“I'm way past hot chocolate. I need alcohol.”
I'm not much of a drinker. I'd long ago decided it was best not to muddy the waters of my brain with serious booze. I had a hard enough time making sense when I was sober.
“I haven't got much in the way of alcohol,” I told Lula. “Light beer, red wine, mouthwash.”
“Pass on that. I just wanted to tell you about Mo, anyway. Carla, the ho on Seventh and Stark, says she saw Mo two days ago. According to Carla, Mo was looking for Shorty O.”
I felt my mouth fall open. Mo was on Stark Street two days ago. Holy cow.
“How reliable is Carla?”
“Well she wasn't shaking or nothing today, so I think sh
e could see the picture I showed her,” Lula said. “And she wouldn't mess with me.”
“What about Shorty O? Do you know him?”
“Everybody knows Shorty O. Shorty's one of those influential people on Stark Street. Middle management. Do some demolition work when there's a need. I would have talked to him, but I couldn't find him.”
“Do you think Mo found him?”
“Hard to say.”
“Anyone else see Mo?”
“Not that I know of. I asked lots of people, too, but with this weather, people aren't out looking around.” Lula stamped her feet and made flapping warm-up motions with her arms. “I gotta go. I'm going home. It's Saturday, and I got a date tonight. I gotta get my hair done. Just because I'm a natural beauty don't mean I don't need extra help sometime.”
I thanked Lula and saw her to the elevator. I returned to my apartment and thought about this latest development. Hard to believe Mo was on Stark Street for whatever reason. Still, I wasn't going to totally discount anything . . . no matter how preposterous. Especially since this was my only lead.
I punched the speed-dial number for Ranger and left a message on his machine. If anyone could find Shorty O, it would be Ranger.
Sunday morning I got up at ten. I made hot chocolate and French toast, carried it into the living room and slid the Winnie the Pooh video into the VCR. When Winnie was done having his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood it was almost noon, and I thought it was time to go to work. Since I didn't t have a social life, and I didn't have an office, work time was any time I wanted.
And what I wanted today was to get stupid, spineless Stuart Baggett. Mo was cooking on the back burner, but Stuart wasn't cooking at all.
I showered and dressed and resurrected Stuart's file. He lived with his parents at 10 Applegate Street in Mercerville. I spread my street map on the dining room table and located Applegate. It looked to be about two miles from the mall where Stuart worked. Very convenient.
I've been told there are places in the country where stores close on Sunday. This would never happen in Jersey. We wouldn't stand for it. In Jersey it's part of our constitutional rights to shop seven days a week.
I parked the Buick in the mall lot and diligently ignored the stares from people with less imaginative cars. Since my bank account was at an all-time low, I went straight to the hot dog stand. Best not to detour through the shoe department at Macy's and succumb to temptation.
Two young women were behind the hot dog counter.
“Yes ma'am,” one said. “What would you like?”
“I'm looking for Stuart Baggett.”
“He doesn't work here anymore.”
Oh boy. Minor guilt trip. I got the poor schnook fired.
“Gee, that's a shame,” I said. “Do you know what happened? Do you know where I can find him?”
“He quit. Closed up early a couple days ago and never came back. Don't know where he is.”
A small setback, but not devastating since I still had his home to visit.
Applegate was a pleasant street of well-kept single-family houses and mature trees. The Baggett house was a white Cape with blue shutters and a dark blue door. There were two cars and a kid's bike in the driveway.