“So what's going on here. What you really want with Morelli?”
“I work for his bondsman. Morelli is FTA.”
“No shit? There any money in that?”
“Ten percent of the bond.”
“I could do that,” Lula said. “Maybe I should change my profession.”
“Maybe you should stop talking and look like you want to give some before your old man beats the crap out of you,” Jackie said.
I drove back to my apartment, ate some more Frosted Flakes, and called my mother.
“I made a nice big pot of stuffed cabbages,” she said. “You should come for supper.”
“Sounds good, but I have things to do.”
“Like what? What's so important you can't take time to eat some stuffed cabbages?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work? Are you still trying to find the Morelli boy?”
“Yeah.”
“You should get a different job. I saw a sign at Clara's Beauty Salon they need a shampoo girl.”
I could hear my Grandma Mazur yelling something in the background.
“Oh yeah,” my mother said. “You had a phone call this morning from that boxer you went to see, Benito Ramirez. Your father was so excited. Such a nice young man. So polite.”
“What did Ramirez want?”
“He said he'd been trying to get in touch with you, but your phone had been disconnected. I told him it was okay now.”
I mentally banged my head against the wall. “Benito Ramirez is a sleaze. If he calls up again, don't talk to him.”
“He was polite to me on the phone.”
Yeah, I thought, the most courteous homicidal rapist in Trenton. And now he knew he could call me.
Stephanie Plum 1 - One for the Money
8
MY APARTMENT BUILDING was pre-laundry room vintage, and the present owner felt no compulsion to add amenities. The nearest coin-op, Super Suds, was about a half mile away on Hamilton. Not a journey of insurmountable proportions, but a pain in the ass all the same.
I tucked the stack of FTAs I'd received from Connie into my pocketbook and slung my pocketbook over my shoulder. I lugged my laundry basket into the hall, locked my door, and hauled myself out to the car.
As far as laundromats went, Super Suds wasn't bad. There was parking in a small lot to the side of the building and a luncheonette next door where a person could get a tasty chicken salad sandwich if a person had cash on hand. I happened to be low on cash on hand, so I dumped my laundry into a machine, added detergent and quarters, and settled down to review my FTAs.
Lonnie Dodd was at the top of the stack and seemed like the easiest apprehension. He was twenty-two and lived in Hamilton Township. He'd been charged with auto theft. A first-time offender. I used the laundromat pay phone to call Connie to verify that Dodd was still outstanding.
“He's probably in his garage, changing his oil,” she said. “Happens all the time. It's one of those man things. Hell, they say to themselves, nobody's gonna push me around. All I did was steal a few cars. What's the big fuckin' deal? So they don't show up for their court date.”
I thanked Connie for her insight and returned to my chair. As soon as my laundry was done, I'd mosey on over to Dodd's place and see if I could find him.
I slid the files back into my pocketbook and transferred my clothes to the dryer. I sat down, looked out the big plate glass front window, and the blue van rolled by. I was so startled I froze, mouth open, eyes glazed, mind blank. Not what you would call a quick draw. The van disappeared down the street, and in the distance I could see the brake lights go on. Morelli was stopped in traffic.