Connie swiveled to face the file cabinets. “It’s the big book over the G drawer.”
“You know anything about Mooch Morelli?” I asked while I looked up his name.
“Only that he married Shirley Gallo.”
The only Morelli in Hamilton Township was listed at 617 Bergen Court. I checked it against the wall map behind Connie’s desk. If I remembered the area correctly, it was a neighborhood of split-level houses that looked like they deserved my bathroom.
“You seen Shirley lately?” Connie asked. “She’s big as a horse. Must have gained a hundred pounds since high school. I saw her at Margie Manusco’s shower. She took up three folding chairs when she sat down, and she had her pocketbook filled with Ding Dongs. I guess they were for an emergency… like in case someone beat her to the potato salad.”
“Shirley Gallo? Fat? She was a rail in high school.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” Connie said.
“Amen.”
Burg Catholicism was a convenient religion. When the mind boggled, there was always God, waiting in the wings to take the rap.
Connie handed me the check and plucked at a clump of mascara hanging at the end of her left eyelash. “I’m telling you, it’s fucking hard to be classy,” she said.
THE GARAGE RANGER RECOMMENDED was in a small light-industrial complex that had its backside rammed up against Route 1. The complex consisted of six concrete bunker-type buildings painted yellow, the color faded by time and highway exhaust. At the inception of the project, the complex architect had most likely envisioned grass and shrubs. The reality was hardpacked dirt littered with butts and Styrofoam cups and some spiky weeds. Each of the six buildings had its own paved drive and parking lot.
I slowly drove past Capital Printing and A. and J. Extrusions and stopped at the entrance to Al’s Auto Body. Three bay doors had been set into the front of the building, but only one gaped open. Bashed-in, rusted cars in various stages of disassembly were crammed into the junkyard at the rear, and late-model fender-bended cars were parked adjacent to the third bay, in a chain-link fenced compound topped with razor wire.
I rolled into the lot and parked next to a black Toyota four-by-four that had been jacked up on wheels that were sized for a backhoe. I’d stopped at the bank on the way and deposited my recovery check. I knew exactly how much money I was willing to spend on an alarm system, and I wasn’t willing to pay a penny more. Most likely the job couldn’t be done for my price, but it wouldn’t hurt to inquire.
I opened the car door and stepped outside into oppressive heat, breathing shallowly so I didn’t suck in any more heavy metals than was necessary. The sun looked squalid this close to the highway, the pollution diluting the light, compressing the image. The sound of an air wrench carried out of the open bay.
I crossed the lot and squinted into the dim hellhole of grease guns and oil filters and potentially rude men wearing Day-Glo orange jumpsuits. One of the men ambled over to me. He was wearing the cut off and knotted thigh portion of a pair of queen-size pantyhose on his head. Undoubtedly it was a time-saver in case he wanted to rob a 7-Eleven on the way home. I told him I was looking for Al, and he told me I’d found him.
“I need an alarm system installed in my car. Ranger said you’d give me a good price.”
“How you come to know Ranger.”
“We work together.”
“That covers a lot of territory.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and probably I didn’t want to know. “I’m a recovery agent.”
“So you need an alarm system because you gonna be in bad neighborhoods?”
“Actually, I sort of stole a car, and I’m afraid the owner will try to get it back.”
Laughter flickered behind his eyes. “Even better.”
He walked to a bench at the back of the building and returned with a black plastic gadget about three inches square. “This is state-of-the-art security,” he said. “Works on air pressure. Anytime there’s a change in air pressure, from a window getting broken or a door opening, this mother’ll like to bust your eardrum.” He turned it face up in his hand. “You push this button to set it. Then there’s a twenty-second delay before it goes into effect. Gives you time to get out and close the door. There’s another twenty-second delay after the door is opened, so you can punch in your code to disarm.”
“How do I shut it off once the alarm is triggered?”
“A key.” He dropped a small silver key in my hand. “I suggest you don’t leave the key in the car. Defeats the purpose.”
“It’s smaller than I’d expected.”
“Small but mighty. And the good news is it’s cheap because it’s easy to install. All you do is screw it onto your dash.”
“How cheap?”
“Sixty dollars.”
“Sold.”
He pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket. “Just show me where you want it.”
“The red Jeep Cherokee, next to the monster truck. I’d like you to put the alarm some place inconspicuous. I don’t want to deface the dash.”
Minutes later I was on my way to Stark Street, feeling pretty pleased with myself. I had an alarm that was not only reasonably priced, but easily removed should I want to install it in the car I intended to buy when I cashed Morelli in. I’d stopped at a 7-Eleven on the way and gotten myself a vanilla yogurt and a carton of orange juice for lunch. I was drinking and driving and slurping, and I was very comfortable in my air-conditioned splendor. I had an
