Hot Six

  I calmly walked to the bathroom, closed and locked the door, looked at myself in the mirror over the sink, and sniffled. A tear leaked out of my left eye. Get a grip, I told myself. It's just a pimple. It'll go away. Yes, but what about the Buick? I asked. The Buick was worrisome. The Buick showed no signs of going away. Another tear leaked out. You're too emotional, I said to the person in the mirror. You're making a big deal over nothing. Probably this is just a temporary hormone imbalance resulting from lack of sleep.

  I splashed some water on my face and blew my nose. At least I could sleep easier tonight knowing I had an alarm on the door. I didn't so much mind Ranger visiting at two in the morning . . . it was that I hated him sneaking up on me. What if I was drooling in my sleep, and he was sitting there watching me? What if he was sitting there staring at my pimple?

  MOONER LEFT AFTER dinner and Grandma went to bed early after showing me her new car.

  Morelli called at five after nine. “Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner,” he said. “It's been one of those days. How about you?”

  “I have a pimple.”

  “I can't compete with that.”

  “Do you know a woman named Cynthia Lotte? Rumor has it she was Homer Ramos's girlfriend.”

  “From what I know about Homer, he changed girlfriends like other men change socks.”

  “Have you ever met his father?”

  “I've spoken to him a couple times.”

  “And your opinion?”

  “Typical good of boy Greek gun-runner. Haven't seen him lately.” There was a pause. “Grandma Mazur still with you?”

  “Yep.”

  Morelli did a big sigh.

  “My mom wants to know if you'd like to come to dinner tomorrow. She's making a pork roast.”

  “Sure,” Morelli said. “You're going to be there, right?”

  “Me and Grandma and Bob.”

  “Oh boy,” Morelli said.

  I hung up, took Bob for a walk around the block, gave Rex a grape, and then watched television for a while. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the hockey game and woke up in time to catch the last half of a show on serial killers and forensics. When the show was over I triple-checked the locks on the front door and hung the motion detector from the doorknob. If someone opened the door, the alarm would go off. I sure hoped that didn't happen, because after the show on forensics I felt a little freaked. Ranger staring at my pimple didn't seem like much of a concern compared to someone cutting my tongue out and taking it home for his frozen-tongue collection. Just to play it safe I went into the kitchen and hid all the knives. No sense in making it easy for a madman to sneak in and carve me up with my own steak knife. Then I took my gun out of the cookie jar and tucked it under a couch cushion in case I needed to get at it quickly.

  I turned the lights out and crawled under the quilt on my makeshift bed on the couch. Grandma was snoring in the bedroom. The freezer whirred into the defrost cycle in the kitchen. There was the distant sound of a car door slamming shut in the parking lot. All normal sounds, I told myself. Then why was my heart beating with this sickening thud? Because I watched that stupid serial killer show on television, that's why.

  Okay, forget the show. Go to sleep. Think about something else.

  I closed my eyes. And I thought about Alexander Ramos, who probably wasn't too far down the road from the insane killers who were giving me heart palpitations. What was the deal with Ramos? Here was a man who controlled the flow of clandestine arms worldwide, and he had to flag down a stranger to buy him some cigarettes. The word on the street was that Ramos was sick, but he hadn't seemed senile or crazy when he was with me. A little aggressive, maybe. Not a lot of patience. I guess there are some places where his behavior would have seemed erratic, but this was Jersey, and it looked to me like Ramos fit right in.

  I'd been so flustered I'd hardly spoken to him. Now that some time had passed I had a million questions. Not only did I want to talk to him some more, I had a bizarre curiosity to see the inside of his house. When I was a kid my parents took me to Washington to see the White House. We stood in line for an hour, and then we got led through the public rooms. Major rip-off. Who cares about the State Dining Room? I wanted to see the kitchen. I wanted to see the President's bathroom. And now I wanted to see Alexander Ramos's living room rug. I wanted to browse through Hannibal's suite and take a look in the fridge. I mean, they'd all been on the cover of Newsweek. So they must be interesting, right?

  This led me to thinking about Hannibal, who hadn't looked interesting at all. And about Cynthia Lotte, who didn't look all that interesting either. How about Cynthia Lotte naked with Homer Ramos? Still not interesting. Okay, how about Cynthia Lotte and Batman? That was better. Wait a minute, how about Hannibal Ramos and Batman? Sick! I ran into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I don't think I'm especially homophobic, but I draw the line at Batman.

  When I came out of the bathroom someone was fumbling at my front door, making scraping sounds at the lock. The door popped open and the alarm went off. The door caught on the security chain, and when I got to the foyer I could see Mooner looking in at me between door and jamb.

  “Hey dude,” he said when I shut the alarm off. “How's it going?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I forgot to give your granny the second key to the car. Had it in my pocket. So I brought it over.” He dropped the key in my hand. “Boy, that's a cool alarm you've got. I know someone's who got one that plays the theme song to Bonanza. Remember Bonanza? Man, that was a great show.”

  “How did you get my door open?”

  “I used a pick. I didn't want to bother you so late at night.”

  “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “The Mooner always tries to be thoughtful.” He gave me the peace sign and ambled off, down the hall.

  I closed the door and reset the alarm. Grandma was still snoring in my bedroom, and Bob hadn't budged from his place by the couch. If the serial murderer showed up in this apartment, I was on my own.

  I looked in on Rex and explained to him about the alarm. “Nothing to worry about,” I said. “I know it's loud but at least you were already up and running.” Rex was balanced on his little hamster butt, front legs dangling in front of him, whiskers twitching, parchment thin ears vibrating, black ball-bearing eyes wide open. I dropped a chunk of cracker into his food cup, and he rushed over, shoved it into his cheek pouch, and disappeared into his soup can. Rex knows how to handle a crisis.

  I returned to the couch and pulled the quilt up to my chin. No more thoughts about Batman, I told myself. No more peeking under his big rubber codpiece. And no serial killers. And no Joe Morelli since it might be tempting to call him up and beg him to marry me . . . or something.

  Then what should I think about? How about Grandma's snoring? It was loud enough to make me hearing-impaired for the rest of my life. I'd put the pillow over my head, but then I might not hear the alarm and the serial killer would come in and cut out my tongue. Oh shit, now I was thinking about the serial killer again!

  There was another sound at my door. I tried to see my watch in the dark. It had to be around one A.M. The door clicked open and the alarm sounded. Undoubtedly Ranger. I ran a hand through my hair and checked to be sure the Band-Aid was still in place. I was wearing flannel boxers and a white T-shirt and had a last-minute panic attack that my nipples might be showing through the T-shirt. Rats! I should have thought of this sooner. I hurried to the foyer to silence the alarm but before I reached the door a pair of shears was shoved between the door and the jamb, the shears snipped through the security chain, and the door flew open.

  “Hey,” I said to Ranger, “that's cheating!”

  But it wasn't Ranger who stepped through the open door. It was Morris Munson. He ripped the alarm off the doorknob and stabbed it with the shears. The alarm gave one last squeak and died. Grandma was still snoring. Bob was still sprawled next to the couch. And Rex was standing at attention, doing his gri
zzly bear impersonation.

  “Surprise,” Munson said, closing the door, stepping further into the foyer.

  My stun gun, pepper spray, bludgeoning flashlight, and nail file were all in my shoulder bag, which was hanging on a hook, out of reach, behind Munson. My gun was somewhere in the couch, but I really didn't want to use my gun. Guns scare the hell out of me . . . and they kill people. Killing people isn't high on my favorite-things-to-do list.

  Probably I should have been happy to see Munson. I mean, I'm supposed to be looking for him, right? And here he is, doing a B & E in my apartment.

  “Stop right where you are,” I said. “You're in violation of your bond, and you're under arrest.”

  “You ruined my life,” he said. “I did everything for you, and you ruined my life. You took everything. The house, the car, the furniture—”

  “That's your ex-wife, you dope! Do I look like your ex-wife?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Not at all!” Especially since his ex-wife was dead, with tire tracks up her back. “How did you find me?”

  “I followed you home one day. You're hard to miss in that Buick.”

  “You don't actually think I'm your wife, do you?”

  His mouth pulled back into a loopy grin. “No, but if they think I'm really flipped out I can plead insanity. Poor distraught husband goes berserk. I've laid all the groundwork with you. Now all I have to do is carve you up and set you on fire, and I'm home free.”

  “You're crazy!”

  “See, it's working already.”

  “Well, you won't have any luck, because I'm a professional trained in self-defense.”

  “Get real. I asked around about you. You're trained in nothing. You used to sell ladies' underpants until you got fired.”

  “I wasn't fired. I was laid off.”

  “Whatever.” He opened his hand, palm up, to show me he held a switchblade. He pressed the button, and the blade flicked out. “Now, if you just cooperate it won't be so bad. It isn't as if I want to kill you. I thought I'd just stab you a couple times to make it look good. Maybe cut off a nipple.”

  “No way!”

  “Listen, lady, give me a break, okay? I'm facing a murder charge here.”

  “This is stupid. This will never work! Have you talked to a lawyer about this?”

  “I can't afford a lawyer! My wife freaking cleaned me out.”

  I was inching my way back toward the couch as we talked. Now that I knew about his plan to cut off a nipple, using the gun didn't seem like such a bad idea.

  “Hold still,” he said. “You're not going to make me chase you all around the apartment, are you?”

  “I just want to sit down. I don't feel so good.” And this wasn't so far from the truth. My heart was flopping around in my chest, and the roots of my hair had started to sweat. I plopped down on the couch and dipped my fingers into the space between the cushions. No gun. I ran my hand under the cushion next to me. Still no gun."

  “What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

  “I'm looking for a cigarette,” I said. “I need one last cigarette to steady my nerves.”

  “Forget it. Time's up.” He lunged at me with the knife, I rolled away, and he plunged the knife into the couch cushion.

  I let out a shriek and scrambled on my hands and knees, looking for the gun, finding it deep under the middle cushion. Munson came at me again, and I shot him in the foot.

  Bob opened one eye.

  “Son of a bitch!” Munson yelled, dropping the knife, grabbing his foot. “Son of a bitch!”

  I backed away and held him at gunpoint. “You're under arrest.”

  “I'm shot. I'm shot. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna bleed to death.”

  We both looked down at his foot. The blood wasn't exactly pouring out. A small spot by the little toe.

  “I must have just nicked you,” I said.

  “Jesus,” he said, “what a lousy shot. You were right on top of me. How could you have missed my foot?”

  “Want me to try again?”

  “It's all ruined now. You ruined it just like always. Every time I have a plan you have to go ruin it. I had it all worked out. I was going to come over here, cut off a nipple and set you on fire. And now it's ruined.” He threw his hands into the air in disgust. “Women!” He turned and started limping toward the door.

  “Hey,” I yelled, “where are you going?”

  “I'm leaving. My toe is killing me. And look at my shoe. It has a big rip in it. You think shoes grow on trees? See, this is what I'm talking about. You have no regard for anybody but yourself. You women are all alike. Just take, take, take. Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  “Don't worry about the shoe. The state will see to it that you get a new one.” Along with a nice orange jumpsuit and ankle chains.

  “Forget it. I'm not going back to jail until everyone's convinced I'm insane.”

  “You've made a believer out of me. And besides, I've got a gun, and I'll shoot you again if I have to.”

  He held his hands in the air. “Go ahead and shoot.”

  Not only couldn't I bring myself to shoot an unarmed man, but I was out of bullets. They'd been on my shopping list. Milk, bread, bullets.

  I raced past him, snatched my shoulder bag off the wall hook and dumped everything onto the floor, since that was the fastest route to finding my cuffs and pepper spray. Munson and I both dived at the scattered junk, and he won. He snatched the pepper spray off the floor and hopped to the door. “If you come after me I'll spray you,” he said.

  I watched him do a sort of gallop down the hall, favoring the injured foot. He stopped at the elevator doors and shook the pepper canister at me. “I'll be back,” he said. Then he stepped into the elevator and disappeared.

  I closed and locked the door. Terrific . . . for what that was worth. I went to the kitchen and searched for something comforting. The cake was gone. The pie was gone. No Mounds bars hid forgotten in the dark recesses of a cupboard. No booze. No Cheez Doodles. The peanut butter jar was empty.

  Bob and I tried a couple of olives, but they weren't totally what the situation called for. “They need frosting,” I said to Bob.

  I scooped up the mess on the foyer floor and dumped it back into my shoulder bag. I put the broken alarm on the counter, turned the lights off, and returned to the couch. I lay there in the dark, and Munson's parting threat kept replaying in my mind. It really didn't matter if he was crazy by design or for real; the bottom line was that I'd come close to being nippleless. Probably I shouldn't go to sleep until I got a bolt put on the door. He'd said he'd be back, and I didn't know if he meant in an hour or a day.

  Trouble was, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I tried singing, but I drifted off somewhere in the middle of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Last I remember I was at fifty-seven bottles of beer, and then I was jolted awake with the feeling that I wasn't alone in the room. I lay perfectly still, my heart skipping beats, my lungs in suspended animation. There had been no sound of shoes treading across carpet. No deranged-madman body odor disturbed the air around me. There was just the irrational knowledge that someone was in my space.

  And then, without warning, fingertips settled on my wrist, and I was galvanized into action. Adrenaline spiked into my system, and I catapulted myself off the couch into the intruder.

  We were both caught by surprise, the two of us crashing into the coffee table, going down to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. And in an instant I was pinned beneath him, which was not an entirely unpleasant experience once I realized it was Ranger. We were groin to groin, chest to chest, with his hands locked around my wrists. A moment passed while we did nothing but breathe.

  “Nice tackle, babe,” he said. And then he kissed me. No doubt about the intention this time. Not the sort of kiss you'd give your cousin, for instance. More like the sort of kiss a man would give a woman when he wanted to rip her clothes off and give her a reason to sing the Hallelujah Chorus.

  He deep
ened the kiss and ran his hands under my T-shirt, splaying them flat on my abdomen. Thank God I still had both of them! A rush of electric heat contracted my nipples.

  My bedroom door cracked open and Grandma stuck her head out. “Is everything okay out here?”

  Great. Now she wakes up!

  “Yep. Everything's just fine,” I said.

  “Is that Ranger on top of you?”

  “He was showing me a self-defense move.”

  “I wouldn't mind knowing some self-defense,” Grandma said.

  “Well, we were sort of finishing up here.”

  Ranger rolled off me, onto his back. “If she wasn't your grandmother I'd shoot her.”