“They don’t give those carts to just anybody. If he had a cart, he had to be handicapped. And what are you doing arresting people in supermarkets? Florence Molnar’s daughter doesn’t do that. She has a good job at the bank.”
“I’ve gotta go,” I said to my mother. And I disconnected.
I used my key to get into Morelli’s house. I gave Anthony his candy and sub. I took Bob out for a short walk. Bob pooped on Mr. Fratelli’s lawn, and Mr. Fratelli came out and yelled at me to pick the poop up, but I didn’t have any bags with me.
“I’ll send Morelli over for it when he gets off from work,” I told Mr. Fratelli.
I was ten minutes late getting home, which was pretty good, all things considered.
“Hey,” Diesel said.
“Hey to you.”
“Did you get your guy?”
“I did! I took him down at Shop and Bag.”
Diesel grinned. He grabbed me and kissed me on the lips. “Congratulations.”
It was like a mild electric shock running from my lips to my toes. “Jeez,” I said, “my lips are tingling.”
“Yeah, if I’d Frenched you, your sneakers would be smoking.”
He was kidding again, right?
“What’s next?” I asked him.
“Road trip.”
Diesel had a mud-?splattered Subaru SUV parked in my lot. A cart had been hitched to the Subaru, and the cart held two ATVs.
“I thought the ATVs would give us a lower profile and more flexibility,” Diesel said.
We took the Turnpike to the Atlantic City Expressway. My phone rang just as we got on the Expressway, and I cringed at the display. It was Anthony.
“Yes?” I said by way of greeting.
“I need ice cream, and it’s all the way in the kitchen.”
“And?”
“I was hoping you could get it for me.”
“I can’t help you right now. I’m in south Jersey.”
“But Joe said—”
“Anthony,” I yelled into the phone. “Walk your broken ass into the kitchen and get your own stupid ice cream.”
And I hung up.
“Sounds like that went well,” Diesel said.
“Morelli comes from a scary gene pool.”
We reached the dirt road leading to Gail Scanlon’s compound and we off-?loaded the ATVs.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked Diesel.