Clarence choked on some spit and opened his eyes. “Where am I?”
“Police station,” I said. “Everybody out.”
He stared at me in unfocused drunken stupidity, and sat as still and unyielding as a sandbag.
“Do something,” I said to Costanza. “Get him out of here.”
Costanza grabbed Clarence’s arms, and I put my foot to Clarence’s butt. We pushed and pulled, and inch by inch, got Sampson’s big ugly blob of putrid flesh off the seat and onto the pavement.
“This is why I became a cop,” Costanza said. “I couldn’t resist the glamor of it all.”
We maneuvered Clarence through the security door, cuffed him to a wooden bench, and handed him over to the docket lieutenant. I ran back outside and moved the Cherokee into a regulation parking space where it would be less visible to cops who might mistake it for a stolen car.
When I returned, Clarence had been stripped of his belt and shoelaces and personal property and looked forlorn and pathetic. He was my first capture, and I’d expected to feel satisfaction for my success, but now found it was difficult to get elated over someone else’s misfortune.
I collected my body receipt, spent a few minutes reminiscing with Crazy Carl, and headed for the lot. I’d hoped to leave before dark, but night had closed in early under a blanket of clouds. The sky was starless and moonless. Traffic was sporadic. Easier to spot a tail, I told myself, but I didn’t believe it. I had minimal confidence in my ability to spot Morelli.
There was no sign of the van. That didn’t mean much. Morelli could be driving whatever by now. I headed for Nottingham with one eye on the road and one on my rearview mirror. There was little doubt in my mind that Morelli was out there, but at least he was giving me the courtesy of not being obvious. That meant he took me moderately seriously. It was a cheery thought that prompted me to rise to the occasion with a plan. The plan was simple. Go home, park the Cherokee in the lot, wait in the bushes with my killer gas, and zap Morelli when he tried to reclaim his car.
THE FRONT OF MY APARTMENT BUILDING sat flush with the sidewalk. Parking was in the rear. The lot was minimally scenic, consisting of an asphalt rectangle subdivided into parking spaces. We weren’t so sophisticated that we were assigned slots. Parking was dog-eat-dog, with all the really good places designated handicapped. Three Dumpsters hunkered at the entrance to the lot. One for general garbage. Two for recyclables. Good for the environment. Didn’t do much for local aesthetics. The rear entrance had been improved by a strip of overgrown azaleas that hugged the building and ran almost the entire length of the lot. They were wonderful in the spring when they were filled with pink flowers, and they were magical in the winter when the super strung them with little blinking lights. The rest of the year they were better than nothing.
I chose a well-lighted slot in the middle of the lot. Better to see Morelli when he came to retrieve his property. Not to mention it was one of the few places left. Most of the people in my building were elderly and didn’t like to drive after dark. By nine o’clock the lot was full and TVs were going full blast inside all the seniors’ apartments.
I looked around to make sure there was no sign of Morelli. Then I popped the hood and removed the Cherokee’s distributor cap. This was one of my many New Jersey survival skills. Anyone who has ever left their car in long-term parking at Newark Airport knows how to remove the distributor cap. It is virtually the only way of ensuring your car will be there upon your return.
I figured when the Cherokee didn’t start, Morelli’d stick his head under the hood, and that’s when I’d gas him. I scurried to the building and hid myself behind the azaleas, feeling fairly slick.
I sat on the ground on a newspaper in deference to my skirt. I’d have liked to change my clothes, but I was afraid of missing Morelli if I dashed upstairs. Cedar chips had been spread in front of the azaleas. Back where I sat the ground was hard-packed dirt. When I was a kid I might have thought this was cozy, but I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I noticed things kids didn’t notice. Mostly that azaleas don’t look all that good from the rear.
A big Chrysler pulled into the lot, and a white-haired man got out. I recognized him, but I didn’t know his name. He slowly walked to the building entrance. He didn’t seem alarmed or yell out “Help, there’s a crazy woman hiding in the bushes,” so I felt secure that I was well hidden.
I squinted at my watch in the dark. Nine forty-five. Waiting wasn’t among my favorite pastimes. I was hungry and bored and uncomfortable. There are probably people who put waiting time to good use organizing thoughts, composing chore lists, sinking into constructive introspection. Waiting, for me, was sensory depravation. A black hole. Down time.
I was still waiting at eleven o’clock. I was cranky, and I had to go to the bathroom. Somehow I managed to sit there for another hour and a half. I was reviewing my options, considering a new plan, when it started to rain. The drops were big and lazy, falling in slow motion, spattering on the azalea bushes, leaving their imprint on the hard- packed dirt where I sat, encouraging musty smells reminiscent of cobwebs and crawl spaces to rise up from the earth. I sat with my back pressed against the building and my legs drawn up to my chest. With the exception of an occasional renegade drop, I was untouched by the rain.
After a few minutes the tempo evened out, the drops grew small and consistent, and the wind picked up. Water pooled on the black macadam, catching clots of reflective light, and the rain beaded on the shiny red paint of the Cherokee.
It was a wonderful night to be in bed with a book, listening to the tic, tic, tic of drops on the window and fire escape. It was a lousy night to be crouched behind an azalea bush. The rain had taken to swirling with the wind, catching me in gusts, soaking into my shirt, plastering my hair to my face.
By one o’clock I was shivering and miserable, soaking wet, close to peeing in my pants. Not that it would matter. At five after one I abandoned the plan. Even if Morelli did show up, which I was beginning to doubt, I wasn’t sure I was in good enough shape to make a capture. And, I definitely didn’t want him to see me with my hair like this.
I was about to leave when a car swung into the lot, parked in a space at the far perimeter, and killed its lights. A man got out of the car and quickly walked, head down, to the Cherokee. It wasn’t Joe. It was Mooch again. I rested my forehead on my knees and closed my eyes. I’d been naive to think Joe would fall into my trap. The entire police force was after his ass. He wasn’t going to barge into a setup like this. I sulked for a few seconds and then pushed it aside, vowing to be smarter next time. I should have put myself in Joe’s place. Would I have exposed myself by personally coming after the car? No. Okay, so I was learning. Rule number one: don’t underestimate the enemy. Rule number two: think like a felon.
Mooch opened the driver’s door with a key and slid behind the wheel. The starter churned but didn’t catch. Mooch waited a few minutes and tried again. He got out and looked under the hood. I knew this wouldn’t take long.
