“Why not?”
“He couldn’t swim. Almost drowned that summer, one day when the undertow was bad.”
Mary hadn’t known. She eliminated the possibility of a shore house. “Did he have any hobbies you knew of? Fishing? Hunting?”
“Not that I know. I wasn’t that close to him. Scuzzy was the closest. They were tight.”
“Scaramuzzo?” Mary’s heart leaped with hope.
“Yes. They stayed in good touch, too, at least until Scuzzy died.”
“When was that?” Mary groaned inwardly.
“Two years ago. Blood cancer. He wasn’t even thirty.”
“How about PopTop? Paul Meloni? Was he close with Bobby?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stay in touch. I liked the guy but I’m busy.” Waites gestured at the credenza, covered with school pictures, like kiddie mug shots. “I got six kids.”
“A good Catholic.”
“No, married three times.” Waites chuckled again, then stopped. “Last I knew, PopTop was in drug rehab. Neumann graduated the best, but I hung with all the losers. I’m a late bloomer, let me tell you.”
“Does he still work for the school district?” Mary checked the addresses she’d copied from the library.
“No. He got fired. I know where you can find him, though.” Waites tore a Post-it from a yellow cube, scribbled an address on it, and handed it to her, stuck to his fingerpad. “Here you go. Now, if I could get back to work.”
“Sure, thanks for your time. If you think of anything else that might help me, will you let me know?” Mary stood up and handed him her business card, though now it had an expiration date. “Call on the cell.”
“No sweat. Thanks for coming by.” Waites stood up, nodded a little good-bye, and Mary went to the door, then turned, curious.
“By the way, what’s Jimmy 4G stand for?”
“I didn’t have a lot of dates, back then. It means ‘Jimmy waits for girls.’ Get it?” Waites smiled. “Bobby gave me that nickname. He was king of the nicknames.”
“What was his?”
Waites paused. “Come to think of it, he didn’t have one. He gave out the nicknames, so I guess he never got one.”
“Thanks,” Mary said, and for some reason, it made her sad.
Olde City was the colonial section of the city, a grid of skinny cobblestone streets bordered by the Delaware River. The oldest street in America, Elfreth’s Alley, was here, and many of the vintage brick buildings had been refurbished to house hip restaurants and artsy shops. But gentrification hadn’t reached everywhere, and on one of the grimier back streets sat a skinny glass storefront, mashed like a ham sandwich between two brick houses. It was a tattoo parlor, and a chipped black-iron grate covered the front door, which bore a printed sign that read, UNDER EIGHTEEN PARENTS MUST SIGN WAIVER! Mary yanked open the door and went inside.
Every square inch of the walls of the small room was plastered with samples of colorful tattoos: American flags, orange koi fish, flowers, hearts, banners of every color, and Chinese and Egyptian letters. Dragons with curling tails and flaring nostrils hung next to Jesus himself, and the praying hands looked incongruous, if not sacrilegious, next to hollow-eyed skulls and daggers that dripped blood. The shop wasn’t busy, and a man with a shaved head and a faded CitySports T-shirt was tattooing a black banner on a young man’s forearm, which read IN MEMORY O. The machine made a loud buzzing sound, attached to a cord wrapped with electrician’s tape.
“Can I help you?” asked a man behind the counter, and Mary walked over, trying not to freak at the inked tarantulas that crawled up his bare arms to encircle his neck. He obviously worked out, because his shoulder caps bulged under a jungle of green-and-black leaves, hiding a striped Bengal tiger about to pounce.
“My name’s Mary DiNunzio and I’m looking for Paul Meloni.”
“That’s me.” He extended a multicolored hand across the counter and they shook. His brown hair was cut so close that his head looked like a rifle bullet, and he had round, dark-brown eyes and a long, bony nose. He wore a blue tank top and jeans, and a row of small hoop earrings hung from one ear. “How can I help you?”
“I came to talk to you about Bobby Mancuso. I knew him in high school.”
“Oh, man.” Paul’s features went suddenly soft under his illustrated exterior. “What a shame, huh? I couldn’t sleep last night after I saw it on the TV.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame, is what it is. Bobby, man.” Paul exhaled, looking away.
“I’m trying to find Trish Gambone.”
“I read about that, I know.” Paul’s ripped shoulders fell. “I couldn’t believe it. I knew they were having problems, he told me that, but it sounds like he just lost it.”
“You two stayed in touch, huh?”
“Yeah, more or less. We saw each other maybe every couple months or so.”
Mary considered it. An odd alliance, a drug dealer and a former addict. “Do you know where Trish could be? Where he could have taken her?”
“No idea.”
Mary tried not to get discouraged. She felt so close to something. “Did you know he was planning anything like that?”
“No, not at all.” Paul looked puzzled. “Far as I knew, they were fine.”
“Did he tell you he was going to ask her to marry him?”
“No, not really. We used to talk about me, with my sobriety and all, and I was on him about his drinking. Either that, or we talked sports.”
“Did he tell you that he used to yell at her, threaten her?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. When Bobby drank, he lost it, even in high school. We used to drink together, him and me, but I been clean and sober for five years now.” Paul cocked his shorn head. “How did you know him, again?”
“I used to tutor him in Latin.” Mary couldn’t give up. “I really need your help. I know he bought a house. Do you have any idea where that house might be?”
“Nah. Didn’t even know he had a house. I thought they lived together.”
“They did, but I think he had another house he kept a secret. Did he tell you about that?”
“No. He mighta told Scuzzy, but he passed.”
“But he confided in you.”
“Yeah.”
Mary switched tacks. “Did you know he was in the Mob?”
Paul checked behind him, but no tattoos appeared to be listening. “Look, it got him dead, and I don’t wanna speak ill. He was my friend. He stuck by me through some hard times, and when I got the job here, he’d drop by.”
Mary was starting to panic. If she learned nothing here, she was out of leads. “Paul, I’m trying to find that house. Trish could still be alive.”
“I don’t know anything.” Paul edged back from the counter, and the other tattoo artist looked over.
“Do you know if he was close to anybody in the Mob?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he ever bring anybody from the Mob here?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention anybody, any names?”
“We didn’t talk about that.” Paul chuckled. “Do I look stupid?”
“Did he ever mention anybody named Cadillac?”
“No.”
“Did he ever get picked up or dropped off by someone driving a Cadillac?”
“No, he drove the new BMW. He loved that car.” Paul hesitated, then frowned, thinking. “I heard him on the cell, a few times. He used to get calls, you know, and he’d go outside to take them. He’s not gonna take a call like that in front of me.”
“So do you remember any of the names?”
