Look Alive Twenty-Five Page 5

  I gave up on sleep and got dressed. I grabbed a waffle out of the freezer, hugged Bob, and drove back to my apartment while I gnawed on the waffle.

  I live in a dated, uninspired, three-story building that straddles the Trenton city limits. I have one bedroom, one bathroom, one television, a kitchen, a dining alcove, and a living room. My furniture is mostly secondhand. My fridge contains beer, wine, Velveeta cheese slices, strawberry preserves, sometimes milk, olives, bread and butter pickles, various condiments, and on occasion leftover pizza.

  I share the apartment with a hamster named Rex. He lives in an aquarium on my kitchen counter. He doesn’t bark and he has very small poop, so he would be the perfect pet if I could just walk him on a leash.

  I said hello to Rex and apologized for spending the night with Morelli. I gave him fresh water and food and told him I loved him. He blinked his round black eyes at me and twitched his whiskers.

  “I have a problem,” I said to Rex. “I agreed to take this very dangerous job. I didn’t know it was dangerous when I took it. I found out when I showed up for work. So, I chickened out of the job and encouraged someone to take my place. It was someone who was in a vulnerable spot and thought I was doing him a favor. And now he’s missing. And I feel sick inside.”

  I dropped a peanut into the cage, and Rex stuffed it into his cheek. He looked as if he still liked me even though I wasn’t such a nice person for possibly getting Wayne Kulicki killed. That’s the good thing about having a hamster as a roommate. They’re not judgmental as long as you give them an occasional peanut.

  “And that’s not all,” I told Rex. “Vinnie is missing. We both know he’s never been my favorite person, but as it turns out, I don’t feel good about something bad happening to him. The police are involved, but I don’t see them making much progress. I feel like I should be doing something to help. I’m a recovery agent. I’m supposed to be good at finding people.”

  Rex looked doubtful at this.

  “True, I’m not the world’s best recovery agent,” I said, “but sometimes I get lucky.”

  I left Rex to enjoy his peanut, and I marched off to take a shower and change into clean clothes. Morelli wasn’t going to be happy, but I had to do the right thing. I was going back to the deli. I was going to try to find Kulicki and Vinnie, dead or alive. And I was going to be careful not to end up snatched, leaving a single shoe behind.

  A half hour later I returned to the kitchen, took my S&W .38 out of the brown bear cookie jar, and dropped it into my messenger bag. It probably wouldn’t be effective against aliens from outer space, but it might be helpful against any psycho who wanted to ship me off to Bogotá.

  I called Ranger and told him about my moral dilemma.

  “Babe,” Ranger said. “Your intentions are admirable, but chances are good that you’ll die.”

  “I’d prefer not to die. I was hoping you could help me by installing and manning some security cameras behind the deli.”

  “No problem.” And he disconnected.

  Ranger is a man of few words but lots of action.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Lula and Connie were already at the office when I rolled in.

  “Any word from Vinnie?” I asked Connie.

  She shook her head. “No. He hasn’t been home. No one’s seen him.”

  “I feel real sad,” Lula said. “And I don’t even like him.”

  “He could be okay,” I said. “The aliens could bring him back.”

  “That’s true,” Lula said. “Sometimes people get returned after they’ve been probed. Ordinarily getting probed would be a traumatic experience, but Vinnie might like it. He could even come back in a good mood.”

  “I have some time before I have to open the deli,” I said. “I’m going after Victor Waggle.”

  “You sure you want to be manager again?” Lula asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  “You must be in a serious frame of mind,” Lula said when we were in my car, pulling away from the curb. “You didn’t even take a donut out of the box on Connie’s desk. And that’s too bad since it might be your last donut before losing your shoe.”

  “I’m not going to lose my shoe.”

  “You carrying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your gun got bullets in it?”

  “No. I have to buy bullets.”

  “That’s just pathetic that you haven’t got bullets. You’re gonna give the rest of us women a bad reputation. You can’t even protect yourself, much less stop a terror attack. Good thing you got me along.”

  “Because you could stop a terror attack?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m ready to take them idiot terrorists down.”

  Hard to believe since Lula was the worst shot ever. She was known to miss a target at point-blank range.

  “Jersey is full of those idiots,” Lula said. “And we even got out-of-state idiots coming here. We got terrorists coming here from Connecticut and New York. You don’t hear much about it because we got excellent law enforcement and they thwart the attacks.”

  “I suppose that’s comforting.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t want to get too comfortable because those terrorists might be idiots but they’re sneaky idiots. It’s only a matter of time before one of them slips in and rampages Jersey.”

  I knew I was going to regret asking, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why Jersey?”

  “All us good citizens in Jersey got attitude. We got pride. We got brass balls the size of watermelons. We got rude hand gestures and loaded guns . . . most of us. It’s not like we’re a pushover state like California. If you want to make points and get extra virgins when you blow yourself up, clearly Jersey is the place to accomplish that, you see what I’m saying? It’s not like we’re easy.”

  I sucked in a grimace. It was always frightening when Lula made sense saying something stupid.

  “And now that I’m thinking about it, that’s probably the same reason the aliens chose a deli in Trenton to suck people up into their spaceship,” Lula said. “Us Trentonians are a challenge. And for the most part we got good taste in shoes.”

  I handed the Waggle file to Lula. “I glanced at this briefly when Connie first gave it to me. I think he lives on Stark Street.”

  Lula thumbed through the file. “Yeah, but he’s way at the end, just before the junkyard. You want to get bullets for your gun before you go there.”

  I cut across the downtown business district and turned right onto Stark.

  “Drop me off at the beauty salon on the next block,” Lula said. “I’ll run in and get you some ammo.”

  “At the beauty salon?”

  “Lateesha sells some merchandise on the side. She’s been around for a long time. I used to shop there when I was a ’ho on account of my corner was only one block away. She’s got a real good nail tech too.”

  I double-parked in front of the salon. Lula ran in and came out five minutes later.

  “I got your stuff,” Lula said. “And I got a kick-ass nail varnish. It’s midnight blue with silver sparkles. I’m going to look like the night sky. I’m going to be like the Beatles song. Lula in the sky with diamonds.”

  Stark Street starts out okay with a couple blocks of legitimate businesses. The third block begins to get dicey, and it goes downhill fast from there. By the time you get to the burned-out, gutted buildings at the end of Stark the only residents are rats and loonies. A very prosperous junkyard sits about a mile beyond the last building.

  We were one block from the end, idling in front of a two-story brick building that looked like it used to be a warehouse. It was the only structure still standing. Everything else on the block was rubble.

  “This has to be the block,” Lula said. “Hard to believe he’s living here. And if he is living here, I’m not going in t
o root him out. The police won’t even come to this block. There’s gonna be rats and snakes and unfortunate people’s body parts in this building we’re looking at.”

  “Body parts?” I asked.

  “I’m just supposing.”

  I made a U-turn and slowly drove back down Stark, hoping for a Waggle sighting. “What else do we have? Workplace? Relatives? Girlfriend?”

  “He’s self-employed,” Lula said, reading through the file. “He gives that building back there as his home and place of business. Looks like his family is all in Wisconsin.”

  “Who posted Waggle’s bond?”

  “A guy named Leonard Skoogie. It was a high bond, and it looks like it was secured with cash.”

  “Do we have an address for Skoogie?”

  “Suite twelve in the Hamilton Building on State Street.”

  I was familiar with the Hamilton Building. It was one block from Stark Street. Seven floors. Built in the fifties. It had a mix of legitimate, semi-legitimate, and not nearly legitimate tenants.

  “Now what?” Lula asked. “Do we need to talk to Mr. Skoogie?”

  “Yes. Skoogie laid out serious money for Waggle. He should be anxious to have him returned to the court.”

  I found on-street parking not far from Skoogie’s office. I parallel-parked behind a Rollswagon that had seen better days, and Lula and I strolled into the lobby. Suite twelve was on the second floor at the end of the hall.

  I opened the door to the suite and looked inside at a woman seated at a desk.

  “Knock, knock,” I said. “I’m looking for Leonard Skoogie.”

  “He isn’t here,” she said. “He’s in L.A. for the rest of the week.”

  Photographs and posters covered almost every inch of wall space in the small room. There was a door off to one side which I assumed led to Skoogie’s private office. The woman’s desk was heaped with clutter, including an open box of Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “No,” I said to Lula. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said.

  “I’m actually looking for Victor Waggle,” I said to the woman. “Perhaps you know him.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Are you a fan? Would you like a signed photograph? We have them available for ten dollars.”

  “We already got a photograph,” Lula said. “It got taken at the police station.”

  “Ours would be much nicer,” the woman said. She pointed to the wall. “We have pictures of the band too.”

  Lula and I went to the wall and looked at the photographs.

  “This sucker is in a band,” Lula said. “I could recognize him by the snake tattoo. The other idiots in the band got spiders on their foreheads.”

  “Lead singer in Rockin’ Armpits,” the woman said. “Mr. Skoogie has high hopes for Victor.”

  “Yeah, us too,” Lula said. “You know where we can find him?”

  “They perform at the Snake Pit every Thursday and Friday.”

  “I guess that makes sense for someone that’s got a snake tattooed on his neck,” Lula said. “Where’s it at?”

  “Stark Street,” the woman said. “It’s easy to find. They always light the building with searchlights when the band is performing.”

  “I bet,” Lula said.

  “During the day, the building looks a little run-down,” the woman said, “but I’m told it’s very festive at night.”

  “It’s only Tuesday,” Lula said. “Suppose we want to find Victor before Thursday?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to release personal information on our clients,” the woman said.

  I gave her my business card. “Victor is in violation of his bond agreement,” I said. “He missed his court appearance. We need to find him and get him rescheduled.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “It must have slipped his mind. Have you tried his cellphone?”

  “He’s not picking up.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about Victor. Often when our clients are in the early stages of their careers they tend not to have a permanent address.”

  “Why is that?” Lula asked.

  “They haven’t any money,” the woman said. “I can give you a printout of our press release. It has the names of the four other band members. I imagine they would know where to find Victor.”

  “Mr. Skoogie is Victor’s agent?” I asked.

  “Agent and manager,” she said.

  I took the press release and thanked the woman. Lula and I left the office and returned to my car.

  “I can’t believe she didn’t offer us a donut,” Lula said. “That showed a less-than-gracious personality. I wouldn’t trust someone who doesn’t offer a guest a donut.”

  I didn’t have a lot of thoughts about the donuts. My thoughts were about Skoogie and his interest in Victor Waggle. Hard to believe Skoogie’s high hopes were sufficient to warrant putting up a five-figure bond for someone who went around stabbing people because he was having a bad day. Something was missing in the picture.

  “I can’t stop thinking about a donut now,” Lula said. “It’s stuck in my mind. I’m going to have to get a donut.”

  “It’s almost ten. I’m heading for the deli. You can grab something to eat there.”

  “I’m impressed that you’re taking your manager job seriously. What with all that’s been happening, a lot of people wouldn’t see this as having long-term career potential.”

  “I’m not interested in long-term career potential. I want to find Vinnie and Wayne Kulicki.”

  “So, you’re making yourself the next target?”

  “More or less.”

  “That could be a bad idea being that you’re not exactly Ranger.”

  “No, but Ranger’s going to help me. He’s installing security cameras.”

  “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m thinking security cameras aren’t going to give you a lot of security. From my knowledge of this sort of thing, which mostly comes from Star Trek, it all happens pretty fast. You get vaporized and next thing you’re having dinner with a Klingon.”

  “I’m going with the outside chance that it’s not space aliens.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I PULLED TO the curb in front of the deli and parked behind a Rangeman SUV. The deli door was unlocked, and Ranger’s tech guy was inside, on a ladder. No surprise that he could let himself in. His name was Randy, and he was a master electrician, a pickpocket, a locksmith, a safecracker, and a sharpshooter. His work history prior to Ranger was south of the law.

  “Good morning,” Raymond said to Lula and me. “As you can see, we have a man in black working to bring us into the age of surveillance.”

  Lula went straight to the fridge. “Stephanie wants to have video for YouTube when she gets snatched up.”

  “She is a woman with vision,” Raymond said.

  “Where’s that carrot cake from yesterday?” Lula asked. “I don’t see it here.”

  “Bottom shelf,” Stretch said. “If you eat it all you have to make a bakery run.”

  “I see two cakes down here,” Lula said.

  Stretch was setting up his prep area. “Yeah, like I said, if you eat it all you have to make a bakery run.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “Smart-ass.”

  I walked through the kitchen to the back door and looked outside. There was no sign that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. The crime scene tape had been taken down. The lone shoe had been removed.

  A man appeared at the edge of the parking area. It was Wulf. He crooked a finger at me and motioned me forward. I gave a single shake of my head, no. I mimicked his gesture, motioning him to come to me. He smiled. There was a flash of light, a burst of smoke, and he was gone.

  I stepped back, closed the door, and sucked in some air. Hard not to get rattled by Wulf. I wasn’
t bothered by the theatrics. That was just Wulf having fun. I was bothered by the man. I knew him on a superficial level, as my drop-in friend Diesel’s mysterious and complicated cousin. He was a man who tended to live in shadows and to come and go like thunder and lightning. And by “thunder and lightning” I’m not referring to his exit act, but by the disturbing magnetic, almost electric energy that surrounded him. He aroused my curiosity and simultaneously set off stranger-danger alarms. And I was a little freaked out that he was suddenly being seen in the two areas where people had vanished.

  Everything seemed to be business as usual at the deli, so I called Connie and asked her to get me some information on the band members. Ten minutes later she texted back.

  “I’m going to try to talk to the Armpit guys,” I said to Lula. “I’ll be back for the lunch rush. Do you want to stay here or come with me?”

  “I’ll come with you. Just in case you get beamed up off-site, I don’t want to miss it.”

  Zigmund Klug was first on the list. He was nineteen and shared the same address as Victor Waggle. His parents lived in Arizona. He had no employment history. I moved him to last on the list.

  Jaimie Rolls was living with his parents on Mayberry Street and was a pizza delivery specialist for Noohana’s Pizza Emporium. I was familiar with Mayberry. It was tucked in behind the bonds office on Hamilton. It was a nice neighborhood of well-kept modest houses. I moved Jaimie to the top of the list.

  “I heard about Noohana’s,” Lula said. “I saw it advertised on television the other day. They got emporiums all over the country, and if you order before noon and get them delivered after midnight, the pizza is only ninety-nine cents. I think that’s because they must make them in China and ship them over here.”

  I found the Rolls house, and Lula and I went to the door. An older woman answered. Her hair was gray and cut short. Her skin was wrinkled and slack. She had a cigarette stuck to her lower lip and an overweight white cat under her arm.