“Sixty dollars.”
“Sold.”
He pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket. “Just show me where you want it.”
“The red Jeep Cherokee, next to the monster truck. I'd like you to put the alarm some place inconspicuous. I don't want to deface the dash.”
Minutes later I was on my way to Stark Street, feeling pretty pleased with myself. I had an alarm that was not only reasonably priced, but easily removed should I want to install it in the car I intended to buy when I cashed Morelli in. I'd stopped at a 7-Eleven on the way and gotten myself a vanilla yogurt and a carton of orange juice for lunch. I was drinking and driving and slurping, and I was very comfortable in my air-conditioned splendor. I had an alarm, I had nerve gas, I had a yogurt. What more could anyone want?
I parked directly across from the gym, guzzled the remaining orange juice, set the alarm, took my shoulder bag and file photos of Morelli, and locked up. I was waving the red flag at the bull. The only way I could possibly be more obvious was to plaster a sign to the windshield saying, “Here it is! Try and get it!”
Street activity was sluggish in the afternoon heat. Two hookers stood at the corner, looking like they were waiting for a bus, except buses didn't run down Stark Street. The women were standing there, obviously bored and disgusted, I suppose because nobody was buying at this time of day. They wore cheap plastic flip-flops, stretchy tank tops, and tight-fitting knit shorts. Their hair had been chopped short and cleverly straightened to boar-bristle quality. I wasn't sure exactly how prostitutes determined price, but if men bought hookers by the pound, these two would be doing okay.
They went into combat mode as I approached: Hands on hips, lower lips protruding, eyes opened so wide they bulged out like duck eggs.
“Hey girl,” one of the lovelies called out. “What you think you doing here? This here's our corner, you dig?”
It would appear there was a fine line between being a babe from the burg and looking like a hooker.
“I'm looking for a friend. Joe Morelli.” I showed them his picture. “Either of you see him around?”
“What you want with this Morelli?”
“It's personal.”
“I bet.”
“You know him?”
She shifted her weight. No small task. “Maybe.”
“Actually, we were more than friends.”
“How much more?”
“The son of a bitch got me pregnant.”
“You don't look pregnant.”
“Give me a month.”
“There's things you can do.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and number one is find Morelli. You know where he is?”
“Nuh uh.”
“You know someone named Carmen Sanchez? She worked at the Step In.”
“She get you pregnant too?”
“Thought Morelli might be with her.”
“Carmen's disappeared,” one of the hookers said. “Happens to women on Stark Street. Environmental hazard.”
“You want to elaborate on that?”
“She want to keep her mouth shut, is what she want to do,” the other woman said. “We don't know about any of that shit. And we don't got time to stand here talking to you. We got work to do.”