Half hour later, there was a knock on the door, and we all pushed the refrigerator out of the way. We opened the door, and my upper lip curled back.
“Lenny Gruber,” I said. “Haven't seen you since you repossessed my Miata.”
“I've been busy.”
“Yeah, I know. So many rotten things to do, and so little time.”
“Dude!” Mooner said. “Come on in. Have a crab puff.”
Gruber and I went to school together. He was the kind of guy who passed gas in class and then yelled out, “Hey, that stinks! Who cut the cheese?” He was missing a molar, and his pants were never completely zipped.
Gruber helped himself to a crab puff and put an aluminum attaché case on the coffee table. He opened the case and inside was a jumble of tasers, stun guns, defense sprays, cuffs, knives, saps, and brass knuckles. Also a box of condoms and a vibrator. I guess he did a good pimp trade.
I picked out a pair of cuffs, a stun gun, and a small can of pepper spray. “How much?” I asked.
His eyes were locked onto my chest. “For you, a special deal.”
“Don't do me any favors,” I said.
He gave me a price that was fair.
“Deal,” I told him. “But you'll have to wait to get paid. I don't have anything on me.”
He grinned, and the missing molar looked like the black hole of Calcutta in his mouth. “We could work something out.”
“We'll work nothing out. I'll get the money to you tomorrow.”
“If I don't get paid until tomorrow the price will have to go up.”
“Listen, Gruber, I've had a very bad day. Don't push me. I'm a woman on the edge.” I hit the “on” button on the stun gun. “Is this thing live? Maybe I should test it on someone.”
“Women,” Gruber said to Mooner. “Can't live with them. Can't live without them.”
“Could you move a little to the left?” Mooner asked. “You're blocking the television, dude, and Jeannie's gonna blink Major Nelson.”
I BORROWED A two-year-old jeep Cherokee from Dougie. It was one of four cars left unsold because their registration and bill of sale had gotten misplaced. I'd found jeans and a T-shirt that sort of fit. And I'd borrowed a lined denim jacket and clean socks from Mooner. Neither Dougie nor Mooner had a washer or dryer and neither was a crossdresser, so what I was missing was underwear. I had my cuffs looped over the back of my jeans. The rest of my equipment was stuffed into the jacket's assorted pockets.
I drove to the lot behind Vinnie's office and parked. The rain had stopped and the air felt warm with the promise of spring. It was very dark, no stars or moon showing through the cloud cover. There was room behind the office for four cars to park. So far, mine was the only one there. I was early. Probably not as early as Ranger. He'd undoubtedly seen me arrive and was watching from somewhere to make sure the meeting was safe. Standard operating procedure.
I was watching the alley that led to the small lot when Ranger rapped softly on my window.
“Damn!” I said. “You scared the bejeezus out of me. You shouldn't sneak up on a person like that.”
“You should keep your back to the wall, babe.” He opened my door. “Take your jacket off.”
“I'll be cold.”
“Take it off and hand it to me.”
“You don't trust me.”
He smiled.
I took the jacket off and handed it over.
“Lot of hardware in here,” he said.
“The usual.”
“Get out of the car.”
This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. I hadn't counted on losing my jacket so soon. “I'd rather you got in. It's warmer in here.”
“Get out.”
I gave a big sigh and got out.
He put his hand to the small of my back, dipped his fingers below the waistband of my jeans, and removed the cuffs.
“Let's go inside,” he said. “I feel safer in there.”
“Just out of morbid curiosity, do you know how to get around the alarm, or do you know the security code?”
He opened the back door. “I know the code.”
We walked through the short hall to the back room where the guns and office supplies are kept. Ranger opened the door to the front room and ambient light from the street poured in through the plate-glass windows. Standing between the two rooms, he was able to see both doors.
He put my jacket and the cuffs on a file cabinet, out of my reach, and looked down at the hacksawed bracelet on my right wrist. “New design.”
“But still annoying.”
He took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the cuff, and threw the cuff on top of my jacket. Then he took both my hands in his and turned them palms up. “You're wearing someone else's clothes, you're carrying someone else's gun, your hands are cut, and you're not wearing underwear. What's the deal here?”
I looked down at the outline of breast and protruding nipple, straining against the confines of the T-shirt. “Sometimes I go without underwear.”
“You never go without underwear.”
“How do you know?”
“God-given talent.”
He was wearing his usual street clothes—black cargo pants tucked into black boots, a black T-shirt, and a black windbreaker. He took off the windbreaker and wrapped it around me. It was warm from his body heat and smelled very faintly of the ocean.
“Spending a lot of time in Deal?” I asked.
“I should be there now.”
“Is someone watching Ramos for you?”
“Tank.”
His hands still held the windbreaker, his knuckles resting lightly on my breasts. An act of intimate possession more than of sexual aggression.
“How are you going to do it?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Do what?”
“Capture me. Isn't that what this is about?”
That had been the original plan, but he'd taken my toys away. And now the air was feeling hot and thick in my lungs, and I was thinking it wasn't any of my beeswax if Carol took a flying leap off the bridge. I put my hands flat to his abdomen, and he watched me carefully. I suspect he was waiting for me to answer his question, but I had a more pressing problem. I didn't know what to feel first. Should I move my hands up? Or should I move my hands down? I wanted to go down, but that might seem too forward. I didn't want him to think I was easy.
“Steph?”
“Huh?”
I still had my hands on his stomach, and I could feel him laughing. “I can smell something burning, babe. You must be thinking.”
It wasn't my brain that was on fire. I felt around a little with my fingertips.
He shook his head. “Don't encourage me. This isn't a good time.” He removed my hands from his stomach and took another look at the cuts. “How did this happen?”
I told him about Habib and Mitchell and the factory escape.
“Arturo Stolle deserved Homer Ramos,” Ranger said.
“I wouldn't know. No one tells me anything!”
“For years, Stolle's cut of the crime pie has been illegal adoption and immigration. He uses his East Asian contacts to bring young girls into the country for prostitution and to produce high-priced adoption babies. Six months ago, Stolle realized he could use those same contacts to smuggle drugs in with the girls. Problem is, drugs aren't part of Stolle's piece of pie. So Stolle hooked up with Homer Ramos, who is known far and wide as a stupid shit always in need of money, and arranged for Ramos to act as bagman between him and his accounts. Stolle figured the other Mob factions would back off from Alexander Ramos's kid.”
“How do you fit into this?”
“Arbitrator. I was acting as a liaison between the factions. Everyone, feds included, would like to avoid a crime war.” His pager beeped, and he looked at the readout. “I have to get back to Deal. Do you have any secret weapons in your arsenal? You want to make any last-ditch efforts at apprehension?”
Ugh. He was so smug! “I hate you,” I said.
/> “No, you don't,” Ranger said, kissing me lightly on the lips.
“Why did you agree to meet me?”
Our eyes locked for a moment. And then he cuffed me. Both hands behind my back.
“Shit!” I yelled.
“I'm sorry, but you're a real pain in the ass. I can't do my job when I'm worrying about you. I'm turning you over to Tank. He'll take you to a safe house and baby-sit you until things get resolved.”
“You can't do that! Carol will be back on the bridge.”
Ranger grimaced. “Carol?”
I told him about Carol and Joyce and how Carol didn't want to get caught on Candid Camera and how it was all sort of my fault this time.
Ranger thunked his head on the file cabinet. “Why me?” he said.
“I wouldn't have let Joyce keep you,” I told him. “I was going to turn you over to her and then figure out a way to get you back.”
“I know I'm going to regret this, but I'm going to set you loose so, God forbid, Carol doesn't jump off the bridge. I'm going to give you until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to work things out with Joyce, and then I'm coming after you. And I want you to promise you won't go near Arturo Stolle or anyone named Ramos.”
“I promise.”
I DROVE ACROSS town to Lula's house. She has a second-floor apartment, facing front, and her lights were still on. I didn't have a phone, so I walked up to her door and rang the bell. A window opened above me, and Lula stuck her head out. “What?”
“It's Stephanie.”
She dropped a key down, and I let myself in.
Lula met me at the top of the stairs. “Are you spending the night?”
“No. I need some help. You know how I was going to turn Ranger over to Joyce? Well, it didn't exactly work out.”
Lula burst out laughing. “Girl, Ranger is the shit. No one's better than Ranger. Not even you.” She took in the T-shirt and jeans. “I don't mean to get too personal, but were you wearing a bra when you started the evening, or is this something recent?”
“I started out this way. Dougie and Mooner don't wear my kind of underwear.”
“Too bad,” Lula said.
It was a two-room apartment. Bedroom with bath attached, and another room that served as living room and dining room and had a small corner kitchen. Lula had placed a little round table and two ladderback chairs at the edge of the kitchen area. I sat on one of the chairs and took a beer from Lula.
“You want a sandwich?” she asked. “I got bologna.”
“A sandwich would be great. Dougie just had crab puffs.” I took a long pull on the beer. “So this is the problem: what are we going to do about Joyce? I feel responsible for Carol.”
“You can't be responsible for someone else's bad judgment,” Lula said. “You didn't tell her to tie Joyce to that tree.”
True.
“Still,” she said, “it'd feel good to screw Joyce over one more time.”
“You have any ideas?”
“How well does Joyce know Ranger?”
“She's seen him a couple times.”
“Suppose we slip her someone who looks like Ranger, and then we take back the ringer? I know this guy, Morgan, who could pass. Same dark skin. Same build. Maybe not as fine, but he could come close. Especially if it was real dark, and he didn't open his mouth. He got the name Morgan 'cause he's hung like a horse.”
“I'd probably need a couple more beers to think it would work.”
Lula looked over at the empty beer bottles sitting on her counter. “I got a head start on you. So I'm real optimistic about this plan.” She opened a dog-eared address book and thumbed through it. “I know him from my former profession.”
“Customer?”
“Pimp. He's a real asshole, but he owes me a favor. And he'd probably get off on passing as Ranger. He probably got a Ranger outfit in his closet, too.”
Five minutes later, Morgan answered his page, and Lula and I had ourselves a fake Ranger.
“Here's the plan,” Lula said. “We pick the dude up on the corner of Stark and Belmont in a half hour. Only he hasn't got all night, so we gotta get this thing moving.”
I called Joyce and told her I had Ranger, and she should meet us in the lot behind the office. It was the darkest spot I could think of.
I finished my sandwich and beer, and Lula and I packed off in the Cherokee. We got to the corner of Stark and Belmont, and I had to do a double-take to make sure the man standing there wasn't Ranger.
When Morgan got closer, the differences were apparent. The skin tone was the same, but his features were more coarse. There was more age around his mouth and eyes, less intelligence in his expression. “Joyce better not look too close,” I said to Lula.
“I told you to have another bottle of beer,” Lula said. “Anyway, it's real dark behind the office, and if things go right Joyce'll break down before she gets too far.”
We cuffed Morgan's hands in front of him, which is a dumb thing to do, but Joyce wasn't a good enough bounty hunter to know it. Then we gave him the key to the cuffs. The deal was that he'd put the key in his mouth when we got to the lot. He'd refuse to talk to Joyce, playing sullen. We'd arrange for her to get a flat, and when she got out to take a look, Morgan would take the cuffs off and escape into the night.
We got to the alley early, so I could drop Lula. We'd decided she would hide behind the small Dumpster that serviced Vinnie and his neighbor, and when Joyce was busy taking Ranger into custody, Lula would drive a spike into Joyce's tire. Déjà vu. I angled the Cherokee so that Joyce would be forced to park next to the Dumpster. Lula jumped out and hid, and almost immediately lights flashed at the corner.
Joyce pulled her SUV in next to me and got out. I got out, too. Morgan was slumped in the backseat, his head down to his chest.
Joyce squinted into the car. “I can't see him. Put your lights on.”
“No way,” I said. “And you'd be smart to leave yours off, too. He's got a lot of people looking for him.”
“Why's he all slumped over?”
“Drugged.”
Joyce nodded. “I was wondering how you were gonna do it.”
I made a big deal and some noise over pulling Morgan out of the backseat. He collapsed against me, snatching a cheap feel, and Joyce and I half-dragged him over to her car and stuffed him in.
“One last thing,” I said to Joyce, handing her a statement I'd prepared at Lula's. “You need to sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It's a document attesting to the fact that you willingly went to the pet cemetery with Carol and asked her to tie you to the tree.”
“What are you, nuts? I'm not signing that.”
“Then I'm hauling Ranger out of your backseat.”
Joyce looked at the SUV and her precious cargo. “What the hell,” she said, taking the pen and signing her name. “I got what I wanted.”
“You take off first,” I said to Joyce, pulling my Glock out of my pocket. “I'll make sure you get out of the alley safely.”
“I can't believe you did this,” Joyce said. “I didn't think you were such a sneaky little shit.”
Honey, you don't know the half of it. “It was for Carol,” I said.
I stood there with the Glock drawn and watched Joyce drive away. The instant she turned from the alley to the street, Lula jumped into the car, and we took off.
“I give her about a quarter-mile,” Lula said. “I'm the queen of the spike-and-run.”
I had a visual on Joyce. There was no traffic, and she was a block ahead of me. Her taillights wobbled and the car slowed.
“Good, good, good,” Lula said.
Joyce drove another block at reduced speed.
“She'd like to just drive on that tire,” Lula said, “but she's worried about her fancy new SUV.”
There was another flash of brake lights, and Joyce pulled to the curb. We were a block behind her with our lights killed, looking parked. Joyce had gotten out and turned toward the back of her
car when a van swerved around me and skidded to a stop alongside her. Two men jumped out, guns drawn. One trained his gun on Joyce, and the other grabbed Morgan just as he set foot on the pavement.
“What the hell?” Lula said. “What the fuck?”
It was Habib and Mitchell. They thought they had Ranger.