I picked my shirt up and put it back on. The bottom half on the right side was missing.
Lula was leaning against her car when I turned the corner.
“Where's Munson?” she asked.
“Gone.”
She looked at my shirt and raised an eyebrow. “I could have sworn you started out with a whole shirt.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Looks to me like your shirt's been barbecued. First your car, now your shirt. This could be turning into a record week for you.”
“I don't have to do this, you know,” I said to Lula. “There are lots of good jobs I could get.”
“Such as?”
“The McDonald's on Market is hiring.”
“I hear you get free french fries.”
I tried Munson's front door. Locked. I looked in the street-level window. Munson had tacked a faded flowered sheet over it, but there was a gap at the side. The room beyond was shabby. Scarred wood floor. A sagging couch covered by a threadbare yellow chenille bedspread. An old television on a cheap metal TV cart. A beechwood coffee table in front of the couch, and even from this distance I could see the veneer peeling off.
“Crazy ol' Munson isn't doing too good,” Lula said, looking into the room with me. “I always imagined a homicidal rapist would live better than this.”
“He's divorced,” I said. “His wife cleaned him out.”
“See, let this be a lesson. Always make sure you're the one to back the truck up to the door first.”
When we got back to the office Joyce's car was still parked in front.
“Would have thought she'd be gone by now,” Lula said. “She must be in there giving Vinnie a nooner.”
My upper lip involuntarily curled back across my teeth. It was rumored that Vinnie had once been in love with a duck. And Joyce was said to be fond of large dogs. But somehow, the thought of them together was even more horrible.
To my great relief, Joyce was sitting on the outer office couch when Lula and I swung through the door.
“I knew you two losers wouldn't be out long,” Joyce said. “Didn't get him, did you?”
“Steph had an accident with her shirt,” Lula said. “So we decided not to pursue our man.”
Connie was at her desk painting her nails. “Joyce thinks you know where Ranger lives.”
“Sure we do,” Lula said. “Only we're not telling Joyce on account of we know how she likes a challenge.”
“You better tell me,” Joyce said, “or I'll tell Vinnie you're holding back.”
“Boy,” Lula said, “that's got me thinking twice.”
“I don't know where he lives,” I said. “No one knows where he lives. But I heard him talking on the phone once, and he was talking to his sister in Staten Island.”
“What's her name?”
“Marie.”
“Marie Manoso?”
“Don't know. She might be married. She shouldn't be too hard to find, though. She works at the coat factory on Macko Street.”