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I started watching the clock at one o'clock. By three o'clock I was sure I'd been tagging clothes for at least five days without a break. My thumb was throbbing, my feet ached from standing for eight hours, and I had a nervous twitch in my eye from Mama Macaroni's constant scrutiny.
I took my bag from under the counter and I looked over at Mama Macaroni.
“See you tomorrow.”
“What you mean, see you tomorrow? Where you think you going?” “Home. It's three o'clock. My shift is over.”
“Look at little miss clock watcher here. Three o'clock on the dot. Bing. The bell rings and you out the door.” She threw her parchment hands into the air.
"Go! Go home. Who needs you? And don't be late tomorrow. Sunday is big day.
We the only cleaner open on Sunday."
“Okay,” I said. “And have a nice mole.” Shit! Did I just say that? “Have a nice day!” I yelled. Crap.
I'd parked the Saturn in the small lot adjacent to Kan Klean. I left the building and circled the car. I didn't see any notes. I didn't smell anything burning.
No one shot at me. Guess my stalker was taking a day off.
I got into the car, turned my cell phone on, and scrolled to messages.
First message. “Stephanie.” That was the whole message. It was from Morelli at seven-ten this morning. It sounded like it had been said through clenched teeth.
Second message. Morelli breathing at seven-thirty.
Third message. “Call me when you turn your phone on.” Morelli again.
Fourth message. “It's two-thirty and we just found Barroni's car. Call me.”
Barroni's car! I dialed in Joe's cell number.
“It's me,” I said. “I just got off work. I had to turn my phone off because Mama Macaroni said it was giving her brain cancer. Not that it would matter.”
“Where are you?”
“I'm on the road. I'm going home to take a nap. I'm all done in.”
The car . . .
“The car is okay,” I told Morelli.
“The car is not okay.”
“Give up on the car. What about Barroni?”
?
?I lied about Barroni. I figured that was the only way you'd call.”
I put my finger to my eye to stop the twitching, disconnected Morelli, and cruised into my lot.
Old Mr. Ginzler was walking to his Buick when I pulled in. “That's some lookin' car you got there, chicky,” Mr. Ginzler said. “And it stinks.”
“I paid extra for the smell,” I told Mr. Ginzler.
“Smart-ass kid,” Mr. Ginzler said. But he smiled when he said it. Mr. Ginzler liked me. I was almost sure of it.
Rex was snoozing in his soup can when I let myself into my apartment. There were no messages on my machine. Most people called my cell these days. Even my mother called my cell. I shuffled into the bedroom, kicked my shoes off, and crawled under the covers. The best I could say about today was that it was marginally better than yesterday. At least I hadn't gotten fired.
