“Me?”
“You don’t expect
“He’s big. I can’t get him in the trunk all by myself.”
“This whole thing is giving me the runs,” Lula said. “I vote we pretend this never happened, and we get our butts out of here.”
“It won’t be so bad,” I said to her, making an effort at convincing myself. “How about your blanket? We could wrap him in the blanket. Then we could pick him up without actually touching him.”
“I suppose that’d be all right,” Lula said. “We could give it a try.”
I spread the blanket on the ground beside Elliot Harp, took a deep breath, hooked my fingers around his belt and rolled him onto the blanket. I jumped back, squeezed my eyes closed tight and exhaled. No matter how much violent death I saw, I would never get used to it.
“I’m gonna definitely have the runs,” Lula said. “I can feel it coming on.”
“Forget about the runs and help me with this body!”
Lula grabbed hold of the head end of the blanket, and I grabbed hold of the foot end. Harp had full rigor and wouldn’t bend, so we put him in the trunk headfirst with his legs sticking out. We carefully closed the lid on Harp’s knees and secured the lid with a piece of rope Lula had in her trunk.
“Hold on,” Lula said, pulling a red flowered scarf from her coat pocket, tying the scarf on Harp’s foot like a flag. “Don’t want to get a ticket. I hear the police are real picky about having things sticking out of your trunk.”
Especially dead guys.
We pulled into traffic and had gone about a half mile, looking for a place to turn, when I got to worrying about Harp. I wasn’t sure how it would go over with the Trenton police if we drove up to the station with a dead drug dealer hanging out of Lula’s trunk. They might not understand the decision-making process that led to moving him off the side of the road.
Lula took a jug handle off Route 1 and stopped for a light. “Where’re we going?” she wanted to know.
“To the burg. I need to talk to Eddie Gazarra.”
Gazarra was a friend first, cop second. Gazarra could be trusted to give me honest advice on the best method of dead body transfer.
A car pulled up behind us at the light. Almost immediately the car went into reverse, backing away from us at high speed. Lula and I stopped watching the rearview mirror and exchanged glances.
“Maybe we should have done a better job of wrapping the blanket around old Elliot’s feet,” Lula said.
The light changed, and Lula headed south on Route 1. She cut off at Masters Street, preferring to drive a few blocks out of the way rather than chance crossing center city with Elliot. By the time we hit Hamilton Avenue the sky was dark under cloud cover, and the streetlights had blinked on.
Eddie Gazarra lived in a three-bedroom ranch on the fringe of the burg. The house had been built in the sixties. Red brick and white aluminum siding. Postage stamp fenced-in yard. Bugs the Rabbit lived in a wooden hutch at the rear of the yard, banished from the house after eating through the TV cable.
Lula parked in front of the house, and we stared in silence at the black windows.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Lula said.
I agreed, but I went to the door anyway. I pressed the doorbell and waited a few seconds. I pressed the doorbell again. I waded into the azaleas, cupped my hands against the living room window and looked inside. Nobody home.
Gus Balog, Eddie’s next-door neighbor, stuck his head out his front door. “What’s going on? Is that Stephanie Plum?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Eddie.”
“Nobody’s home. They took the kids out to that new chicken place. Is that your car…that red one?”
“It belongs to an associate.”
“What’s sticking out the trunk? Looks like legs.”
“It’s just a dummy. You know, like from a department store.”
“Don’t look like a dummy,” Gus said. “Looks like a dead guy. I heard you were looking for Mo. Those aren’t Mo’s legs, are they?”
I backed out of the azaleas and retreated to the car. “No. They’re not Mo’s legs.” I jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. “Time to leave,” I said to Lula.
Lula cruised around a couple blocks. “Well?” she asked.
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.” The problem was that I could only come up with one other person who might be able to help me out. Joe Morelli. Not someone I wanted to see in my present bedraggled condition. And not someone I wanted to owe an additional favor. And not someone I totally trusted to choose me over the Trenton Police Department.
“I’m cold, and I’m wet and I’m sure as anything gonna have the runs any minute now,” Lula said. “You better decide what to do pretty soon, or there could be a big mess in the car.”
Morelli had recently moved out of his apartment and into a row house on Slater Street. I didn’t know any of the details, but the move seemed out of character for Morelli. His previous apartment had been sparsely furnished. Comfortable in a utilitarian sort of way. Minimum maintenance. An entire house for Morelli felt much too domestic. Who would clean it? And what about curtains? Who would pick out curtains?
