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“That was a downer,” I said to Lula.
“Yeah,” she said. “It was anti climactic after waiting all this time to see the bigamist.”
“I can’t figure out if I’m more depressed that Dirk died or that Dolly didn’t know he was dead.”
“I take a philosophical view on these things, since I’m a observer of human nature,” Lula said. “I figure you gotta have the right attitude about this stuff. Take Dolly, for instance. Dolly was gonna try to keep her lunch date, which is a good thing, because life gotta go on. And even though he was dead, Dirk sort of looked like he was smiling.”
“He did look like he died smiling.”
“See, it’s all part of the circle of life,” Lula said. “And pretty soon, we’ll be dead, too, only you’ll go first because you’re older than me.”
“Do you have any doughnuts left? I need a doughnut.”
“I ate them all, but we can stop at the bakery again. They had some red velvet cupcakes that I’m pretty sure were made with beet juice. Either that or red dye #13.”
I hooked a left into the bakery lot and bought myself a doughnut with white icing and colorful sprinkles. “This is a happy doughnut,” I said to Lula.
“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “But then I never saw a sad doughnut.”
I ate my doughnut and felt much better, so I drove down Greenwood to Hamilton, past the office, and on to the government buildings on the river. It was lunchtime, and I was guessing Mickey Gritch would be hanging out, looking to run some numbers.
“Oh boy,” Lula said when I pulled into the 7-Eleven lot on Marble Street. “You’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do, are you?”
“I’m going to talk to Mickey Gritch.”
I spotted his car, parked to the side of the lot. No other cars around it. It was early. Lunch hours hadn’t kicked in yet. I pulled up beside him, and his tinted window rolled down.
Mickey Gritch had white-blond hair cut in a sixties Beatle mop style. He had little pig eyes that were always behind shades, a big pasty potato head, and a body gone soft. He was in his late forties, and he was living proof that anyone could be successful at crime in Trenton if he truly worked at it.
“What?” Mickey Gritch asked me.
“I want to talk to you about Vinnie.”
“What about him?”
“No one wants to fork up the money.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Gritch said. “He’s a turd. Don’t get me wrong. I like Vinnie. We’ve done business for a lot of years. But he’s still a turd.”
“Maybe we can make a deal?”
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t kill him, and he can get some kind of a payment plan.”
“Listen, if it was me, that would be okay. But it’s not me. I don’t have anything to do with it anymore. This is Bobby Sunflower’s deal, and it’s more complicated than you know.”
“Complicated how?”
“Just complicated. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. There’s bad people involved. Badder than Bobby Sunflower.” He leaned out a little. “Is that Lula? Hey, momma.”
“Don’t you hey momma me,” Lula said. “I’ll be out of a job if they off Vinnie, and then what? I got bills to pay. I got a standard of living.”
“I got a job for you,” Gritch said.
“Hunh,” Lula said. “I don’t do that no more, you little runt-ass Polish sausage.”
The tinted window rolled up on Gritch’s Mercedes. I put the Jeep in gear and drove out of the lot.
