Hot Six

The grin spread to his eyes. “You haven't got a car, babe.”

  Damn! “I forgot.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “How did you know?”

  “It's not in the lot.”

  Well, duh.

  “What happened to it?” he asked.

  “It's gone to car heaven.”

  He pressed the button for the third floor. The doors opened, he hit the hold, stepped out and grabbed the paper lying on the floor in front of 3C.

  “That's Mr. Kline's paper,” I said.

  Ranger handed the paper over to me and pushed the button for the second floor. “You owe Mr. Kline a favor.”

  “Why did you skip on your court date?”

  “Bad timing. I need to find someone, and I can't find him if I'm detained.”

  “Or dead.”

  “Yeah,” Ranger said, “that, too. I didn't think a scheduled public appearance right now was in my best interest.”

  “I was approached by two Mob-type guys yesterday. Mitchell and Habib. Their plan is to follow me around until I lead them to you.”

  “They work for Arturo Stolle.”

  “Arturo Stolle, the carpet king? What's his connection in this?”

  “You don't want to know.”

  “Like if you told me, you'd have to kill me?”

  “If I told you, someone else might want to kill you.”

  “No love lost between Mitchell and Alexander Ramos.”

  “None at all.” Ranger handed me a card with an address on it. “I want you to do some part-time surveillance for me. Hannibal Ramos. He's the firstborn son and the second in command of the Ramos empire. He lists California as his residence, but he's spending more and more time here in Jersey.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “He's been here for three weeks. Has a condo in a complex off Route 29.”

  “You don't think he killed his brother, do you?”

  “He's not at the top of my list,” Ranger said. “I'll have one of my men drop off a car for you.”

  Ranger loosely employed a small army of men to help with his various enterprises. Most were ex-military and most were even crazier than Ranger.

  “No! Not necessary.” I have bad luck with cars. Their demise frequently results in police intervention, and Ranger's cars have unexplainable origins.

  Ranger stepped back into the elevator. “Don't get too close to Ramos,” he said. “He's not a nice guy.” The doors closed. And he was gone.

  I EMERGED FROM the bathroom, dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and boots and T-shirt, fresh out of the shower, ready to start the day. Grandma was at the dining room table, reading the paper, and Moon was across from her, eating pancakes. “Hey, dude,” he said, “your granny fixed me some pancakes. You're, like, so lucky to have your granny living with you. She's totally the bomb, dude.”

  Grandma smiled. “Isn't he the one,” she said.

  “I felt real bad about yesterday,” Moon said, “so I brought you a car. It's, like, a loaner. Remember I was telling you about this friend of mine who's the Dealer? Well, he was ragged when I told him about the fire, and he said it'd be cool if you used one of his cars until you got new wheels.”

  “This isn't a stolen car, is it?”

  “Hey, dude, what do I look like?”

  “You look like a guy who'd steal a car.”

  “Well, yeah, but not all the time. This here's a genuine loaner.”

  I really did need a car. “It would only be for a couple days,” I said. “Just until I get my insurance money.”

  Moon pushed back from his empty plate and dropped a set of keys into my hand. “Knock yourself out. It's a cosmic car, dude. I picked it out myself so it'd complement your aura.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “It's a Rollswagen. A silver wind machine.”

  Uh-huh. “Okay, well, thanks. Can I give you a ride home?”

  He ambled out into the hall. “Gonna walk. Need to convene.”

  “I've got my whole day lined up,” Grandma said. “Driving lesson this morning. Then this afternoon Melvina is going to take me around to look at some apartments.”

  “Can you afford your own apartment?”

  “I've got some money put aside from when I sold the house. I was saving it to go into one of them nursing homes in my old age but maybe I'll just use my gun instead.”

  I grimaced.

  “Well, it isn't like I'm gonna eat lead tomorrow,” Grandma said. “I've got a whole lot of years left. And besides, I've got it figured out. See, if you put the gun in your mouth, then you blow the back of your head off. That way Stiva don't have to work so hard to make you look good when he lays you out on account of no one sees the back of your head anyway. You just got to be careful not to jiggle the gun so you don't botch the job and take your ear off.” She put the paper aside. “I'll stop at the store on the way home and get some pork chops for supper. I gotta go get ready for my driving lesson now.”

  And I had to go to work. Problem was, I didn't want to do any of the things that were sitting in front of me. I didn't want to snoop on Hannibal Ramos. And I definitely didn't want to meet Morris Munson. I could go back to bed, but that wouldn't get the rent money. And besides, I didn't have a bed anymore. Grandma had the bed.

  Okay, might as well take a look at the Munson file. I hauled the paperwork out and thumbed through it. Aside from the beating, the rape, and the attempted cremation Munson didn't seem so bad. No priors. No swastikas carved into his forehead. He'd listed his address as Rockwell Street. I knew Rockwell. It was down by the button factory. Not the best part of town. Not the worst. Mostly small single-family bungalows and row houses. Mostly blue-collar or no-collar.

  Rex was asleep in his soup can, and Grandma was in the bathroom, so I left without ceremony. When I got to the lot I searched for a silver wind machine. And sure enough, I found one. And it was a Rollswagen, too. The body of the car was an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, and the front end was vintage Rolls-Royce. It was iridescent silver with celestial blue swirls sweeping the length of it, the swirls dotted with stars.

  I closed my eyes and hoped that when I opened them the car would be gone. I counted to three and opened my eyes. The car was still there.

  I ran back to the apartment, got a hat and dark glasses, and returned to the car. I slid behind the wheel, slouched low in the seat, and chugged out of the lot. This is not compatible with my aura, I told myself. My aura was not half Volkswagen Beetle.

  Twenty minutes later I was on Rockwell Street, reading numbers, looking for Munson's house. When I found it the house seemed normal enough. One block from the factory. Convenient if you wanted to walk to work. Not so good if you liked scenic. It was a two story row house, very much like Mooner's house. Faced in maroon asbestos shingle.

  I parked at the curb and walked the short distance to the door. It wasn't likely Munson would be home; this was Wednesday morning and he was probably in Argentina. I rang the bell and was caught off guard when the door opened and Munson stuck his head out.

  “Morris Munson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I thought you'd be . . . at work.”

  “I took a couple weeks off. I've been having some problems. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You missed your court date, and we'd like to get you rescheduled.”

  “Oh. Sure. Go ahead and reschedule me.”

  “I need to take you downtown to do that.”

  He looked beyond me to the wind machine. “You don't expect me to go with you in that, do you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I'd feel like an idiot. What would people think?”

  “Hey listen, pal, if I can ride in it, you can ride in it.”

  “You women, you're all alike,” he said. “Snap your fingers and expect a man to jump through the hoops.”

  I had my hand in my shoulder bag, scrounging for my pepper spray.

  “Stay here,” Munson said. “I'm gonna go get my car. It's parked
out back. I don't mind rescheduling, but I'm not riding in that dopey-looking car. I'll come around the block and then follow you into town.” Slam. He closed and locked the door.

  Damn. I got into the car and turned the key in the ignition, waiting at idle for Munson, wondering if I'd ever see him again. I checked my watch. I'd give him five minutes. Then what? Storm the house? Break the door down and go in guns blazing? I looked in my shoulder bag. No gun. I forgot to bring my gun. Gee, guess that means I have to go home and leave Munson for some other day.

  I looked straight ahead and saw a car turn the corner. It was Munson. What a nice surprise, I thought. You see, Stephanie, don't be so quick to judge. Sometimes people turn out just fine. I put the wind machine in gear and watched him come closer. Hold on here, he was speeding up instead of slowing down! I could see his face, pinched in concentration. The maniac was going to ram me! I threw the car into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. The Rolls jumped back. Not fast enough to avoid the collision, but fast enough to avoid getting totally smashed. My head snapped on impact. No big deal for a woman born and raised in the Burg. We grow up riding bumper cars at the Jersey shore. We know how to take a hit.

  Problem was, Munson was banging into me with what looked like a retired cop car, a Crown Victoria. Bigger than the Rollswagen. He came at me again, bouncing me back about fifteen feet, and the wind machine stalled. He scrambled out of his car while I was trying to restart, and ran at me with a tire iron. “You want to see me jump through hoops,” he yelled. “I'll show you jump through hoops.”

  A pattern was emerging here. Ram somebody with your car, beat them with the tire iron. I didn't want to think about what would come after the tire iron. The Rolls engine caught, and I catapulted forward, barely missing him.

  He swung the tire iron and caught my back fender. “I hate you!” he yelled. “You women are all alike!”

  I went from zero to fifty m.p.h. in half a block and took the corner on two wheels. I didn't look back for a quarter of a mile, and when I did there was no one behind me. I forced myself to ease up on the gas and sucked in some deep breaths. My heart was thumping in my chest, and my hands had the wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. A McDonald's popped up in front of me, and the car automatically turned into the drive-through lane. I ordered a vanilla milkshake and asked the kid in the window if they were hiring.

  “Sure,” he said, “we're always hiring. You want an application?”

  “Do you get held up a lot here?”

  “Not a lot,” he said, passing the application through with the straw. “We get a few crazies, but usually you can buy them off with extra pickles.”

  I parked in the far corner of the lot and drank my milkshake while I read the application. It might not be so bad, I thought. You probably get free french fries.

  I got out and looked at the car. The Rolls-Royce grill was crumpled, and the left rear fender had a big dent in it, and the back light was smashed.

  The black Lincoln cruised into the lot and parked alongside me. The window rolled down, and Mitchell smiled at the Rollswagen. “What the hell is that?”

  I gave him my PMS look.

  “You need a car? We could get you a car. Any kind of car you want,” Mitchell said. “You don't need to drive this . . . embarrassment.”

  “I'm not looking for Ranger.”

  “Sure,” Mitchell said, “but maybe he's looking for you. Maybe he needs to get his oil changed, and he figures you're safe. It happens, you know. A man gets these needs.”

  “Do you not have oil changed at a garage in this country?” Habib asked Mitchell.

  “Christ,” Mitchell said. “Not that kind of oil. I'm talking about the old hide-the-salami thing.”

  “I do not understand this 'hiding salami,' ” Habib said. “What is salami?”

  “Fucking vegetarian don't know nothing,” Mitchell said. He grabbed himself in the crotch and gave a hike up. “You know—the old salami.”

  “Ahh,” Habib said. “I understand. This man Ranger hides his salami deep in this daughter of a pig.”

  “Daughter of a pig? Excuse me?” I said.

  “Just so,” Habib said. “Unclean slut.”

  I was going to have to start carrying my gun. I really felt like shooting these guys. Nothing serious. Just maybe take out an eye. “I have to go,” I said. “I have stuff to do.”

  “Okay,” Mitchell said, “but don't be a stranger. And think about the car offer.”

  “Hey,” I yelled. “How did you find me?” But they were already out of the lot.

  I drove around for a while, making sure no one was following me, then headed for Ramos's condo. I caught Route 29 and traveled north toward Ewing Township. Ramos lived in an affluent neighborhood with big old trees and professionally landscaped yards. Tucked away on Fenwood was a small cluster of recently constructed redbrick town houses, with attached two-car garages and brick-walled privacy yards. The houses sat behind well-tended lawns with curving walkways and dormant flower beds. Very tasteful. Very respectable. Just the place for an international black-market arms dealer.

  The wind machine was going to make surveillance tough in this neighborhood. For that matter, any surveillance was going to be tough. A strange car parked too long would be noticed. Ditto a strange woman loitering on the sidewalk.

  The drapes were drawn on all Ramos's windows, so it was impossible to tell if anyone was at home. Ramos was second from the end in a row of five attached houses. Trees peeked from behind the houses. The developer had left a greenbelt between condo sections.

  I drove around the neighborhood, getting a feel for it, then cruised past Ramos's house again. No change. I paged Ranger and got a call back five minutes later.

  “Just exactly what is it you want me to do?” I asked. “I'm in front of his house, but there's nothing to see, and I can't hang out here much longer. There's no place to hide.”

  “Go back tonight when it's dark. See if he gets visitors.”

  “What does he do all day?”

  “Different things,” Ranger said. “There's a family compound in Deal. When Alexander is in residence, business is conducted at the shore. Before the fire, Hannibal spent most of his time in the building downtown. He had an office on the fourth floor.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “Dark green jag.”

  “Is he married?”

  “When he's in Santa Barbara.”

  "Anything else to tell me?'

  “Yeah,” Ranger said. “Be careful.”

  Ranger disconnected, and the phone rang again.

  “Is your grandmother with you?” my mother wanted to know.

  “No. I'm working.”

  “Well, where is she? I've been calling your apartment and there's no answer.”

  “Grandma had a driving lesson this morning.”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

  “And then she's going out with Melvina.”

  “You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her. What are you thinking? That woman can't drive! She'll kill hundreds of innocent people.”

  “It's okay. She's with an instructor.”

  “An instructor. What good is an instructor with your grandmother? And what about her gun? I looked in every nook and cranny, and I can't find that gun.”

  Grandma has a .45 long-barrel that she keeps hidden from my mother. She got it from her friend Elsie, who picked it up at a yard sale. Probably it was in Grandma's purse. Grandma says it gives the bag some heft, in case she has to beat off a mugger. This might be true, but I think mostly Grandma likes pretending she is Clint Eastwood.

  “I don't want her out on the road with a gun!” my mother said.

  “Okay,” I said, “I'll talk to her. But you know how she is with that gun.”

  “Why me?” my mother asked. “Why me?”

  I didn't know the answer to that question, so I hung up. I parked the car, walked around to the end of the town houses, and picked up a macadam bike path. The
path ran through the greenbelt behind Ramos's town house, and gave me a nice view of the second-story windows. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see because the shades were drawn. The brick privacy fence obscured the first-floor windows. And I'd bet dollars to doughnuts the first-floor windows were wide open. No reason to draw the drapes there. No one could look in. Unless, of course, someone rudely climbed the brick wall and sat there like Humpty Dumpty waiting for disaster to strike.

  I decided disaster would be slower in coming if Humpty climbed the wall at night when it was dark and no one could see her, so I continued on down the path to the far end of the town houses, cut back to the road, and returned to my car.