“Sorry, I didn't pay that close attention. I was doing the billing.”
I thanked her and hung up. Hard to say if the truck information was worth anything. There had to be a hundred trucks in the Trenton area to fit that description.
Morelli looked at me expectantly when I got back to the table. “Well?”
“She didn't find anything, but she remembered seeing a white truck with black lettering on the door make several passes at the end of the month.”
“That narrows it down.”
Ranger'd picked his ribs clean. He looked at his watch and pushed back. “Gotta see a man.”
He and Morelli did some ritualistic hand thing, and Ranger left.
Morelli and I ate in silence for a while. Eating was one of the few body functions we felt comfortable sharing. When the last of the greens had been consumed we gave a collective sigh of satisfaction and signaled for the check.
Big Jim's didn't have five-star prices, but there wasn't much left in my wallet after I anted up my share. Probably it would be wise to visit Connie and see if she had any more easy pickups for me.
Morelli had parked on the street, and I'd opted to leave the blimp in a public lot two blocks down on Maple. I left Morelli at the door and marched off, telling myself a car was a car. And what did it matter if people saw me driving a 1953 Buick? It was transportation, right? Sure. That's why I'd parked a quarter mile away in an underground garage.
I retrieved the car and motored down Hamilton, past Delio's Exxon and Perry Sandeman, and found an empty parking space in front of the bond office. I squinted at the slope of the baby blue hood and wondered exactly where the car came to an end. I eased forward, rolled up on the curb, and nudged the parking meter. I decided this was close enough, cut the engin
e, and locked up behind myself.
Connie was at her desk, looking even meaner than usual, with her thick black eyebrows drawn low and menacing, and her mouth held in a tight slash of blood red lipstick. Unfiled files were stacked on the tops of the cabinets, and her desk was a jumble of loose papers and empty coffee cups.
“So,” I said, “how's it going?”
“Don't ask.”
“Hire anyone yet?”
“She starts tomorrow. In the meantime I can't find a goddamn thing because nothing's in order.”
“You should make Vinnie help.”
“Vinnie isn't here. Vinnie went to North Carolina with Mo Barnes to pick up a Failure to Appear.”
I took a wad of folders and started alphabetizing. “I'm at a temporary impasse with Kenny Mancuso. Anything new come in that looks like a fast bust?”
She handed me several forms stapled together. “Eugene Petras missed his court appearance yesterday. Probably at home, drunk as a skunk, and doesn't know what day it is.”
I glanced at the bond agreement. Eugene Petras showed a burg address. The charge was spousal batterment. “Should I know this guy?”
“You might know his wife, Kitty. Maiden name was Lukach. I think she was a couple years behind you in school.”
“Is this his first arrest?”
Connie shook her head. “Got a long history. A real asshole. Everytime he gets a couple beers in him he knocks Kitty around. Sometimes he goes too far and puts her in the hospital. Sometimes she files charges, but eventually she always backs off. Scared, I guess.”
“Lovely. What's his bond worth?”
“He's out on two thousand dollars. Domestic violence doesn't count for much of a threat.”
I tucked the paperwork under my arm. “I'll be back.”
Kitty and Eugene lived in a narrow row house at the corner of Baker and Rose, across from the old Milped Button Factory. The front door sat flush to the sidewalk without benefit of yard or porch. The exterior was maroon asphalt shingle with weathered white trim. Curtains were drawn in the front room. Upstairs windows were dark.
I had the pepper spray easily accessible in my jacket pocket, and my cuffs and stun gun stuck into my Levis. I knocked on the door and heard scrambling going on inside. I knocked again, and a man's voice shouted something incoherent. Again, more shuffling sounds, and then the door opened.