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sp; Well hell, it probably wasn't nearly enough money for new knees anyway. “I have a few dollars set aside,” I said.
* * * * *
I DROPPED MY NEW BIG BLACK LEATHER SHOULDER BAG on the floor by my chair and took my place at the dinner table. My mother and father and Grandma Mazur were already seated, waiting to hear to hear how it went with Vinnie.
“You're twelve minutes late,” my mother said. “I was listening for sirens. You weren't in an accident, were you?”
“I was working.”
“Already?” She turned to my father. “The first day on the job and your cousin has her working overtime. You should talk to him, Frank.”
“It's not like that,” I told her. “My hours are flexible.”
“Your father worked at the post office for thirty years, and he never once came home late for dinner.”
A sigh popped out before I could squelch it.
“So what's with the sigh?” my mother asked. “And the new pocketbook. When did you get the new pocketbook?”
“I got the pocketbook today. I need to carry some things around with me for this job. I had to get a bigger bag.”
“What things do you need? I thought you were doing filing.”
“I didn't get that job. I got another job.”
“What job did you get?”
I poured ketchup on my meatloaf and barely restrained a second sigh. “Recovery agent,” I said. “I've got a job as a recovery agent.”
“A recovery agent,” my mother repeated. “Frank, do you know what a recovery agent is?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bounty hunter.”
My mother slapped her forehead and rolled her eyes. “Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, what are you thinking of? This is no kind of work for a nice young lady.”
“It's a legitimate, respectable job,” I said. “It's like being a cop or a private investigator.” Neither one of which I had ever considered to be especially respectable.
“But you don't know anything about this.”
“It's simple,” I said. “Vinnie gives me an FTA, and then I find him and escort him back to the police station.”
“What's an FTA?” my mother wanted to know.
“It's a person who's Failed To Appear.”
“Maybe I could be a bounty hunter,” Grandma Mazur said. “I could use to earn some spending money. I could go after those FTAs with you.”
“Jesus,” my father said.
My mother ignored both of them. “You should learn to make slipcovers,” she said to me. “There's always a need for slipcovers.” She looked at my father. “Frank, don't you think she should learn to make slipcovers? Isn't that a good idea?”
I felt the muscles tense along my spine and made an effort to relax. Buck up, I told myself. This was good practice for tomorrow morning when I intended to visit Morelli's mother.
* * * * *
IN THE ORDER OF THE BURG, Joseph Morelli's mother made my mother look like a second-rate housewife. My mother was no slouch, but by burg standards, Mrs. Morelli was a housewife of heroic proportions. God himself couldn't get windows cleaner, wash whiter, or make better ziti than Mrs. Morelli. She never missed mass, she sold Amway in her spare time, and she scared the beejeebers out of me with her piercing black eyes. I didn't think Mrs. Morelli was likely to snitch on her last born, but she was on my quiz list anyway. No stone unturned.