“Does she put out for knicky-knacky?”

“No!”

“Criminy,” Lula said to Myron. “What’s with you and the knicky-knacky? Do it by yourself and get it over with just like the rest of us.”

“He’s not real big,” I said to Lula. “Probably about a hundred and sixty pounds. If we hog-tie him, we should be able to cart him out to the car.”

“Yeah, and he don’t have no teeth, so we don’t have to worry about him biting us.”

“You can’t do that to me,” Myron said. “I’m old. I’ll have a heart attack. I’ll pee my pants.”

Lula was hands on hips. “I hate when they pee their pants. It’s a humiliating experience. And it ruins the upholstery.”

I cut my eyes to Myron. “Well? How do you want us to do this?”

“I gotta go to the bathroom before you hog-tie me,” Myron said. “Or else I’ll pee for sure.”

“You’ve got three minutes,” I said to him.

“I can’t go in three minutes. I’m old. I’ve got a prostate the size of a basketball.”

“Just go!”

Myron trotted off to the bathroom, and Lula and I waited in the front room. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I went to the bathroom door and knocked. No answer.

“Myron?”

Nothing. I tried the door. Locked. I called again and rapped louder. Shit!

“I need something to pop the lock,” I said to Lula. “Do you have a safety pin? Chicken skewer? Knitting needle?”

“I got a bobby pin.”

Lula bent the pin open, shoved it in the little hole in the knob, and the door unlocked and we peeked in. No Myron in the bathroom. Open window.

“He gets around, for bein’ he’s so old,” Lula said, looking out the window.

This was the second time today I’d lost a skip through a window. I couldn’t even categorize myself as incompetent. I had to go with pathetically stupid.

“Now what are we gonna do?” Lula asked.

Ordinarily, I’d walk the neighborhood and try to ferret out my skip. Problem was, I had Lula in her yellow spandex, and we were way too visible. You could probably see Lula from the space shuttle.

“I’m going to drop you at the office, and I’m going back to work for Ranger,” I said. “Morelli told me the crime lab was done with your apartment. Is your landlord replacing your door?”

“I don’t know. I gotta call and find out.”

I DROVE PAST the bonds office twice before pulling to the curb to let Lula out.

“I don’t see anything suspicious,” I said to her. “I think you’re safe.”

“This has been another disturbin’ day, what with those two assholes lookin’ to kill me, and findin’ out that I’m fat. I might go back on that bacon diet.”

“The bacon diet is unhealthy. And you had packs of dogs chasing you down the street when you were on the bacon diet. All you need to do is control your portions. Stay away from the doughnuts and only eat one piece of chicken or one pork chop or one hamburger at a meal.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lula said. “Nobody eats just one pork chop. I’d get weak and die.”

“Lots of people only eat one pork chop.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “That’s un-American. How am I supposed to stimulate the economy when I’m only eating one plain-ass pork chop? Probably I can’t even have gravy on that pork chop.”

I made sure Lula got into the office without getting shot or decapitated, and then I pulled my map out of my handbag and started another run through Ranger’s accounts.

Morelli called a little after four. “We found the Town Car,” he said. “It was parked on a side street near the Bank Center. Easy to spot, since it had a bunch of bullet holes in it. No blood inside. I don’t know how she always manages to miss her target. It’s uncanny.”

“Owner?”

“It was stolen from a car service last night. The lab guys are doing their thing, but that car has been handled by half of New Jersey.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass this on to Lula.”

“Is she with you?”

“No. I dropped her at the bonds office. I’m riding a circuit for Ranger right now.”

“Word around town is that he’s losing accounts. Having a Rangeman security system has turned into a liability.”

“He’s working on it.”

I WAS HALFWAY through my account route, and I realized it was almost six o’clock. I took Olden to Hamilton, turned into the Burg, and slid to a stop in front of my parents’ house precisely on time.

I could smell the ham the minute I stepped into the foyer. It was an intoxicating aroma of warm, salty goodness and special occasions. My father was already at the table, waiting to stab into the first piece of ham. My grandmother was also seated. And a strange man sat beside Grandma.

“This is Madelyn Mooney’s boy, Milton,” my mother said to me, setting the green bean casserole on the table. “He just moved back to Trenton.”

“Yep,” Grandma said. “We thought we’d fix you up with some hotties since it’s kaput with Morelli.”

“I’m not interested in getting fixed up,” I said.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Grandma said. “You wait too long, and all the good ones get taken.”

I looked over at Milton. He was a sandbag. Overweight, slumped in his chair, pasty white skin, bad complexion, balding orange hair. I was guessing mid-thirties. Not to be judgmental, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when God was handing stuff out.

“Milton used to work in the auto industry,” Grandma said. “He had a real good job on the line at the factory.”

“Yeah,” Milton said. “It was sweet until I got fired. And then the bank foreclosed on my house, and my wife left me and took the dog. And now I’m hounded by collection agencies.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “So what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s living with his mother,” Grandma said. “Until he gets on his feet.”

“I guess it’s hard to get a job these days.”

“I’m not actually looking for a job,” Milton said. “The doctor who treated me after I had the nervous breakdown and set fire to my house said I should take it easy for a while.”

“You set fire to your house?”

“Technically, it wasn’t my house anymore. It was the bank’s house, and between you and me, I think they were happy I burned it down. They were real nice to me while I was in the mental hospital.” He speared a piece of ham, studied it, and turned his attention back to me. “My outpatient advisor tells me I need to get out of my mother’s house, so that’s why I’m considering marrying you. I was told you have your own apartment.”

My father picked his head up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Good God,” he said.

“I bet a big, strapping young guy like you has a lot of special talents,” Grandma said to Milton.

“I can make French toast,” Milton said. “And I can whistle.”

“Isn’t that something,” Grandma said. “Whistling’s a lost art. You don’t find many whistlers anymore.”

Milton whistled “Camptown Races” and “Danny Boy.”

“That’s pretty good,” Grandma said. “I wish I could whistle like that.”

My father shot my mother a look like he was in intense pain.

“Pass the potatoes to your father,” my mother said to me. “And give him more ham.”

I tried to sneak an inconspicuous peek at my watch.

“Don’t even think about it,” my mother said. “You leave now, and you don’t get dessert… ever.”