“Do you remember why we broke up?” Morelli asked. “You needed space.”

“I needed toast. You ate the last piece of bread, and you didn’t get more.”

“I was busy. I forgot.”

“You’re supposed to remember those things. You’re a woman.”

“I’m supposed to remember toast?”

“Yes.”

“What about you? What are you supposed to remember?”

“Condoms.”

Here’s the scary part. It sort of made sense.

“So what’s new with you, other than McCurdle?” I asked. “Any interesting murders?”

“McCurdle’s about as good as it gets. After him, it’s same ol’, same ol’. Gang executions, vehicular homicide, accidental death with a blunt instrument.”

The waitress brought our sandwiches, and we dug in.

“What can you tell me about Chopper?” I said to Morelli.

“He’s middle-management drugs. He used to do enforcement for Ari Santini. If you fell behind on your protection payments, Chopper would shorten your finger. That’s how he got his name. One day, he shortened the wrong finger and got his hand smashed with a baseball bat. Had a hard time getting a good grip on fingerchopping tools after that, so he got bumped over to sales.”

Oh great. Lula was right.

“Any ideas on how I can catch Chopper?” I asked Morelli.

“I’d avoid his apartment.”

A glob of red sauce slipped out of my sandwich and landed on my T-shirt. “Crap,” I said, looking down at the sauce.

Morelli’s eyes darkened a little, and for a moment I thought he was going to lick the sauce off. And then I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted the sauce or because it was on my breast.

“I already figured out the apartment avoidance,” I said, dabbing at my shirt with my napkin. “What else?”

“I don’t know. He’s not in my circle of friends.” Morelli tapped a number into his phone and asked about Chopper. He got off the phone, wrote a bunch of addresses on a napkin, and gave me the napkin.

“Midmorning, he’ll be downtown,” Morelli said. “He moves around, but he’s usually on lower Stark. Drives a black Lexus. He has a lunch trade going at a couple fast-food places around the arena. Then he goes home to stash money and package up more stuff. He’s somewhere around the food court at Quakerbridge Mall early in the evening, and then he moves to a multiplex parking lot. Usually in Hamilton Township.”

“He covers a lot of ground.”

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “He hustles.”

“And the alligator protects the drugs and the money?”

“Looks that way.”

“Two questions. If you guys know where he sells drugs, why don’t you arrest him?”

“We did. He’s out on bail. And it’s not that easy. He’s sneaky.”

“Okay, second question. Why doesn’t someone walk into his apartment and shoot the alligator and take the drugs and the money?”

Morelli stopped eating and looked at me. “You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?”

“Of course not. It was a hypothetical question. Honestly, do you really think I’d shoot an alligator?”