alarm, I had nerve gas, I had a yogurt. What more could anyone want?
I parked directly across from the gym, guzzled the remaining orange juice, set the alarm, took my shoulder bag and file photos of Morelli, and locked up. I was waving the red flag at the bull. The only way I could possibly be more obvious was to plaster a sign to the windshield saying, “Here it is! Try and get it!”
Street activity was sluggish in the afternoon heat. Two hookers stood at the corner, looking like they were waiting for a bus, except buses didn’t run down Stark Street. The women were standing there, obviously bored and disgusted, I suppose because nobody was buying at this time of day. They wore cheap plastic flip-flops, stretchy tank tops, and tight-fitting knit shorts. Their hair had been chopped short and cleverly straightened to boar-bristle quality. I wasn’t sure exactly how prostitutes determined price, but if men bought hookers by the pound, these two would be doing okay.
They went into combat mode as I approached: Hands on hips, lower lips protruding, eyes opened so wide they bulged out like duck eggs.
“Hey girl,” one of the lovelies called out. “What you think you doing here? This here’s our corner, you dig?”
It would appear there was a fine line between being a babe from the burg and looking like a hooker.
“I’m looking for a friend. Joe Morelli.” I showed them his picture. “Either of you see him around?”
“What you want with this Morelli?”
“It’s personal.”
“I bet.”
“You know him?”
She shifted her weight. No small task. “Maybe.”
“Actually, we were more than friends.”
“How much more?”
“The son of a bitch got me pregnant.”
“You don’t look pregnant.”
“Give me a month.”
“There’s things you can do.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and number one is find Morelli. You know where he is?”
“Nuh uh.”
“You know someone named Carmen Sanchez? She worked at the Step In.”
“She get you pregnant too?”
“Thought Morelli might be with her.”
“Carmen’s disappeared,” one of the hookers said. “Happens to women on Stark Street. Environmental hazard.”
“You want to elaborate on that?”
“She want to keep her mouth shut, is what she want to do,” the other woman said. “We don’t know about any of that shit. And we don’t got time to stand here talking to you. We got work to do.”
I looked up and down the street. Couldn’t see any work in sight, so I assumed I was getting the old heave-ho. I asked their names and was told Lula and Jackie. I gave each of them my card and told them I’d appreciate a call if they saw Morelli or Sanchez. I’d have asked about the missing male witness, but what would I say? Excuse me, have you seen a man with a face like a frying pan?
I went door-to-door after that, talking to people sitting out on stoops, questioning storekeepers. By four I had a sunburned nose to show for my efforts and not much more. I’d started on the north side of Stark Street and had worked two blocks west. Then I’d crossed the street and inched my way back. I’d slunk past the garage and the gym. I also bypassed the bars. They might be my best source, but they felt dangerous to me and beyond my abilities. Probably I was being unnecessarily cautious, probably the bars were filled with perfectly nice people who could give a rat’s ass about my existence. Truth is, I wasn’t used to being a minority, and I felt like a black man looking up white women’s skirts in a WASP suburb of Birmingham.
I covered the south side of the next two and a half blocks and recrossed to the north side. Most of the buildings on this side were residential, and as the day progressed more and more people had drifted outdoors, so that the going was slow now as I moved down the street back to my car.
Fortunately, the Cherokee was still at the curb, and unfortunately, Morelli was nowhere to be seen. I diligently avoided looking up at the gym windows. If Ramirez was watching me, I’d prefer not to acknowledge him. I’d pulled my hair up into a lopsided ponytail, and the back of my neck felt scratchy. I supposed I was burned there too. I wasn’t very diligent with sunscreen. Mostly, I counted on the pollution to filter out the cancer rays.
A woman came hurrying across the street to me. She was solidly built and conservatively dressed, with her black hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Stephanie Plum?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Alpha would like to speak to you,” she said. “His office is just across the street.”
I didn’t know anyone named Alpha, and I wasn’t eager to hover in the shadow of Benito Ramirez, but the woman reeked of Catholic respectibility, so I took a chance and followed after her. We entered the building next to the gym. It was an average Stark Street row house. Narrow, three stories, sooty exterior, dark, grimy windows. We hurried up a flight of stairs to a small landing. Three doors opened off the landing. One door was ajar, and I felt air-conditioning spilling out into the hallway.
