“He’s a man,” Connie said. As if that explained it all.
“I suppose I should go home and see what Lula is doing.”
“I know what she’s doing,” Connie said. “She’s brewing barbecue sauce with your grandmother.”
“In my apartment?”
“That was the plan.”
Eek! Okay, so I know my apartment isn’t going to get a full-page spread in Home Beautiful, but it’s all I’ve got. Bad enough I have Lula in it. Lula and Grandma together are total facaca.
“Gotta go,” I said to Connie. “See you tomorrow.”
Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “Where are you going? Why are you dressed up in Rangeman stuff? Christ, you’re not moonlighting, are you? You aren’t any good when you’re working for me full-time. Now I’m sharing you with Ranger?”
“I brought two skips in this week.”
“Big deal. What about all the others still in the wind? This isn’t a goddamn charity. I’m not buying these idiots out of jail for my health. And it’s not like you’re the only bounty hunter out there,” Vinnie said. “You could be replaced.”
“Lucille’s been talking redecorating again,” Connie said to me. “Vinnie needs money.”
Lucille was Vinnie’s wife. She tortured Vinnie by constantly redecorating their house and by spending his money faster than he could make it. We figured this was retribution for Vinnie boinking anything that moved. The good part of the deal was that all Vinnie could do was pedal twice as fast, since Lucille’s father, Harry the Hammer, financed the bonds office. If Vinnie left Lucille, not only would he be unemployed, there was a good chance he’d be dining with Stanley Chipotle.
“She’s killing me,” Vinnie said. “I haven’t got money to buy a hot dog for lunch. My bookie took me off his iPhone.”
Actually, it wasn’t a good thing when Vinnie got this broke, because instead of buying favors from professionals on Stark Street, we suspected Vinnie was forced to chase down ducks at the park.
NINE
I LEFT THE bonds office, drove a couple blocks on Hamilton, and took a right into Morelli’s neighborhood. Best not to examine my motives too closely. I was telling myself morbid curiosity was the driving force, but my heart was beating pretty hard for something that benign. I left-turned onto Morelli’s street, cruised half a block, and stopped in front of his house. His SUV was gone, and there was no sign of Joyce’s car. No lights on in the house. No sign of activity. I turned at the next corner and headed for the Burg. I drove past Morelli’s brother’s house. No SUV there, either.
Okay, get a grip, I told myself. No reason to get crazy. Morelli is a free man. He can do whatever the heck he wants. If he wants to act like a jerk and get friendly with Barnhardt, it’s his problem. Anyway, I have to expect that he’ll be seeing other women. That’s what happens when people break up . . . they spend time with other people, right? Just because I don’t want to spend time with other people doesn’t mean Morelli has to feel that way. I’m one of those people who needs space between relationships. I don’t just jump into stuff. And I don’t do one-night stands. Usually. There was that time with Ranger, but you couldn’t really categorize it as a one-night stand. It was more like a onetime-only ticket to WOW.
I turned out of the Burg onto Hamilton, and five minutes later, I p
ulled into my parking lot. I parked next to Lula’s Firebird and looked up at my windows. No smoke. No sign of fire. No one running screaming out of the building. That was good. Maybe I wasn’t too late. Maybe they hadn’t started cooking yet. Maybe they’d discovered I only had one pot and decided to watch television.
I jogged across the lot, up the stairs, and down the hall to my apartment, reminding myself to stay calm. Lula and Grandma were in my kitchen and my counters were filled with bottles of barbecue sauce, dry rub, vinegar, cooking sherry, a half-empty bottle of rum, lemons, onions, oranges, a keg of ketchup, and a ten-pound can of tomato sauce. Grandma and Lula were in their chef’s clothes, except Lula was missing her hat. My sink was filled with dirty measuring cups, assorted utensils, bowls, and measuring spoons. There was a large pot hissing on the stove.
“What the heck is that?” I asked Lula.
“I got my pressure cooker goin’ here,” Lula said. “I saw it advertised on QVC. It cuts cookin’ time in half. Maybe more. And it preserves all the goodness of the food. It was real expensive on television, but I got this one off of Lenny Skulnik. It’s good quality, too, because it was made in China.”
Lenny Skulnik sold knock-off handbags and kitchen appliances out of the trunk of his car. I went to school with Lenny. He was totally without scruples, and one of the more successful graduates.
“Are you sure it’s supposed to make those noises?” I asked Lula. “And what about all that steam?”
“It’s supposed to steam,” Lula said. “It’s why you call it a pressure cooker. And if you look close, you could see the pressure indicator is all red. That’s the sign of good pressure cookin’. You wouldn’t want no green shit on a pressure-cookin’ indicator.”
“Are you sure? Did you read the instructions?”
“This one didn’t come with no instructions. This was the economy model.”
I kept Rex’s cage on the kitchen counter. It was lost behind the bottles and cans, but I could see Rex running on his wheel for all he was worth, every now and then sneaking a peek at the pot on the stove.
The pot had gone beyond hissing and was now whistling a high keening wail. We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e Red sauce was sputtering out of the steam hole and the pot was vibrating.
“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “It’s just workin’ itself up to maximum pressurizin’.”