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mother asked. “And the new pocketbook. When did you get the new pocketbook?”
    “I got the pocketbook today. I need to carry some things around with me for this job. I had to get a bigger bag.”
    “What things do you need? I thought you were doing filing.”
    “I didn’t get that job. I got another job.”
    “What job did you get?”
    I poured ketchup on my meatloaf and barely restrained a second sigh. “Recovery agent,” I said. “I’ve got a job as a recovery agent.”
    “A recovery agent,” my mother repeated. “Frank, do you know what a recovery agent is?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “Bounty hunter.”
    My mother slapped her forehead and rolled her eyes. “Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, what are you thinking of? This is no kind of work for a nice young lady.”
    “It’s a legitimate, respectable job,” I said. “It’s like being a cop or a private investigator.” Neither one of which I had ever considered to be especially respectable.
    “But you don’t know anything about this.”
    “It’s simple,” I said. “Vinnie gives me an FTA, and then I find him and escort him back to the police station.”
    “What’s an FTA?” my mother wanted to know.
    “It’s a person who’s Failed To Appear.”
    “Maybe I could be a bounty hunter,” Grandma Mazur said. “I could use to earn some spending money. I could go after those FTAs with you.”
    “Jesus,” my father said.
    My mother ignored both of them. “You should learn to make slipcovers,” she said to me. “There’s always a need for slipcovers.” She looked at my father. “Frank, don’t you think she should learn to make slipcovers? Isn’t that a good idea?”
    I felt the muscles tense along my spine and made an effort to relax. Buck up, I told myself. This was good practice for tomorrow morning when I intended to visit Morelli’s mother.

    I N THE ORDER OF THE BURG , Joseph Morelli’s mother made my mother look like a second-rate housewife. My mother was no slouch, but by burg standards, Mrs. Morelli was a housewife of heroic proportions. God himself couldn’t get windows cleaner, wash whiter, or make better ziti than Mrs. Morelli. She never missed mass, she sold Amway in her spare time, and she scared the beejeebers out of me with her piercing black eyes. I didn’t think Mrs. Morelli was likely to snitch on her last born, but she was on my quiz list anyway. No stone unturned.
    Joe’s father could have been bought for five bucks and a six-pack, but his father was dead.
    I’d opted for a professional image this morning, dressing in a tailored beige linen suit, complete with pantyhose and heels and tasteful pearl earrings. I parked at the curb, climbed the porch stairs, and knocked on the Morelli front door.
    “Well,” Momma Morelli said, standing behind the screen, staring out at me with a degree of censure usually reserved for atheists and slackers. “Look who’s here on my porch, bright and early … little miss bounty hunter.” She boosted her chin up an additional inch. “I heard all about you and your new job, and I have nothing to say to you.”
    “I need to find Joe, Mrs. Morelli. He missed a court appearance.”
    “I’m sure he had good reason.”
    Yeah. Like he’s guilty as hell. “I tell you what, I’ll leave my card, just in case. I got them made yesterday.” I rooted through the big black bag, finding handcuffs, hair spray, flashlight, hairbrush—no cards. I tipped the bag to look inside, and my gun fell out onto the green indoor-outdoor carpeting.
    “A gun,” Mrs. Morelli said. “What is this world coming to? Does your mother know you’re carrying a gun? I’m going to tell her. I’m going to call and tell her right now.”
    She sent me a look of utter disgust and slammed the front door shut.
    I was thirty years old, and Mrs. Morelli was going to tell my mother on me. Only in the burg. I retrieved my gun, dumped it back into my purse, and found my cards. I stuck one of the cards between the screen