“My brothers,” Andrew said. “No volume control.”
A slightly younger, balder version of Andrew stuck his head in the doorway. “We got a problem.” He looked my way. “And you would be who?”
/> I gave him my card.
“Bond enforcement?”
A third face appeared in the doorway. This face was round and cherubic with eyes peering out from behind wire-?rimmed glasses. The face came with a chubby body dressed in homeboy jeans, a Buzz Lightyear sweatshirt that had been washed almost to oblivion and beyond, and ratty sneakers.
“You're a bounty hunter, right?” the baby-?faced guy said. “Do you have a gun?”
“No gun.”
“They always have guns on television.”
“I left my gun home.”
“I bet you don't need one. I bet you're real sneaky. You just sneak up to someone and bam, you've got him in handcuffs, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you going to handcuff someone here?”
“Not today.”
“My brothers,” Andrew said, gesturing to the two men. “Bart and Clyde Cone.”
Bart was wearing a black dress shirt, black slacks, and black loafers. Black Bart.
“If you're here about Samuel Singh, we have nothing to say on the matter,” Bart said. “He was very briefly in our employ.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“I did not. And I'm afraid I have to speak to my brother privately. We have a problem on the line.”
Clyde leaned close to me. Friendly. “There's always a problem on the line,” he said, smiling, not caring much. “Shits always breaking. Gizmos and stuff like that.” His eyes got wide. “How about a taser? Have you ever used a taser?”
Bart pressed his lips together and threw Clyde a dark look.
The look rolled off Clyde. “I never met a bounty hunter before,” Clyde said, his breath steaming his glasses.
I'd hoped for more information from TriBro. The name of a friend or enemy would have been helpful. Some knowledge of travel plans would have been nice. What I got was a vague idea of the nature of Singh's job and a dinner invitation from Clyde Cone, who I suspected was only interested in my stun gun.
I declined the dinner invitation and I rolled out of the lot. Ranger was working the Apusenjas' neighborhood. I didn't want to step on Ranger's toes, but I worried that Boo the cockapoo wasn't a priority for him. It was getting to be late afternoon. I could cut across town and do a quick drive around, looking for Boo, and then I'd be in a good position to mooch dinner from my mom.
I called Morelli and told him the plan. “You can mooch dinner, too,” I said.
“Last time I ate dinner at your parents' house your sister threw up three times and your grandmother fell asleep in her mashed potatoes.”
“And?”
“And I'd like to mooch dinner, but I have to work late. I swear to God, I really do have to work late.”
Nonnie and Mama Apusenja lived a quarter mile from my parents' house, in a neighborhood that was very similar to the Burg. Houses were narrow, two stories, set on narrow lots. The Apusenja house was a two-?toned clapboard, painted a bilious green on the top and chocolate brown on the bottom. A ten-?year-?old burgundy Ford Escort was parked curbside. The small backyard was fenced. I couldn't see all the yard, but what I could see didn't contain a dog. I cruised four blocks without a Boo sighting. Also, no Ranger sighting. I turned a corner and my cell phone chirped.
“Yo,” Ranger said.
“Yo yourself,” I told him. “Do you have Singh in leg irons?”