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“So why aren’t you in prison, serving your sentence?” asked Marge.

“The nice judge let us out,” Johnny said.

“Community service,” said Jerry. “Again.”

Marge shook her head.“You keep getting lucky with your judges.”

“This time we’re going to be good,” said Johnny. “Isn’t that right, Jer?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jerry, glancing behind Marge at Odelia’s hallway. “So this is your place, is it, Mrs. P?”

“My daughter’s,” she said. “What community service?”

“You’re not going to believe this, Mrs. P,” said Johnny with a wide grin.

“Try me,” said Marge a little acerbically.

“We’ve joined Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

She stared at the guy.“Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” said Johnny. “We found religion. Isn’t that right, Jer?”

“Or religion found us,” Jerry grumbled. “No thanks to that idiot Judge Lockhart.”

“Our lawyer is a Jehovah’s Witness himself,” said Johnny. “He was the one who suggested Judge Lockhart we sign up.”

“We didn’t exactly sign up, though, did we, Johnny?” asked Jerry with a good deal of pique. “We’re doing our three months and that’s it. We’re out, free and clear.”

“Unless we like it so much we want to stay. And so far I’m liking it a lot. It’s so much fun knocking on people’s doors and telling them all about Jesus. Isn’t that right, Jer?”

“Grmbl,” said Jerry, his scowl deepening.

“Well, at least you can’t do any harm going door to door,” Marge allowed, thinking that maybe this was for the best. If two hardened criminals like Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale could be induced to find religion, there was still hope left in the world. Though judging from the way Jerry kept eyeing the painting on Odelia’s hallway wall, something told her the recently reformed criminal’s heart wasn’t entirely in his reformation.

“So can we interest you in the word of Jesus, Mrs. P?” asked Johnny.

“Not right now, Johnny,” said Marge. “I have to go to work.”

“At the library,” said Johnny with a big grin. “I loved working at the library with you, Mrs. P. All those books… and stuff.”

“Let’s not bother Mrs. P any more than necessary, Johnny,” said Jerry, tugging at his compatriot’s elbow. “Can’t you see she’s busy?”

And as the two gangsters retreated, only now did Marge notice how they were both clasping a Bible in their hands. The sight was so incongruous she did a double-take.

“See you, Mrs. P,” said Johnny with a little wave.

“See you,” said Marge, and found herself returning the wave, before closing the door.

At least they couldn’t rob banks while spreading the word of Jesus, could they?

Chapter 7

Wilbur Vickery made a face when this customer counted out the sum she owed him down to the last cent.

“One cent, two cents, three cents…” the woman murmured as she put a pile of coins on the counter.

Wilbur, even though he was of an age when most people stop losing interest in technological advancements, had embraced the digital revolution wholeheartedly. He liked nothing better than when people paid with plastic. Coins were such a nuisance. You had to count them, you had to make sure you didn’t shortchange people and, most of all, you never knew where all those coins had been. People paid a visit to the bathroom, didn’t wash their hands, and then brought out their coins to pay for their wares. Yikes.

He glanced over the counter and out into the street, where passersby enjoyed a relaxing stroll in the sun, while small business owners were cooped up inside having to patiently wait for customers to empty the contents of their wallets, counting out coins and keeping an entire line of customers waiting.

Wilbur’s big piebald, Kingman, sat on the sidewalk, on an overturned plastic crate, chatting with other cats. Well, at least Wilbur thought Kingman was chatting. With cats it was hard to know what it was they were doing, but it sure as heck looked to him as if they were chattering away like a bunch of gossiping old maids.

“Thank you for your business,” he said dutifully when the lady had finally divested herself of her last copper coin and he’d dumped them into his cash register.

He cast a quick glance at the bank of screens located next to the till, where he could monitor any of the dozen or so cameras he’d installed in his store. Right next to that was a television screen tuned to ESPN, where currently two newscasters were arguing the pros and cons of LeBron James’s state of fitness for next month’s game.

“It’s a disgrace,” said the next customer in line.

He stared at the woman.“Disgrace? What are you talking about?” He recognized her as Ida Baumgartner, one of his regulars.

“And you call yourself a member of the neighborhood watch,” she said, shaking her head and looking at him with clear reproach in her eyes.

She was a formidable woman, of sizable proportions, with no less than three chins, or it could have been four. All of her chins were waggling now, and her eyes, behind those square-shaped horn-rimmed glasses, were hard and unforgiving.

“Burglars are running amok in our town and you’re sitting here twiddling your thumbs as if you don’t have a care in the world.”