“That’s ridiculous,” Lula said. “Nobody eats just one pork chop. I’d get weak and die.”
“Lots of people only eat one pork chop.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Hunh,” Lula said. “That’s un-American. How am I supposed to stimulate the economy when I’m only eating one plain-ass pork chop? Probably I can’t even have gravy on that pork chop.”
I made sure Lula got into the office without getting shot or decapitated, and then I pulled my map out of my handbag and started another run through Ranger’s accounts.
Morelli called a little after four. “We found the Town Car,” he said. “It was parked on a side street near the Bank Center. Easy to spot, since it had a bunch of bullet holes in it. No blood inside. I don’t know how she always manages to miss her target. It’s uncanny.”
“Owner?”
“It was stolen from a car service last night. The lab guys are doing their thing, but that car has been handled by half of New Jersey.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass this on to Lula.”
“Is she with you?”
“No. I dropped her at the bonds office. I’m riding a circuit for Ranger right now.”
“Word around town is that he’s losing accounts. Having a Rangeman security system has turned into a liability.”
“He’s working on it.”
I WAS HALFWAY through my account route, and I realized it was almost six o’clock. I took Olden to Hamilton, turned into the Burg, and slid to a stop in front of my parents’ house precisely on time.
I could smell the ham the minute I stepped into the foyer. It was an intoxicating aroma of warm, salty goodness and special occasions. My father was already at the table, waiting to stab into the first piece of ham. My grandmother was also seated. And a strange man sat beside Grandma.
“This is Madelyn Mooney’s boy, Milton,” my mother said to me, setting the green bean casserole on the table. “He just moved back to Trenton.”
“Yep,” Grandma said. “We thought we’d fix you up with some hotties since it’s kaput with Morelli.”
“I’m not interested in getting fixed up,” I said.
“You’re not getting any younger,” Grandma said. “You wait too long, and all the good ones get taken.”
I looked over at Milton. He was a sandbag. Overweight, slumped in his chair, pasty white skin, bad complexion, balding orange hair. I was guessing mid-thirties. Not to be judgmental, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when God was handing stuff out.
“Milton used to work in the auto industry,” Grandma said. “He had a real good job on the line at the factory.”
“Yeah,” Milton said. “It was sweet until I got fired. And then the bank foreclosed on my house, and my wife left me and took the dog. And now I’m hounded by collection agencies.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “So what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s living with his mother,” Grandma said. “Until he gets on his feet.”
“I guess it’s hard to get a job these days.”
“I’m not actually looking for a job,” Milton said. “The doctor who treated me after I had the nervous breakdown and set fire to my house said I should take it easy for a while.”
“You set fire to your house?”
“Technically, it wasn’t my house anymore. It was the bank’s house, and between you and me, I think they were happy I burned it down. They were real nice to me while I was in the mental hospital.” He speared a piece of ham, studied it, and turned his attention back to me. “My outpatient advisor tells me I need to get out of my mother’s house, so that’s why I’m considering marrying you. I was told you have your own apartment.”