Two for the dough

nursing home last month, at the age of eighty-four, and had given his car to his only living sister, Grandma Mazur. Grandma Mazur had never learned to drive. My parents and the rest of the free world weren't anxious for her to start now. While I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, I really didn't want Uncle Sandor's car. It was a 1953 powder blue Buick with shiny white top, whitewal tires big enough to fit a backhoe, and gleaming chrome portholes. It was the same size and shape as a beluga whale and probably got six miles to the gallon on a good day.

'Wouldn't think of it,' I said to my mother. 'Nice of you to offer, but that's Grandma Mazur's car.'

'Grandma Mazur wants you to have it. Your father's on his way over. Drive it in health.' Damn. I declined her offer of dinner and disconnected. I peeked in at Rex to make sure he wasn't suffering any delayed reactions to last night's ordeal. He seemed in good spirits, so I gave him a broccoli floret and a walnut, grabbed my jacket and pocketbook, and locked the apartment behind me. I slogged down the stairs and stood outside, waiting for my father to appear.

The far-off sound of a mammoth engine arrogantly sucking gas carried to the parking lot, and I shrank back against the building, hoping for a reprieve, praying this wasn't the Buick approaching.

A bulbous-nosed behemoth of a car turned the corner, and I felt my heart beat in time to the pounding of pistons. It was the Buick, all right, in all its glory, not a speck of rust anywhere. Uncle Sandor had bought the car new in 1953 and had kept it in showroom condition.

'I don't think this is a good idea,' I said to my father. 'What if I scratch it?'

'It won't get scratched,' my father said, putting the car in park, sliding over on the big bench seat. 'It's a Buick.'

'But I like little cars,' I explained.

'That's what's wrong with this country,' my father said, 'little cars. Soon as they started bringing those little cars over from Japan everything went to pot.' He thumped on the dash. 'Now, this is a car. This baby is made to last. This is the kind of car a man can be proud to drive. This is a car with cojones .'

I got in next to my father and peered over the wheel, staring openmouthed at the amount of hood. Okay, so it was big and ugly, but hell, it had cojones . I took a firm grip on the wheel and thumped my left foot to the floor before my brain registered 'no clutch.'

'Automatic,' my father said. 'That's what America is all about.' I dropped my father at the house and forced a smile. 'Thanks.' My mother was at the front stoop. 'Be careful,' she yelled. 'Keep your doors locked.'

Morelli and I walked into Big Jim's together. Ranger was already there, sitting with his back to the wall at a table that afforded a good view of the room. Always the bounty hunter, and most likely feeling naked since he'd probably left most of his personal arsenal in the car in honor of Morelli.

There was no need to look at a menu. If you knew anything at all, you ate ribs and greens at Jim's. We ordered and sat in silence until drinks were served. Ranger kicked back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Morelli in a less aggressive, more indolent slouch. Me on the edge of my seat, elbows on the table, ready to jump and run should they decide to have a shootout just for the hel of it.

'So,' Ranger finally said, 'what's going on here?' Morelli leaned forward slightly. The pitch of his voice was casual and low. 'The army's lost some toys. So far they've turned up in Newark and Philadelphia and Trenton. You hear anything about this stuff being out on the street?'

'There's always stuff out on the street.'

'This is different stuff,' Morelli said. 'Cop killers, LAWs, M-16s, new 9mm Berettas stamped 'Property of U.S. Government.' '

Ranger nodded. 'I know about the car in Newark and the cop in Philly. What have we got in Trenton?'

'We've got the gun Kenny used to shoot Moogey in the knee.'

'No shit?' Ranger tipped his head back and laughed. 'This gets better all the time. Kenny Mancuso accidentally shoots his best friend in the knee, is apprehended by a cop who by chance stops in to get gas even as the gun is smoking, and it turns out he's got a funny gun.'

'What's the word?' Morelli asked. 'You know anything?'

'Nada,' Ranger said. 'What's Kenny give you?'

'Nada,' Morelli said.

Conversation stopped while we shuffled silver and glasses to make room for the plates of ribs and bowls of greens.

Ranger continued to stare at Morelli. 'I get the feeling there's more.' Morelli selected a rib and did his lion-on-the-