“Hunh,” Lula said. “I don’t do that no more, you little runt-ass Polish sausage.”
The tinted window rolled up on Gritch’s Mercedes. I put the Jeep in gear and drove out of the lot.
SEVEN
“THINGS ARE GOING good today,” Lula said. “We haven’t been shot at or nothin’. Have you got the bottle with you?”
“No. I left it at home.”
“Imagine if you had the bottle.”
“I’ve got Chopper’s file in my bag,” I said to Lula. “Pull it out and read me his address. I think he’s off South Broad.”
“I’m not sure I want to go after someone named Chopper,” Lula said. “Suppose he got his name chopping off fingers and toes. I don’t want to lose none of mine. I couldn’t wear peep-toe shoes. It would limit my fashion potential.”
“Does it say anything in his file about fingers or toes?”
Lula paged through the file. “No. His real name is Mortimer Gonzolez, but it says everyone calls him Chopper. And it says he got a pet named Mr. Jingles, and you want to be careful about Mr. Jingles. I hope it’s not a cat. It sounds like a cat name. Just thinking about it makes my eyes itch.”
“Has he got priors?”
“Yeah, lots of them. All like this. All for dealin’ drugs. Don’t see no assault with a deadly weapon in here. Looks to me like he’s a businessman. Middle management.”
“Did Connie include a map?”
“Yeah. You have to turn right off Broad onto Cotter Street.”
I drove down Broad, and I thought about Mickey Gritch. He said he was out of it. I hoped he wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t lead me to Vinnie. And what the heck did he mean when he said it was complicated and there were bad people involved? I thought this was about a simple gambling debt.
“Hey!” Lula said. “You just drove past the street.”
I hooked a U-turn and doubled back to Cotter. “I was thinking about the conversation with Gritch. How bad would you have to be to be worse than Bobby Sunflower?”
“I hear you,” Lula said. “I think Vinnie got himself into a real mess this time.”
I drove one block down Cotter, and Lula counted off numbers.
“Here,” she said. “He’s living over this plumbing supply warehouse. Must be a loft apartment.”
Cotter Street was an odd mix of light industrial and residential. Low-income single-family houses were mixed between auto body shops, small warehouse facilities, and a variety of building supply businesses. I drove around the block to see if it was intersected by an alley. Turned out it was, so I drove down the alley and idled behind the plumbing supply warehouse, looking up at the second-floor loft.
“How do you want to do this?” Lula asked. “Girl Scout cookies? Pizza delivery? Census survey?”
There were stairs leading up to a small deck and a back door. So far as I could tell, this was the only entrance. “I’m in a mood to just go up and kick the door down,” I said to Lula.
“Me, too. That was gonna be my next suggestion.” Lula looked over at me. “You learn how to kick a door down?”
“No. I thought you’d do it.”
“I’m wearing four-inch slut shoes. I can’t kick a door down in slut shoes. It isn’t done. You need boots to kick a door down. Everyone knows that.”
“Then I guess we’ll ring the doorbell and identify ourselves.”
“Whatever,” Lula said.
I parked behind a rusted-out Econoline van, and Lula and I got out and walked up the stairs to the deck. There was no doorbell, so I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I pulled my phone out and dialed Chopper’s number. We could hear the phone ringing inside, but no one was answering that, either.
“Too bad we don’t know how to break the door down,” Lula said. “He might be hiding under the bed.”
I stood on tiptoes and felt over the doorjamb and found a key.
“If I was in this neighborhood, and I had a bunch of drug money and drugs stashed here, I’d be more careful about my key,” Lula said.
“Maybe he has an alarm system.”
I plugged the key into the door, held my breath, and pushed the door open. No alarm sounded. I looked around for an alarm keypad. None visible.
“Guess he’s just one of those trusting people,” Lula said. “Sort of refreshing in this day and age. Especially in the criminal element.”
We were standing in a large room that had a bare-bones galley kitchen at one end, a kitchen table and four chairs, and beyond that a couch and two easy chairs in front of a large flat screen TV. There was a door to the right, which I assumed led to the bedroom.
“It’s just amazin’ how normal a criminal could be,” Lula said. “This looks just like any other person’s apartment. ’Course you gotta sell drugs to afford something this big, but aside from that, you gotta admit it’s real normal.” She looked around. “I don’t see Mr. Jingles. And I don’t think it’s a cat, because I’m not sneezing. I bet it’s a cute puppy or something.”
“I don’t see any dog bowls or dog toys.”
“Here, Mr. Jingles,” Lula called. “Here, boy! Here, Mr. Jingles. Come to Lula.”
There was a rustling sound behind the couch, and a six-foot alligator padded out, focused on Lula, and lunged.
“Yow!” Lula said, stumbling back, knocking into me. “Help! Watch out. Get outta my way!”
I was across the room like a shot with Lula on my heels, pushing me through the door, slamming the door behind us.
“I think I wet myself,” Lula said. “Do I look like I wet myself?”
I was beyond noticing if she wet herself. I had my hand over my heart, and my mouth open sucking air, and my heart was knocking around so hard in my chest my vision was blurred.
“I think we’re done here,” I said to Lula.
“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Don’t forget to put the key back, or Chopper won’t be able to get in to feed Mr. Jingles if he locks himself out.”
I returned the key to its hiding place, and the gator slammed against the door on the inside of Chopper’s apartment and Lula and I flew down the stairs, missing a couple, both of us sliding halfway on our asses. We got to our feet, the gator banged against the door again, and Lula and I ran screaming for the Jeep.
Ten minutes later, I parked behind Lula’s Firebird in front of the bonds office.
“I guess that’s why Chopper doesn’t need an alarm system,” I said, finally finding my voice.
“What kind of man keeps a alligator in his house? That’s just wrong. Where does he poop? You ever think of that? And he got a lot of nerve naming him something cute like Mr. Jingles. That’s a deceptive name. And it was all your fault anyway, because you left your bottle home.”
My phone rang, and I picked it up to Morelli.
“I need to talk to you,” Morelli said. “I caught the McCuddle fiasco. I’m sure the autopsy will show natural causes, but I need you to fill out some paperwork. If you meet me at Pino’s in ten minutes, I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Deal.”
“What was that about?” Lula asked.
“Lunch with Morelli. He got assigned to McCuddle, and he’s got my paperwork.”
PINO’S SERVES ITALIAN food Burg-style. Greasy pizza you have to fold to eat, meatball subs, sausage sandwiches, spaghetti with red sauce, worthless uninteresting salad with iceberg lettuce and pale tomatoes, Bud on tap, and red table wine. It has a dark, carved, mahogany bar and a side room with tables for families and couples who don’t want to watch hockey on the television hanging over the liquor collection.
Morelli was waiting for me at a table, choosing not to be distracted by ESPN recaps on the bar television. He
