'Blue steel,' she said. 'Got it off Harry the Horse back when I was a ho. You want to know why we call him Harry the Horse?'
'Don't tell me.'
'That mother was fearful. He just wouldn't fit in anywhere. Hell, I had to use two hands to give him the poor man's special.'
I dropped Lula back at the office and went on home. By the time I pulled into my lot, the sky had blackened under the cloud cover and a light rain had begun to fall. I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and hurried into the building, happy to be home. Mrs. Bestler was doing hall laps with her walker. Step, step, clomp. Step, step, clomp.
'Another day, another dollar,' she said.
'True enough,' I replied.
I could hear the rise and fal of audience participation as Mr. Wolesky's TV droned on behind his closed door.
I plugged my key into my lock and did a quick, suspicious look around my apartment. All was secure. There were no messages on the machine, and there'd been no mail downstairs.
I made hot chocolate and a peanut butter and honey sandwich. I stacked the plate on top of the mug, tucked the phone under my arm, grabbed the list of numbers I'd retrieved from Spiro's apartment, and carted everything off to the dining room table. I dialed the first number and a woman answered.
'I'd like to speak to Kenny,' I said.
'You must have the wrong number. There's no Kenny here.'
'Is this the Colonial Grill?'
'No, this is a private number.'
'Sorry,' I said.
I had seven numbers to check out. The first four were exactly alike. All private residences. Probably clients. The fifth was pizza delivery. The sixth was St. Francis Hospital. The seventh was a motel in Bordentown. I thought this last one had some potential. I gave Rex a corner of my sandwich, heaved a sigh at having to leave the warmth and comfort of my apartment, and shrugged back into my jacket. The motel was on Route 206, not far from the turnpike entrance. It was a cut-rate motel, built before the motel chains moved in. There were forty units, all ground floor, opening to a narrow porch. Lights shone from two. The neon sign at roadside advertised efficiencies available. The exterior was neat, but it was a foregone conclusion that the inside would be dated, the wallpaper faded, the chenille spread threadbare, the bathroom sink rust-stained.
I parked close to the office and hustled inside. An elderly man sat behind the desk, watching a small TV.
'Evening,' he said.
'Are you the manager?'
'Yep. The manager, the owner, the handyman.'
I took Kenny's picture out of my pocketbook. 'I'm looking for this man. Have you seen him?'
'Mind telling me why you're looking for him?'
'He's in violation of a bond agreement.'
'What's that mean?'
'It means he's a felon.'
'Are you a cop?'
'I'm an apprehension agent. I work for his bonding company.' The man looked at the picture and nodded. 'He's in unit seventeen. Been there for a couple days.' He thumbed through a ledger on the counter. 'Here he is. John Sherman. Checked in on Tuesday.'
I could hardly believe it! Damned if I wasn't good. 'Is he alone?'
