“No one recognized him. He didn’t have a head.”
“Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes. No head. Gone without a trace. We checked all the dumpsters in the area but nada.”
My job was bad enough. If I had Morelli’s job I’d be a raging alcoholic. Every day he was, figuratively speaking, ankle deep in blood. He witnessed scenes of horrible crimes committed by sick people. And despite this, for the most part he could sleep at night, and he hadn’t lost faith in the human race. He’d become a master at compartmentalizing. I’m not so good at it. I frequently sleep with the bedroom light on.
Morelli shut the grill down and wrapped an arm around me. “You know what comes next?”
“Ice cream?”
“I haven’t got any ice cream.”
“What do you have?”
Morelli grinned. “Something better than ice cream.”
“Hard to believe.”
“The key word is hard.”
Oh boy.
TWO
MORELLI LIVES IN a neighborhood of good people packed into modest houses on minimal lots. His front yard is plain. His grass is kept neat. No flowers. No shrubs. No plastic pink flamingos or plaster statues of the Virgin Mary. He has a large flat-screen television in his living room, a pool table in his dining room, and a small table with two chairs in his kitchen. There are three small bedrooms and a full bath upstairs. The master has a king-size bed, which is a good thing because Bob takes up a lot of space.
Morelli is an early riser, always eager to start his day. On the rare occasion he’s not completely eager, he’s still propelled forward by routine. My routine has a slower start. I’m mostly reluctant to start my day. Especially when it involves looking for a snake.
Sunlight was pouring into Morelli’s room by the time I dragged myself out of his bed and into the shower. We didn’t cohabitate, but I spent enough time there to warrant space in the closet. I retrieved some clean clothes, got dressed, went downstairs, and let Bob out to roam around the backyard. I toasted a bagel, helped myself to coffee, and talked myself into heading out to the office.
• • •
Vincent Plum Bail Bonds is housed in a small storefront office on Hamilton Avenue. It’s between the hospital and the bakery, and it’s across the street from Chambersburg, better known as the Burg. I grew up in the Burg, and my parents still live there. When I was a kid, the Burg was predominantly Italian with some eastern Europeans scattered here and there. It was home to mostly midlevel mob families and second-generation Americans. The population is more diverse now, but it’s still a neighborhood that has strong family bonds, keeps itself clean, and takes pride in displaying the flag.
Lula was already at the office when I rolled in.
“Look at you,” Lula said. “I can tell you got some last night. You got that satisfied look on you.”
It was true that I got some. And it was true that it was satisfying, but that was last night, and I thought the satisfaction Lula was seeing this morning was more from the bagel.
“What’s new?” I asked Connie. “Did any skips come in this morning?”
Connie is the office manager. She’s a couple years older than me, she’s twice as Italian, and if she was in a bitch-slapping contest with the Rock, my money would be on her.
“We have two new high bonds,” Connie said, sliding the files across her desk.
I paged through the files and gave Lula the condensed version. “Edward Koot. Fifty-seven years old. Shot up a coffeehouse because he said they shorted him on his caramel macchiato. Went outside in a rage and shot up four cars before he was knocked out by a senior citizen who smacked him with a HurryCane. No one was injured except Koot. He had a
concussion and got a bunch of stitches in the back of his head.”
“You don’t want to mess with them HurryCanes,” Lula said. “They’re built to last. I got a neighbor has one of them. Koot got any priors?”
“He was put in an anger management program after a road rage incident.”
“Guess we know how that worked out,” Lula said.
“The second FTA is Zero Slick,” I said.