“Do you recognize him?” Tank asked.
“No.”
Tank closed the front door and gave me a gun. “Stay here while I check the rest of the apartment.” Moments later he was back. “No one here. No more photos that I can see. I didn't go through your drawers.”
“Okay,” I said, “here's what we do. We leave these photos exactly where they are. We try not to disturb any prints that might have been left. I pack as fast as possible and we get the hell out. When we're ready to board I'll call Morelli. If I call him now I'll have to stay for questioning and we'll never make the plane.”
“Works for me,” Tank said.
Ten minutes later I was out of the apartment, a change of clothes and essential makeup in a tote bag slung over my shoulder. We left my car in the lot and took Tank's SUV.
Connie lived in the Burg, so she was next on the pickup list. We beeped once when we pulled to the curb and Connie hustled out to us. Connie's house was a narrow single family, similar to my parents' duplex, but half of Connie's house had been chopped away. Vito Grecci used to live in the adjoining half house. Vito was a Mob bagman who came in with a light bag one time too many. Next day Vito's house mysteriously caught fire and Vito turned up in the Camden landfill. Fortunately for Connie, the fire didn't go beyond the brick firewall between the two adjoining houses. Connie bought Vito's fire-?gutted half at a bank auction, tore the trashed house down, and never rebuilt. Connie liked having the empty lot. She put a big free-?standing pool with a wraparound cedar deck in the newly created side yard. And she set up a shrine to the Virgin for sparing her house.
Lula lived on the other side of Hamilton, down by the train station. There wasn't a lot of money in the neighbor hood, but year after year it held its own. Lula rented a tiny two-?room apartment on the second floor of a small house. The house was gray clapboard with touches of Victorian trim. Last year the owner painted the trim pink. In a weird way it seemed just right for Lula.
Lula was on the curb waiting when we drove down her street. She had two huge suitcases with her, a big leather purse hung on her shoulder, and she was holding a large canvas tote.
Tank smiled. “I bet they're all filled with pork chops.”
“We're only staying overnight,” I told Lula when she climbed into the backseat next to Connie.
“I know that, but I like to be prepared. And I couldn't decide what to wear. I got a whole suitcase filled with shoes. You can't go to Vegas without a change of shoes. How many shoes did you bring?” Lula asked me.
“The shoes I'm wearing and sneakers.”
“How about you?” she asked Connie.
“Four pairs of shoes,” Connie said.
“Dog,” Lula said to Tank. “How many shoes you got?”
Tank looked at Lula in the rearview mirror and didn't say anything.
Lula turned and checked out the luggage in the back of the SUV. “I don't even see any Tank suitcases,” Lula said. “Where's your suitcases?”
“Tank hasn't got any suitcases,” I said. “Tank's traveling light.”
“Where's he keep his extra tighty whiteys?” Lula wanted to know.
Tank cut another look at Lula. “I don't wear tighty whiteys,” he said.
“You devil!” Lula yelled. “I bet you go commando.”
Lula and Connie fanned themselves in the backseat. Tank kept his eyes on the road, but I could see him smiling.
An hour later, we were in the terminal, standing in line. Seventy-?three people in front of us. An airline employee was going person to person, suggesting electronic ticket holders use the automatic ticketing machines. We looked over at the machines with flocks of people gathered around them.
“I don't know,” Lula said. “Those people trying to use those machines look pissed off. Don't look to me like they're having a whole lot of luck getting tickets out of those machines. Looks to me like after they waste some time they give up and get back in line over here.”
We sent Connie over to investigate and we stayed in line. After a couple minutes Connie came back. “I think they're just decoys,” Connie said. “I never saw anybody have any luck getting a ticket out of them.”
“I bet I know,” Lula said. “You go over there and try to get a ticket and you give them your name and address. And then you don't get a ticket, but you get put on some list for junk mail and telephone solicitors. I bet the airlines make money selling those lists. I bet they get extra on account of they're lists of gullible people who'll buy anything. You didn't give them your name and address, did you, Connie?”
“That's ridiculous,” Connie said. And because she was snippy when she said it, we all knew she gave the machine her name and address.
Forty-?five minutes later, we got to the counter and got ticketed. Lula checked two of her bags. Tank didn't have any bags. I carried my single tote bag with me. Connie had one small suitcase on rollers, which she checked.
“We're on our way now,” Lula said. “Boy, this is gonna be fun. Hold on. What are we doing in another line?”