Page 126 of Nobody's Fool

“Six this morning?”

“Yep.” Gary steers toward the curb. “If Powell left, they would have followed him. Raymond’s an early riser. Big morning guy. Did you know that?”

We pull into the spot in front of the address. We are in the southern part of Newark’s Ironbound district, about a mile from the Prudential Center, where the New Jersey Devils play.

“Apartment C,” Polly says. “First floor on the right.”

The building is a converted two-family rectangular structure with beige aluminum siding that isn’t pretending to be anything but beige aluminum siding. The architecture and design are pure no-nonsense functionality. You couldn’t make the façade more conformist without traveling back in time to a 1980 East Bloc country.

Debbie and Raymond come over to me.

“See anything?” I ask.

“A total smoke show of a hottie lives across the street,” Raymond informs me. “Has an ass that makes me want to open a proctology practice for one.”

“Gross,” Debbie says. “And she wasn’t a smoke show.”

“Was so,” Raymond insists. He takes out his phone. “Like the great Sir Mix-A-Lot would sing, ‘I wanna get with ya, and take your picture.’ So I took a few. And video. Look, Kierce.”

Debbie shakes her head. “She was a six.”

Raymond is offended. “A six?!”

“A seven tops.”

“Hey, don’t go disrespecting my future ex-wife.” Then to Kierce: “Smoke Show walked by an hour ago, but my heart is still beating.” Raymond opens the top two buttons of his shirt. “Here, feel for yourself.”

He juts out his chest toward me, which I guess is preferable to a lower alternative.

“I’m good, Raymond.”

“Kierce?” he says, buttoning back up.

“What?”

Raymond leans conspiratorially closer. “Can you loan me money, you know, for a ring?”

“A ring?”

“When Smoke Show comes back, I want to propose. The ass was that ripe.”

I sigh and tell everyone to stay on the other side of the street, but when I cross toward Powell’s residence, Gary follows me. He is wearing his customary golf shirt, this one way too fitted so it looks like he’s smuggling a bowling ball. The shirt’s logo is a foot with wings on it in a color so orange Gary could double as a parking cone.

“You should have backup,” Gary says in way of explanation.

I shake my head. “All of you watch too much TV.”

We get to the door. I knock. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer.

From behind us, Polly reads a message from her phone: “Powell hasn’t shown up to work this week.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“We sent two of the Three Dead Hots down to the warehouse.”

“Which ones?”

“I can’t tell them apart,” Polly says. “Anyway, they flirted with some workers during a smoking break.”