Notorious Nineteen

paper towels held in place with elastic bands, and I was looking for my Band-Aids when Morelli walked in.
    “What the heck?” he said. “What did you do?”
    “Brody Logan was here looking for his tiki, and he accidentally nicked me with his ceremonial knife.”
    “You’ve got your entire arm swaddled in paper towels and there’s blood all over your floor.”
    “It was a big nick.”
    Morelli carefully unwrapped my arm, rinsed it off, and patted it dry. He applied first-aid ointment and rewrapped the arm in paper towels since the three Band-Aids I found weren’t going to do the job.
    “We’ll stop at the drugstore on the way and get a better bandage,” he said. “Do you still want to go to the shore?”
    “Of course!”
    I woke up with a slight sunburn and an arm wrapped in surgical gauze. It was Monday. A workday. And Morelli’s side of the bed was empty. The room was dark, but there was light shining from the hall. I could smell coffee brewing. I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen.
    Morelli was at the little table with his coffee, toast, and cereal, and the morning paper. I kissed him on the top of his head and dropped a slice of bread into the toaster.
    “You’re up early,” he said.
    “Lots to do today.”
    “How’s the arm?”
    “It feels fine.”
    “Looks like Ranger was busy last night. An electrical supply warehouse was firebombed. Apparently it was a Rangeman account, and one of Ranger’s guys was on the scene when it happened and was pretty badly burned.”
    I took the paper from Morelli and read the article. “This is Robert Kinsey’s warehouse. He was my Friday night security assignment.”
    “Someone’s not happy with him,” Morelli said.
    “Clearly.” I spread strawberry jelly on my toast and poured out a mug of coffee. “I don’t know much about it. Just that he’s worried. He’s getting married next Saturday, and Ranger and I will be doing security again.”
    Morelli took his cereal bowl to the sink and rinsed it. “I have to go. Monday morning meeting.” He unlocked the drawer by the back door, removed his Glock, checked it out, and clipped it onto his belt. “Try to stay safe.”
    “Has Bob been out?”
    “Bob’s done everything he needs to do. Francine Lukach will be here at noon as usual to walk him.”
    I finished my breakfast, retrieved my tote bag, and grabbed Tiki. “I’d leave you here,” I said to Tiki, “but I’m afraid his Grandma Bella will return and perform a ritual sacrifice, turning you into a pile of ash.”
    Probably it was my imagination but I swear I felt a shiver run through Tiki. I went to the door, looked out, and realizedI didn’t have a car. My car was parked in my lot. The sun was barely up. Lula would still be asleep. It would be awkward to ask my father to come get me after a night of gorilla sex with Morelli. Too far to walk, especially lugging a three-foot tiki. I could call Ranger but that was even more awkward.
    My phone rang and I grimaced at the number. Ranger.
    “I need to talk to you,” he said. “Where are you? Your car is in your lot, but your bag is at Morelli’s.”
    “You have my bag bugged?”
    “You didn’t know?”
    “No!”
    “Now you know. Where are you?”
    “I’m at Morelli’s house. I’m stranded.”
    Disconnect.
    I looked at Tiki. “He’s coming,” I said.

TWELVE
    TIKI AND I sat on the front stoop of Morelli’s house and waited for Ranger. Lights were on in the house across the street. Morelli wasn’t the only one up in his neighborhood. This was a neighborhood of hardworking people. Sleepy-eyed kids were eating breakfast, and stuffing their backpacks with favorite things to take to daycare or Grandma’s house. Adults were organizing and watching the clock. Morelli’s neighbors were nurses, clerks at the DMV, line operators at the button factory, plumbers, mechanics, and dental assistants. The houses were modest. Cars were economy models. And like the Burg this was an emerging immigrant neighborhood of multigenerational families. Lots of Italian and Eastern European cultures. A smattering of Russian. Some Portuguese. And, lately, Hispanic.
    Ranger’s low-slung Porsche 911 eased around the corner and glided to a curbside stop. I scooped Tiki up and wedged him into the small cargo area behind the seats.
    “Garage sale?” Ranger asked, looking at Tiki.
    I buckled myself in. “It’s a Hawaiian wood carving put up for bond. I’m carrying