“So, do you still get around? You still hear things on the street?” I asked Lula.

“What kinda things?”

“Four brothers tried to buy some guns last night and got busted.”

“Hah. Everybody knows about that. That’s the two Long boys, and Booger Brown and his dumber’n-cat-shit cousin, Freddie Johnson.”

“You know who they were buying the guns from?”

“Some white dude. Don’t know more’n that.”

“I’m trying to get a line on the white dude.”

“Sure does feel funny being on this side of the law,” Lula said. “Think this is gonna take some getting used to.”

I dialed my number and accessed my messages. There was another invitation from Spiro and a list of names from Eddie Gazarra. The first four were the same names Lula had given me. The last three were the gangster references given by the gun seller. I wrote them down and turned to Lula.

“Tell me about Lionel Boone, Stinky Sanders, and Jamal Alou.”

“Boone and Sanders deal. They go in and out of lock-up like it was a vacation condo. Life expectancy don’t look good, if you know what I mean. Don’t know Alou.”

“How about you?” I asked Connie. “You know any of these losers?”

“Not offhand, but you can check the files.”

“Whoa,” Lula said. “That’s my job. You just stand back and watch me do this.”

While she was checking the files I called Ranger.

“Talked to Morelli last night,” I said to Ranger. “They didn’t get a lot out of the brothers in the BMW. Mostly all they got was that the driver of the van used Lionel Boone, Stinky Sanders, and Jamal Alou as references.”

“Bunch of bad people,” Ranger said. “Alou is a craftsman. Can customize anything that goes bang.”

“Maybe we should talk to them.”

“Don’t think you’d want to hear what they’d have to say to you, babe. Be better if I look the boys up by myself.”

“Okay by me. I have other things to do anyway.”

“Ain’t got none of those assholes on file,” Lula called. “Guess we too high-class.”

I got my check from Connie and moseyed out to Big Blue. Sal Fiorello had come out of the deli and was peering into Blue’s side window. “Will you look at the condition of this honey,” he said to no one in particular.

I rolled my eyes and stuck the key in the door lock. “Morning Mr. Fiorello.”

“That’s some car you got here,” he said.

“Yep,” I replied. “Not everyone can drive a car like this.”

“My uncle Manni had a fifty-three Buick. They found him dead in it. Found him at the landfill.”

“Gee, I’m really sorry.”

“Ruined the upholstery,” Sal said. “Was a damn shame.”

I drove to Stiva’s and parked across the street from the mortuary. A florist’s truck pulled into the service driveway and disappeared around the side of the building. There was no other activity. The building seemed eerily still. I wondered about Constantine Stiva in traction in St. Francis. I’d never known Constantine to take a vacation, and now here he was flat on his back with his business turned over to his ratty stepson. It had to be killing him. I wondered if he knew about the caskets. My guess was no. My guess was that Spiro had screwed up and was trying to keep it from Con.