting me?”
“Someone has to take phone calls, so Lula is in the office.”
“Okay, now you have my attention. Get her out of the office and lock the door so she can’t get back in.”
“I can’t do that. It’s important that someone answers the phone. A man called in asking to talk to you. He said you have something that belongs to him and now he has something that belongs to you. Lula told him you weren’t there and to call back.”
“And?”
“And it’s possible that he has Connie.”
“And you’ve figured this out, how?”
“When we let ourselves in through the back door, I noticed that the storeroom looked messy. Like someone had been looking for something. And then Connie never showed up for work. She stopped at the bakery and got the usual box of doughnuts, but she hasn’t been at her desk.”
“No doughnuts left on the desk?” Vinnie asked.
“No doughnuts left on the desk,” I said.
“Maybe it’s that time of the month, she ate all the doughnuts before she got to the office, and she’s sleeping it off in some parking lot.”
“When are you getting back?”
“Tonight. Late tonight.”
“And you’ll be in the office in the morning?”
“Yeah. What are you, my wife?”
“I’m not even happy that I’m your cousin.”
Grandma looked at me when I hung up. “How’d that go?”
“As expected,” I said.
“Are we going after another FTA slimeball?”
“Yup. Brad Winter. Wanted for blackmail.”
“Classy.”
“Afraid not. He slept with a bunch of married women, videoed their encounters with a hidden camera, and blackmailed them.”
“That’s a real clever crime,” Grandma said. “If you press charges against him, you know people are going to be looking at the videos. And your husband isn’t going to be happy.”
I thumbed through Winter’s file. “He lives on Oak Street.”
“That’s a nice part of town,” Grandma said. “Mostly new townhouses from where they tore down the toilet factory. It was called the porcelain factory, but everyone knew they made toilets. Not that there’s any shame in making toilets.”
I plugged the address into my GPS system and ten minutes later we were parked across the street from Winter’s red brick and white vinyl clapboard townhouse. Postage-stamp front yard that was neat grass with a perfectly shaped row of small shrubs bordering the house. Two steps led to a large stoop and mahogany-colored front door.
“This is real classy,” Grandma said. “You could tell he’s got money. I bet his bushes were shaped by a gardener. What’s he look like?”
“Forty-two years old. Five foot ten. Brown eyes. Brown hair cut short. Average build. Nice looking.”
I rang the bell and Winter answered. Naked.
“Here’s something I don’t get to see every day,” Grandma said, staring at his privates.
“Catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
“Nope. I was just hanging out,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
I introduced myself, showed him the badge I got on Amazon, and explained that he’d missed his court date and needed to reschedule.
He looked surprised. “Really? I didn’t know I had a court date. No one told me.”
“It’s not a problem,” I said. “Happens all the time. Get dressed and I’ll drive you downtown to get a new date.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I can drive myself. Thanks for stopping by to tell me.”
“Unfortunately, you’re officially a felon now and I need to accompany you to the courthouse. Get dressed.”
“A felon? Whoa, where’d that come from?”
“Not my idea,” I said. “It’s the law. You failed to appear for a court date and that makes you a felon.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Are you going to get dressed or are we taking you downtown naked?”
He smiled wide, showing perfect white teeth and dimples. “Really? Would you really take me in naked?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you and your sister come in and we’ll socialize a little. Have a glass of wine. Get to know each other. Then I’ll get dressed and we can all go wherever you want.”
“I’m not actually her sister,” Grandma said, all smiles.
He winked at Grandma, and I clapped a cuff on his right wrist.
He turned his attention to the handcuffs. “Kinky.”
“You’re a sick person,” I said, cuffing his other wrist.
“I’m not sick,” he said. “I’m fun.”
“You’re also a blackmailer.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a businessman. I provide a service and then I expect compensation.”
“Go to his bedroom and get something that will cover him,” I said to Grandma.
Grandma came back with a sheet. “You should see his bedroom,” she said. “His bed is huge. One of those king-sized ones.”
“Room for three, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Winter said.
I wrapped the sheet around him and tugged him to the door and down the steps. Grandma closed the door behind us, and we were about to cross the street when a Mercedes sedan slid to a stop in front of us. Four women got out and rushed at Grandma and me. They were in their late thirties to early forties. All had blond hair that was perfectly cut and colored. Minimal makeup. Diamond studs in their ears, and the diamonds didn’t look fake. All wearing gym clothes. Lycra leggings and warm-up jackets. One of them drew a gun and the other three grabbed Winter and shoved him into the backseat of the Mercedes.
“Sorry,” the woman with the gun said to me. “You’re going to have to wait your turn. You can have him when we’re done with him.”
“I’m bail bond enforcement,” I said, handing her my card.
“Whatever,” she said. “We’ll gift wrap him and bring him back here tomorrow. I’ll make sure you get your cuffs back.”
She jumped into the front passenger seat and the car sped away.
“That was weird,” Grandma said.
“Yeah, welcome to my world.”
“I could see where the ladies like him,” Grandma said. “He’s a cutie pie. He has dimples. And he has a way with words. He thought I was your sister. I think the new moisturizer I’m using must be working.” She thought for a couple beats. “He was sort of kidnapped. Should we tell the police?”
Reporting a kidnapping would involve time and paperwork. I’d have to explain to multiple people how I took my grandmother with me to make a capture and then gave him up at gunpoint to four women. And when I told the police that the women had promised to give him back to me tomorrow, they’d just grimace and file the paperwork away in a bottom drawer.
“It wasn’t exactly a kidnapping,” I said. “I mean, they promised to bring him back.”
* * *
I took Grandma home and then went to the office.
“Have you heard anything from Connie?” I asked Lula.
“No,” she said. “I called all the hospitals, and I called her mama. It’s like she vanished.”
“How’s her mother doing?”
“She didn’t sound all that worried. She’s not used to seeing Connie all day like we are. She doesn’t have a sense that this isn’t normal Connie behavior.”
“Maybe we’re overreacting. Maybe Connie needed to get away. Have a moment. She carries a lot of responsibility between her mother and her job.”
“I guess that could be it,” Lula said. “Sometimes I feel like I want to get away from my responsibilities. Not to do with my mama, though, on account of she’s real independent. A bunch of years ago she retired and went to live with my Aunt Sue in Georgia. They’ve got a dog-sitting business there and Aunt Sue works part-time at a nail salon. She specializes in acrylics. My responsibilities are to do with my appearance. I have high standards. I gotta keep my wardrobe organized and make sure I’m accessorized properly. And hair and nails like I got don’t just happen. It’s all responsibility, you see what I’m saying? What about you?”
The first thing that came to mind was my job. I barely made enough money to pay my rent and buy food. I spent a lot of time in smelly, bad neighborhoods chasing down smelly, bad people. And there was no prestige attached to it. Bail bond enforcement was on a level with cesspool maintenance and grave robbing when it came to public opinion.
“Don’t you ever want to run away?” Lula repeated.
“Yeah. All the time, but only for a couple minutes and then I get over it.”
“I hear you. That’s my problem too. I looked it up one time. It’s that we have too much inertia because we only got short-term dissatisfaction. It’s on account of we’re too well adjusted. We got self-esteem and it’s what’s keeping us from being supermodels or entrepreneurial billionaires. You gotta have some deep-seated feelings of inferiority to be a real big success. Like it helps if you have a little dick. Going with that line of reasoning, we should have been the ones to invent Google bein’ that we got no dick at all, only it don’t work like that since we got balls. If you got balls, you don’t necessarily feel inferior even if you haven’t got a dick. Course I’m speaking metaphorically.”
I thought Lula was right about the inertia, but I suspected my disinclination to flee had less to do with my self-esteem and more to do with a lack of lofty aspiration. Somewhere in my preteen years it became apparent that I was not destined to be an Avenger, and it was all downhill after that. Everything else seemed lackluster. So, I aimlessly drifted through college and ended up in retail selling bargain-basement ladies’ undies. And now I’m a bounty hunter and I still haven’t found a lofty aspiration. So, what’s the point of running away if you have nowhere you want to go?
Or here’s a scary thought—maybe I’ve come to like being a bounty hunter. Omigod!
“What is it?” Lula asked. “You look like you just found Jesus, only he turned out to be Donald Duck.”
I waved it away. “I was just thinking about my job… and about Connie.”
“Yeah, thinking about Connie could give you the grimaces. I’m staying here until four o’clock and then I’m going home and watch some happy movies and eat a couple pizzas so I can get rid of this scary feeling. This is like when you’re walking down a dark street at night and you get the feeling someone’s waiting ahead, behind a bush, and he’s gonna jump out and stab you forty-five times with a butcher knife. And you can’t get rid of the feeling and you have to keep walking ’cause that’s the only way to get home.”
I was walking down that same street right now, with the same horrible sense of foreboding. Connie and Lula and I had been through a lot together, and it was understood that we would always be there for each other. It was unthinkable that Connie would be out of our lives for a day or, God forbid, forever. I hiked my messenger bag higher up on my shoulder. “I’m going to ride around and look for Connie’s car. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
* * *
I cruised all of Connie’s haunts. Her neighborhood, including all the back alleys. Her favorite restaurants. Her nail salon and hair salon. Food stores, delis, the liquor store, and the train station. I checked out mall parking lots and the chop shop on Stark Street. I drove past the bail bonds office one last time and continued on to Pino’s Italian Bar and Grille to pick up dinner.
Connie’s car was parked in Pino’s lot. It was at the far side by the dumpster. I parked on the opposite side of the lot and walked to the car. No one inside. Not locked. No bloodstains. No bullet holes. I popped the hatch. No one in there. I felt the hood. Cold. The car had been sitting there for a while. I went inside Pino’s and looked around. No Connie. Morelli and I ate here a lot. We knew everyone. Ditto for Connie. I found the manager, Carl Carolli, and asked if he’d seen Connie.
“Not in a couple days,” he said. “She comes here on Thursdays with her mama sometimes. It’s after bingo. They get calamari with marinara.”
“Is there anyone here that’s new? That you don’t know?”
“There’s always people I don’t know.” He looked around. “The family in the corner booth. I don’t know them.”
I looked at the family. Mother, father, two kids. Didn’t look like kidnappers.
“I have your order ready,” Carl said. “You must be taking it to Morelli. Meatball sandwiches, extra pickles, fries, and the twelve-layer chocolate cake. I’m guessing one of you had a bad day.”
“This morning he had to jump into the river to drag a crazy lady out. It wasn’t pretty.”
Carl grinned. “He’s a good cop.”
I took my bag of food and walked around the parking lot, looking for signs of a struggle, looking for Connie or something that might belong to her. I didn’t see any feet sticking out from under a car. I didn’t hear anyone yelling from inside a trunk. I returned to my Honda, got behind the wheel, and locked the doors. My heart was bouncing around inside my chest. I called Morelli and gave him the short version.
“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours,” Morelli said.
“I know Connie’s in trouble,” I said. “I absolutely know it.”
“I’ll make some phone calls. I can’t do anything officially, but I can put the word out to keep an eye on the car and to look for Connie.”
* * *
Morelli lives in a neighborhood that backs up to the Burg. The values and economics are the same in both neighborhoods. The houses are the same. The only difference is an imaginary line that someone drew seventy years ago. Morelli’s house is a lot like my parents’ house, with a shotgun-style living room, dining room, kitchen. There are three bedrooms upstairs, a powder room downstairs, and a full bath upstairs. Morelli shares the house with a big, orange, overly friendly dog named Bob. There’s a large flat-screen television in the living room, a billiard table in the dining room, and a king-sized bed in the upstairs master. I keep a few essentials at his house, and he has a few essentials in my apartment.
Bob rushed at me when I walked in the front door. I braced myself against the impact and did the good boy, good boy thing, holding the bag of food over my head. Morelli sauntered over, took the bag, and gave me a friendly kiss.
“You look better,” I said. “Okay, so your eye is almost swollen closed, but you’re not wet anymore and the scratches on your face aren’t oozing blood.”
“I’m a fast healer,” he said. “It’s my Sicilian DNA. My relatives wouldn’t have survived if they’d been bleeders.”
I went to the kitchen, got Bob’s bowl, and brought it to the living room. We emptied the bag of food onto Morelli’s big square coffee table, divided it up between Bob, Morelli, and me, and we all ate dinner in front of the television.
“Connie isn’t my only problem,” I said, adding extra red sauce to my meatball sandwich. “Your grandmother is FTA.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes!”
Morelli grinned. “Well at least you know where to find her.”
“It’s not funny. She’s scary. If I go after her, she’ll put the eye on me.”
He opened two bottles of beer and passed one to me. “Do you believe in the eye?”
“No, of course not. Maybe. Just a little. Even without the eye, she’s still scary.”
