Part 24 (1/2)

”I'd like to take a shower,” I told him, ”but if you'd rather I didn't track mud up the stairs you can just throw a bucket of water at me in the backyard.”

”I know this is probably sick,” Morelli said, ”but I'm getting hard.”

MORELLI LIVES IN a row house on Slater just a short distance from the Burg. He'd inherited the house from his Aunt Rose and he'd made it a home. Go figure that. The world is filled with mysteries. His house felt a lot like my parents' house, narrow and spare in luxuries, but filled with comforting smells and memories. In Morelli's case the smells were reheated pizza, dog, and fresh paint. Morelli was little by little working on window trim.

We were at his kitchen table . . . me, Morelli, and Bob. Morelli was eating a slice of raisin-cinnamon toast and drinking coffee. And Bob and I ate everything else in the refrigerator. Nothing like a big breakfast after a night of mud wrestling.

I was wearing one of Morelli's T-s.h.i.+rts, a borrowed pair of sweats, and I was barefoot since my shoes were still wet inside and out and would probably get tossed in the trash.

Morelli was dressed for work in his plainclothes cop clothes.

”I don't get it,” I said to Morelli. ”This guy is riding around in a white Cadillac and the police aren't picking him up. Why is that?”

”Probably he's not riding around a lot. He's been spotted a couple times, but not by anyone who's been in a position to go after him. Once by Mickey Greene on bicycle patrol. Once by a blue-and-white stuck in traffic. And he's not a priority. It isn't like there's someone a.s.signed full-time to finding him.”

”He's a murderer. That's not a priority?”

”He's not exactly wanted for murder. Loretta Ricci died of a heart attack. At this point he's only wanted for questioning.”

”I think he stole a pot roast from Dougie's freezer.”

”Well, that ups the ante. That'll put him on the priority list for sure.”

”Don't you think it's weird that he'd steal a pot roast?”

”When you've been a cop for as long as I have you don't think anything is weird.”

Morelli finished his coffee, rinsed his cup, and put it in the dishwasher. ”I have to go. Are you going to stay here?”

”No. I need a ride back to my apartment. I've got things to do and people to see.” And I could use a pair of shoes.

Morelli dropped me at the door to my building. I walked in barefoot, wearing Morelli's clothes, carrying mine. Mr. Morganstern was in the lobby.

”Must have been some night,” he said. ”I'll give you ten dollars if you'll tell me the details.”

”No way. You're too young.”

”How about twenty? Only thing is you'll have to wait until the first of the month when I get my Social Security check.”

Ten minutes later, I was dressed and out the door. I wanted to get to Melvin Baylor before he left for work. In honor of the Harley, I'd dressed in boots, jeans, T-s.h.i.+rt, and my Schotts leather jacket. I roared out of the parking lot and caught Melvin attempting to unlock his car. The lock had rusted and Melvin was having a hard time turning the key. Why he bothered locking it at all was beyond me. No one would want to steal this car. He was dressed in suit and tie and, with the exception of dark circles under his eyes, he looked much better.

”I hate to bother you,” I said, ”but you need to go to court and reschedule your date.”

”What about work? I'm supposed to go to work.”

Melvin Baylor was a very nice schnook. How he ever got the nerve to take a leak on the cake was a mystery.

”You'll have to go in late. I'll call Vinnie and have him meet us at the munic.i.p.al building and hopefully it won't take long.”

”I can't get my car open.”

”Then you're in for a treat, because you get to ride on my bike.”

”I hate this car,” Melvin said. He stepped back and kicked the car in the door and a big piece of rusted metal fell off. He grabbed the side mirror and ripped it off and threw it onto the ground. ”f.u.c.king car,” he said, kicking the mirror across the street.

”That's good,” I said. ”But maybe we should go now.”

”I'm not done,” Melvin said, trying his key on the trunk, having no luck there, either. ”f.u.c.k!” he yelled. He climbed up the b.u.mper onto the trunk and jumped up arid down. He climbed onto the roof and did more jumping.

”Melvin,” I said, ”you're a little out of control here.”

”I hate my life. I hate my car. I hate this suit.” he half fell, half jumped off the car and tried the trunk again. This time he got it open. He rummaged around in the trunk and came up with a baseball bat. ”Ah-ha!” he said.

Oh boy.

Melvin hauled off and whacked the car with the bat. He whacked it again and again, working up a sweat. He whacked a side window, sending gla.s.s flying. He stepped back and looked at his hand. It had a big gash in it. Blood was everywhere.

s.h.i.+t. I got off the bike and sat Melvin down on the curb. Every housewife on the block was standing on the street, watching the show. ”I need a towel here,” I said. Then I called Valerie and told her to bring the Buick to Melvin's house.

Valerie arrived a couple minutes later. Melvin had his hand wrapped in a towel, but his suit and shoes were spattered with blood. Valerie got out of the car, took one look at Melvin, and keeled over. Crash. Onto the Seligs' lawn. I left Valerie on the lawn and drove Melvin to the emergency room. I got him settled in and drove back to the Seligs'. I didn't have time to sit and wait for Melvin to get st.i.tched up. Unless he went into shock from blood loss, he'd probably be there for hours before seeing a doctor.

Valerie was standing on the curb, looking confused.

”I didn't know what to do,” she said. ”I don't know how to drive a motorcycle.”

”No problem. You can have the Buick back.”

”What happened to Melvin?”

”Temper tantrum. He'll be fine.”

A DROP-IN AT the office was next on my list. I thought I'd dressed for the day, but Lula made me look like an amateur. She was wearing boots from the Harley store, leather pants, leather vest, keys on a chain that clipped to her belt. And draped over her chair was a leather jacket with fringe running the length of the arm and a Harley emblem st.i.tched across the back.

”Just in case we gotta go out on the bike,” she said.

Fearsome leather-clad black biker chick causes havoc on highways. Traffic tied up for miles due to rubbernecking motorists.

”You'd better sit down so I can tell you about DeChooch,” Connie said to me.

I looked to Lula. ”Do you know about DeChooch?”

Lula's face broke into a smile. ”Yeah, Connie told me when I came in this morning. And she's right, you better sit down.”

”Only people in the family know about this,” Connie said. ”It's been kept real quiet so you have to keep it to yourself.”