Ten Big Ones

  Grandma was at the door, waiting for me. 'Guess who's here?' she said.

  'Sally?'

  'He came over because he was so excited that the charges were dropped. And he's been real helpful on account of Valerie's still here, and we've been discussing the bridesmaids' dresses. Valerie wants pink, but Sally thinks they should be a fall color since it's fall.'

  Valerie was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the baby hanging from her neck in a land of sling apparatus. My mother was at the stove, stirring a pot of marinara.

  Sally was sitting across from Valerie. His long black curly hair was Medusa meets Howard Stern. He was wearing a Motley Crue

  T-shirt, jeans with the knees torn out, and red lizard cowboy boots.

  'Hey, man, thanks for getting the charges dropped,' Sally said. 'I got a call from the court. And then Sklar called me just to make sure I wasn't gonna go ahead with the lawyer. I didn't know what to say at first, but I just went with it. It was real good.'

  I put the cheese and lunch meat in the fridge, and I set the coffee cake on the table. 'Glad it worked out.'

  'So what do you think of the dresses?' Valerie wanted to know.

  'Are you sure you want to have a big wedding?' I asked Valerie.

  'It seems like a lot of work and expense. And who will you have for bridesmaids?'

  'You'll be my maid of honor. And then there's Loretta Stone-houser.

  And Rita Metzger. And Margaret Durski as bridesmaids.

  And the girls can be junior bridesmaids.'

  `I'm thinking pumpkin would be a good color for the bridesmaids' gowns,' Sally said.

  I cut myself a large wedge of coffee cake. It was going to take a lot of cake to improve my mood on the pumpkin gown.

  'You know what we need?' Grandma said. 'We need a wedding planner. Like that movie. Remember where Jennifer Lopez is the wedding planner?'

  'I could use help,' Valerie said. It's hard to find the time for everything, but I don't think I can afford a wedding planner.'

  'Maybe I could help plan the wedding,' Sally said. 'I have extra time between my bus runs.'

  'You'd be a perfect wedding planner,' Grandma said. 'You have a real eye for color, and you got ideas about all that seasonal stuff.

  I would never have thought to have pumpkin gowns.'

  'It's settled then. You're the wedding planner,' Valerie said.

  My mother's attention wandered to the pantry. She might have been taking a mental inventory, but more likely, she was contemplating the whiskey bottle hidden behind the olive oil.

  'How's the house search going?' I asked Valerie. 'Any luck?'

  1 haven't had a lot of time to put to it,' she said. 'But I promise to start looking.'

  'I sort of miss my apartment.'

  'I know,' Val said. I'm really sorry this is taking so long. Maybe we should move back here with Mom and Dad.'

  My mother's back went rigid at the stove. First the wedding planner and now this.

  I cut another piece of cake and headed out. 'I have to go. Joe's waiting.'

  Joe and Bob were on the couch, watching television. I dropped my purse on the small hall table and took the grocery bag into the kitchen. I made sandwiches and spooned out the potato salad.

  `I'm thinking about getting a cookbook,' I told Morelli when I handed him his plate.

  'Wow,' he said. 'What's that all about?'

  `I'm getting tired of sandwiches and pizza.'

  'A cookbook sounds like a big commitment.'

  'It's not a commitment,' I said. 'It's a stupid cookbook. I could learn how to cook a chicken or a cow, or something.'

  'Would we have to get married?'

  'No.' Jeez.

  Bob finished his sandwich and looked first to me and then to

  Morelli. He knew from past experience that it wasn't likely we'd share, so he put his head down on his paw and went back to watching Seinfeld.

  'So-o-o,' I said. 'Did you hear about Eugene Brown?'

  'What about him?'

  1 bounced him off my car today.'

  Morelli took a forkful of potato salad. 'Am I going to hate the rest of this story?'

  'It's possible. It was sort of a hit-and-run.'

  'So this falls under the category of making an official police report?'

  'Unofficial police report.'

  'Did you kill him?'

  1 don't think so. He was latched on to the hood of the Buick, hanging on to the windshield wiper, and he got pitched off when I turned the corner. I was at Seventh and Comstock, and I didn't think it was a good idea to get out of the car to check his vital signs.'

  Morelli collected the three plates and stood to take them to the kitchen. 'Dessert?'

  'Chocolate ice cream.' I followed after him and watched while he scooped. 'That was too easy,' I said. 'You didn't yell or tell me I was stupid, or anything.'

  `I'm pacing myself.'

  I rolled out of bed with Morelli at the crack of dawn.

  This is getting scary,' Morelli said. 'First you're thinking about buying a cookbook. And now you're getting up with me. Next thing you'll be inviting my grandmother over for dinner.'

  Not likely. His Grandma Bella was nuts. She had this Italian voodoo thing going that she called the eye. I'm not saying the eye worked, but I've known people who got the eye to coincidentally lose their hair, or skip their period, or break out in an unexplained rash. I was half Italian, but none of my relatives could give the eye.

  Mostly, my relatives gave the finger.

  We showered together. And that involved some fooling around.

  So before Morelli even had breakfast he was already a half hour late.

  I had coffee going by the time he came downstairs. He chugged a cup while he did the gun and badge routine. He dropped a blueberry into Rex's cage. And he dumped two cups of dog crunchies into Bob's bowl.

  'What's the reason for the early start?' he asked. 'You aren't going back to Comstock Street, are you?'

  I'm checking out real estate. Valerie isn't doing anything about finding her own place, so I thought I'd do some searching for her.'

  Morelli looked over his cup at me. 'I thought you were all settled in here. What about the cookbook?'

  'I like living with you, but sometimes I miss my independence.'

  'Like when?'

  'Okay, maybe independence is the wrong word. Maybe I just miss my own bathroom.'

  Morelli grabbed me and kissed me. 'I love you, but not enough to add a second bathroom. I'm not budgeted for any more renovations.' He set his cup on the counter and headed for the front of the house. Bob ran with him, woofing, jumping around like a rabbit.

  'Bob needs to go out,' I said.

  'Your turn,' Morelli said. I'm late, and besides, you owe me for the shower.'

  'What? What do you mean I owe you for the shower?'

  He shrugged into a jacket. 'I did your favorite thing today.

  Almost drowned doing it, too. And I think I got a bruise on my knee.'

  'Excuse me? What about that thing I did for you last night? I was just getting payback this morning.'

  Morelli was grinning. 'They're not nearly equal, Cupcake.

  Especially since I did it in the shower.' He took his keys off the hall table. 'Come on. Be a sport. I'm really late.'

  'Fine! Go. I'll walk the dog. Yeesh.'

  Morelli opened the front door and stopped. 'Shit.'

  'What?'

  "We had visitors last night.'

  Stephanie Plum 10 - Ten Big Ones

  Five

  I tightened my robe and peeked around Morelli. There was graffiti on the sidewalk and graffiti on the Buick. We both stepped out onto the small porch. The graffiti was on the front door.

  'What are these marks?' I asked. They look like little kitty paws.'

  'These are gang symbols. The Comstock Street Slayers are affiliated with Crud and Guts. Sometimes Crud and Guts is known as Cat Guts. So you have CSS with a paw print.' Morelli was pointing as he was tal
king. 'The GKC on the door would stand for

  Gangsta Killer Cruds.'

  I moved off the porch, over to the Buick. Every square inch of the car was spray-painted. 'Slay the bitch' and 'Crud Money' were prevalent themes. Morelli's SUV had been left untouched.

  'Seems like there's a message here,' I said to Morelli. I wasn't all that fond of the Buick but I hated seeing it defaced. The Buick had from time to time saved my butt. And probably this is a weird thing to say, but sometimes I had the feeling there was more there than just a car. Not to mention, the slogans seemed directed at me. And

  I suspected they weren't indicators of affection.

  “'Slay the bitch” is self-explanatory,' Morelli said. His no-expression cop face was in place with only the tight corners of his mouth giving him away. Morelli wasn't happy. '“Crud Money” describes the gangster lifestyle of extortion and drug sales. In this case, it could be putting you on notice that you're marked for retribution.'

  'What does that mean? Retribution?'

  Morelli turned to me and our eyes held. 'Could be anything,' he said. 'Could be death.'

  A greasy wave of undefined emotion slid through me. I suspected fear was heavy in the mix. I didn't know a lot about gangs, but I was coming up to speed fast. I hadn't felt especially threatened by gang-related crime three days ago. Now it was sitting at my curb, and it didn't feel good.

  'You're exaggerating, right?' I asked.

  'Executions are a part of gang culture. Gangs have been steadily on the rise in Trenton, and the murder rate has been rising with them. It used to be that the gangs were small and composed of kids looking to have a local identity. Now the gangs have their roots in the prison system and have national affiliations. They control the drug sales and territories. They're violent. They're unpredictable.

  They're feared in their communities.'

  `I knew there was a problem. I didn't know it was that bad.'

  'It's not something we like to talk about since we're at a loss how to fix it.' Morelli pushed me into the house and closed the door. 'I want you to stay here today until I get some intel on this.

  I'm going to have the Buick picked up and impounded in the police garage, so someone from the street gangs task force can take a look at it.'

  'You can't take the Buick. How will I get to work?'

  Morelli tapped me gently on the forehead with his index finger.

  'Anybody home in there? Look at that car. Do you want to drive that car around?'

  'I've driven around in worse.' And that was the honest-to-God sad truth. How pathetic is that?

  'Humor me, okay? Stay in the house. You should be safe here.

  To my knowledge, the Slayers have never burned down a house.'

  'Just a deli,' I said.

  'Yeah. A deli.'

  We both thought about that for a moment.

  Morelli took my car keys from my purse and left. I locked the front door and went to the living-room window to watch Morelli pull away in his SUV.

  'How are we going to go for a walk?' I asked Bob. 'How am I going to do my job? What will I do all day?'

  Bob was pacing in front of the door, looking desperate.

  'You're going to have to do it in the backyard today,' I said, not all that unhappy about missing the walk. Bob pooped everywhere in the morning, and I got the privilege of carting it home. It's hard to enjoy a walk when you've got a big bag of poop in your hand.

  I hooked Bob up to his backyard leash and tidied the kitchen. By one o'clock the bed was made, the floors were clean, the toaster was polished, the laundry was washed, dried, and folded, and I was cleaning out the fridge. At some point when my back was turned, the Buick disappeared from the curb.

  'Now what?' I said to Bob.

  Bob looked thoughtful, but he didn't come up with anything, so

  I called Morelli. 'Now what?' I said to Morelli.

  'It's only one o'clock,' he said. 'Give me a break. We're working on it.'

  'I polished the toaster.'

  'Un hunh. Listen, I have to go now.'

  'I'm going nuts here!'

  There was a disconnect and then a dial tone. '

  I still had the phone in my hand when it rang.

  'What's going on?' Connie wanted to know. 'Are you sick? You always check in at the office by now.'

  'I have a car problem.'

  'And? You want me to send Lula?'

  'Sure. Send Lula.'

  Ten minutes later, Lula's red Firebird was idling in front of

  Morelli's house.

  'Looks like Morelli got his house decorated,' Lula said.

  'It appears Eugene Brown didn't enjoy getting flipped off my hood.'

  1 didn't get none of this gang crap on my house, so it looks like you're the only one he's holding a grudge against. I guess that's on account of I was just an innocent passenger.'

  I gave Lula the squinty-eyed death glare.

  'Don't you look at me like that,' Lula said. 'You should be happy for me that I'm not involved in this. Anyways, Vinnie's not happy either. He said there's just five days left to get Roger Bankers ass hauled into court, or he's gonna be out the bond.'

  If I had a quarter for every time I tried to snag Roger Banker, I could go to Bermuda for a week. Banker was as slippery as they come. He was a repeat offender, so he knew the drill. I couldn't feed him a load of baloney about just going down to the court to reschedule. He knew once the cuffs were on him, he was going to jail. He was unemployed, living off an indeterminate number of loser girlfriends and loser relatives. And he was hard to spot.

  Banker had no memorable features. Banker was like the invisible man. I once stood next to him at a bar and didn't recognize him.

  Lula and I had been collecting photographs of him and committing the photographs to memory with hopes that would help.

  'Okay,' I said, let's make the rounds. Maybe we'll get lucky.'

  The rounds consisted of Lowanda Jones, Beverly Barber,

  Chermaine Williamson, and Marjorie Best. There were other people and places to include in the Banker hunt, but Lowanda,

  Beverly, Chermaine, and Marjorie were my top picks. They all lived in the projects just north of the police station. Lowanda and

  Beverly were sisters. They lived four blocks apart, and they were a car crash.

  Lula cruised into the projects. 'Who's first up?' Lula asked.

  'Lowanda.'

  The projects covered a large chunk of Trenton real estate that was less than prime. A lot less than prime. The buildings were redbrick, government-issue low rise. The fencing was industrial chain-link. The cars at the curb were junkers.

  'Good thing for the gang graffiti or this would be real drab,' Lula said. 'Wouldn't you think they could grow grass? Hell, plant a bush.'

  I suspected even God would have a hard time landscaping the projects. The ground was as hard and as blighted as the lives of the people who lived here.

  Lula turned onto Kendall Street and parked two doors down from Lowanda's garden apartment. The term garden being used loosely. We'd been here before so we knew the layout. It was a ground-floor unit with one bedroom and seven dogs. The dogs were of varying sizes and ages. All of indeterminate breed. All of them horny buggers willing to hump anything that moved.

  We got out of the car cautiously, on the lookout for the pack of beasts.

  'I don't see any of Lowanda's dogs,' Lula said.

  'Maybe they're locked up in the house.'

  'Well, I'm not going in if they're in the house. I hate those dogs.

  Nasty-assed humpers. What's she thinking, anyway, to keep a pack of pervert dogs like that?'

  We knocked once. No answer.

  'I know she's in there,' Lula said. 'I can hear her talking, doing business.'

  Lowanda did phone sex. She didn't look like she was rolling in money, so I was guessing she wasn't all that good at the job. Or maybe she just spent her money on beer, cigarettes, and chicken nuggets. Lowanda ate a lot of chicken nuggets. Lowanda a
te chicken nuggets like Carol Cantell ate Cheez Doodles.

  I knocked again and tried the doorknob. The door wasn't locked.