Plum 10 - Ten Big Ones Page 6

  "Holy shit," Lula said, eyes the size of duck eggs. "Get me the fudge out of here."

  Option number three, I thought. And I mashed the accelerator down to the floorboard. The car sucked gas and roared back like a freight train. I didn't feel any bumps under the tires indicating that I'd run over a body. I took that as a good sign. I wheeled backward onto Comstock and screeched to a stop to change gears. Three guys flew off my roof. Two bounced off the right front fender onto the road. And one smacked onto the hood and grabbed hold of a windshield wiper.

  "Don't stop now," Lula yelled. "And don't worry about the hood ornament. You'll lose him on the next turn."

  I rammed the car into drive and took off. I could hear a lot of noise behind me. A lunatic mix of yelling and gunfire and laughter. The guy on the hood stared in at me, the pupils of his eyes dilated to the size of nickels.

  "Think he got a pharmaceutical problem going," Lula said.

  I leaned on the horn, but the hood rider didn't blink.

  "This here's like having an insect stuck on your windshield," Lula said. "A big ugly drugged-out praying mantis."

  I hauled the Buick around into a looping left turn onto Seventh, and the insect silently sailed off into space and crashed into a rusted-out van that was parked at the curb. I resumed breathing when I got to Stark.

  "See, that worked out okay," Lula said. "Too bad we didn't find the devil guy, though."

  I gave her a sideways glance. "Maybe you want to go back tomorrow and try again?"

  "Maybe not tomorrow."

  I called Connie and told her we were on our way back to the office and asked her to run a search for me.

  "If I give you some street boundaries can you check our files for guys in that neighborhood?" I asked her.

  "I can search by zip code, and I can search by street. As long as the area isn't too big, I can do the by street search."

  I felt a responsibility to Eddie, and I thought chances were decent that the devil guy had a record. I'd declined to go through mug shots at police headquarters. I'd done that drill for other crimes and found it to be spectacularly unhelpful. After looking at a hundred head shots, I tended to forget the face of the perp. A search by neighborhood would produce a much smaller pool of potentials.

  * * *

  Connie was pulling files when Lula and I swung through the front door. "I got seventeen hits for the boundaries you gave me," she said. "None are outstanding. It's not really our neighborhood."

  Lula looked through the pile of files on Connie's desk. "Hey, this is the guy who was stuck to the hood of your car," Lula said, holding a photo for me to see.

  Connie grabbed a file and closed the drawer with her foot. "That's Eugene Brown. He's been arrested so many times we have a personal relationship. Never been convicted of anything but possession."

  "Looks like we bonded him out for armed robbery and vehicular manslaughter," Lula said.

  "Eyewitnesses have a way of disappearing when Eugene's involved," Connie said. "And there's a lot of sworn testimony recanting. What was he doing on the hood of your car?"

  "We were sort of cruising up Comstock Street . . ." Lula said.

  Connie's eyes got wide. "Where on Comstock?"

  "Third."

  "Do you have a death wish? That's Slayerland."

  "We were just riding through," Lula said.

  "The two of you? In what car? The Buick? The powder blue-and-white Buick? You can't go past Third on Comstock in a powder blue car! That's Cut's colors. You don't go into gang territory with another gang color."

  "Well, yeah, but I didn't think it counted for cars. I just thought it counted for clothes. For, like, do-rags and shirts and shit," Lula said. "And it's hard to believe anybody'd take Cut serious with a color like powder blue. Powder blue is a sissy color."

  I took the files from Lula and shuffled through them. No devil guy. Connie handed me the remaining four files. No devil guy there either. This left me with three possibilities. The devil guy didn't have a record. Or the devil guy used a different bond agent. Les Sebring, maybe. Or the devil guy gave an address outside of Slayerland.

  I saw Connie and Lula go still and fix their eyes on the door behind me. Either someone walked in with a gun in his hand or else Ranger was here. Since no one ducked for cover, I was betting it was Ranger.

  A warm hand settled at the base of my neck, and I felt Ranger lean into me. "Babe," he said, softly, his right arm snaking around me to take the file from my hand. "Eugene Brown," he read. "You might not want to spend a lot of time with Eugene. He's not a fun guy."

  "I sort of bounced him off the hood of the Buick today," I told Ranger. "But it wasn't my fault."

  Ranger tightened his hold on my neck. "You want to be careful with Eugene. He hasn't got much of a sense of humor, Babe."

  "I don't suppose you know the identity of the devil guy who's robbing all the deli-marts?"

  "Don't suppose I do," Ranger said. "But it's not Eugene. There'd be more bodies on the floor if it was Eugene."

  Vinnie's inner office door opened, and Vinnie stuck his head out. "What's up?"

  "I'm going out of town for a couple weeks," Ranger said. "Tank will be on the job, if you need him." Ranger dropped the Brown file on Connie's desk and turned to me. "I want to talk to you . . . outside."

  It was late afternoon and the sky was overcast, but the autumn air was still warm in spite of the gloom. Ranger's customized black Ford F-150 FX4 was parked curbside. A black SUV with tinted windows was parked behind the truck. The SUV had its motor running.

  I followed Ranger out of the office, glancing first at the SUV and then at the heavy traffic on Hamilton. Rush hour in Trenton.

  "What if I need something?" I asked Ranger, doing a little flirting, feeling brave because I was on a public street. "Should I call Tank?"

  He ran a fingertip along my hairline and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. "It depends what you need. Did you have anything special in mind?"

  Our eyes held, and I felt the first licks of panic. I should know better than to play with Ranger. He never got rattled, and he never backed down. I, on the other hand, frequently got rattled with Ranger and almost always backed down.

  "How about if I need a car?" I asked, searching for something legitimate to change the tone. There'd been times past when I'd needed a car, and Ranger had provided one.

  Ranger pulled a set of keys from his pocket and dropped them into my hand. "You can take my truck. I can get a ride back with Tank."

  A narrow alley separated Vinnie's office from the neighboring business. Ranger nudged me into the shadow of the alley, pressed me against the brick wall, and kissed me. When his tongue touched mine my fingers curled into his shirt, and I think I might have momentarily lost consciousness.

  "Hey," I said, when consciousness returned. "You're poaching."

  "And?"

  "Stop it."

  "You don't mean that," Ranger said, smiling.

  He was right. A woman would have to be dead not to want to kiss Ranger. And I wasn't even close to dead.

  I gave the keys back to him. "Nice gesture but I can't take the truck."

  "Call Tank if you change your mind. And be careful. Don't try to play with Eugene."

  And he was gone.

  Lula and Connie were shuffling papers, trying to look busy, when I returned to the office.

  "Is he gone?" Lula wanted to know.

  "Yeah."

  "Lord, he makes me nervous. He is so hot. I got flashes. Look at me. I'm having a flash. I'm not even in menopause, and I'm hot flashing."

  Connie rolled back in her chair. "Did he tell you where he was going? How long he'd be away?"

  "No."

  Connie had a problem. When Ranger was gone she was left with me and a couple part-time BEAs. If a high-stakes bond went south, she'd be in a bind. The case would have to go to me. At least temporarily. I was okay at my job, but I wasn't Ranger. Ranger had skills that went way beyond the normal parameters of human ability.<
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  "I hate when he does this," Connie said.

  "I been noticing the last two times he took off there was a coup in Central America," Lula said. "I'm going home, and I'm watching CNN."

  I left the office and headed home to Joe's house. Somehow I'd managed to keep busy all day, but it didn't feel like I'd accomplished much. I stopped at Giovichinni's deli on Hamilton and picked up some lunch meat, sliced provolone, a medium container of potato salad, and a loaf of bread. I added a couple tomatoes and a small tub of chocolate ice cream.

  It was a bad time to stop at Giovichinni's, but it was my only option if I wanted to eat. St. Francis Hospital was a block away, and half the hospital emptied out into Giovichinni's at this hour.

  Mrs. Wexler came up to me while I was standing in line. "My goodness," she said, "I haven't seen you in an age. I understand your sister is getting married. Isn't that nice for her, but it must be a very stressful time for you. Is that a cold sore on your lip, dear?"

  My hand immediately flew to my lip. I didn't have anything on my lip when I left the house this morning, but yes, there was definitely something erupting on my mouth. I dug in my purse for a mirror. "I've never had a cold sore," I told Mrs. Wexler. "I swear to God."

  "Well, it does look like a cold sore," Mrs. Wexler said.

  I squinted into my mirror. Yikes! There it was . . . big and red and angry looking. How did this happen? And then it hit me. Marty Sklar and his cooties! I studied my lip. No. Wait a minute, it wasn't a cold sore. It was a boo-boo.

  I'd gnawed a hole into my lip on the way across town, worrying about Eugene Brown and God knows what else. Okay, and the fact that I was attracted to two men didn't help. Probably I loved both of them. How sick is that?

  "It's a cut," I said to Mrs. Wexler. "I got it this afternoon."

  "Of course," Mrs. Wexler said. "I can see that now."

  My mother called on my cell phone. "Mrs. Rogers just called," my mother said. "She said you're in Giovichinni's, and you have a cold sore."

  "It's not a cold sore. It's a cut."

  "Well, that's a relief. Could you pick up a couple things for me while you're there at Giovichinni's? I need a pound of olive loaf, an Entenmann's raspberry swirl coffee cake, and a quarter pound of Swiss. Make sure they don't slice the Swiss too thin. It all sticks together if it's too thin."

  I scurried off to the deli counter, got my mother's stuff, and got back into line.

  Leslie Giovichinni was working the register. "Gosh," she said, when I stepped in front of her. "You poor thing. You've got a big herpes!"

  "It's not a herpes," I said. "It's a cut. I got it this afternoon."

  "You should put ice on it," she said. "It looks real painful."

  I paid Leslie and slunk out of the store. I hunched behind the wheel of the Buick and turned into the Burg. I had to park in the driveway when I got to my parents' house because there was a big yellow school bus at the curb.

  Grandma was at the door, waiting for me. "Guess who's here?" she said.

  "Sally?"

  "He came over because he was so excited that the charges were dropped. And he's been real helpful on account of Valerie's still here, and we've been discussing the bridesmaids' dresses. Valerie wants pink, but Sally thinks they should be a fall color since it's fall."

  Valerie was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the baby hanging from her neck in a kind of sling apparatus. My mother was at the stove, stirring a pot of marinara.

  Sally was sitting across from Valerie. His long black curly hair was Medusa meets Howard Stern. He was wearing a Motley Crue T-shirt, jeans with the knees torn out, and red lizard cowboy boots.

  "Hey, man, thanks for getting the charges dropped," Sally said. "I got a call from the court. And then Sklar called me just to make sure I wasn't gonna go ahead with the lawyer. I didn't know what to say at first, but I just went with it. It was real good."

  I put the cheese and lunch meat in the fridge, and I set the coffee cake on the table. "Glad it worked out."

  "So what do you think of the dresses?" Valerie wanted to know.

  "Are you sure you want to have a big wedding?" I asked Valerie. "It seems like a lot of work and expense. And who will you have for bridesmaids?"

  "You'll be my maid of honor. And then there's Loretta Stonehouser. And Rita Metzger. And Margaret Durski as bridesmaids. And the girls can be junior bridesmaids."

  "I'm thinking pumpkin would be a good color for the bridesmaids' gowns," Sally said.

  I cut myself a large wedge of coffee cake. It was going to take a lot of cake to improve my mood on the pumpkin gown.

  "You know what we need?" Grandma said. "We need a wedding planner. Like that movie. Remember where Jennifer Lopez is the wedding planner?"

  "I could use help," Valerie said. "It's hard to find the time for everything, but I don't think I can afford a wedding planner."

  "Maybe I could help plan the wedding," Sally said. "I have extra time between my bus runs."

  "You'd be a perfect wedding planner," Grandma said. "You have a real eye for color, and you got ideas about all that seasonal stuff. I would never have thought to have pumpkin gowns."

  "Its settled then. You're the wedding planner," Valerie said.

  My mother's attention wandered to the pantry. She might have been taking a mental inventory, but more likely, she was contemplating the whiskey bottle hidden behind the olive oil.

  "How's the house search going?" I asked Valerie. "Any luck?"

  "I haven't had a lot of time to put to it," she said. "But I promise to start looking."

  "I sort of miss my apartment."

  "I know," Val said. "I'm really sorry this is taking so long. Maybe we should move back here with Mom and Dad."

  My mothers back went rigid at the stove. First the wedding planner and now this.

  I cut another piece of cake and headed out. "I have to go. Joe's waiting."

  * * *

  Joe and Bob were on the couch, watching television. I dropped my purse on the small hall table and took the grocery bag into the kitchen. I made sandwiches and spooned out the potato salad.

  "I'm thinking about getting a cookbook," I told Morelli when I handed him his plate.

  "Wow," he said. "What's that all about?"

  "I'm getting tired of sandwiches and pizza."

  "A cookbook sounds like a big commitment."

  "It's not a commitment," I said. "It's a stupid cookbook. I could learn how to cook a chicken or a cow, or something."

  "Would we have to get married?"

  "No." Jeez.

  Bob finished his sandwich and looked first to me and then to Morelli. He knew from past experience that it wasn't likely we'd share, so he put his head down on his paw and went back to watching Seinfeld.

  "So-o-o," I said. "Did you hear about Eugene Brown?"

  "What about him?"

  "I bounced him off my car today."

  Morelli took a forkful of potato salad. "Am I going to hate the rest of this story?"

  "It's possible. It was sort of a hit-and-run."

  "So this falls under the category of making an official police report?"

  "Unofficial police report."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "I don't think so. He was latched on to the hood of the Buick, hanging on to the windshield wiper, and he got pitched off when I turned the corner. I was at Seventh and Comstock, and I didn't think it was a good idea to get out of the car to check his vital signs."

  Morelli collected the three plates and stood to take them to the kitchen. "Dessert?"

  "Chocolate ice cream." I followed after him and watched while he scooped. "That was too easy," I said. "You didn't yell or tell me I was stupid, or anything."

  "I'm pacing myself."

  * * *

  I rolled out of bed with Morelli at the crack of dawn.

  "This is getting scary," Morelli said. "First you're thinking about buying a cookbook. And now you're getting up with me. Next thing you'll be inviting my
grandmother over for dinner."

  Not likely. His Grandma Bella was nuts. She had this Italian voodoo thing going that she called the eye. I'm not saying the eye worked, but I've known people who got the eye to coincidentally lose their hair, or skip their period, or break out in an unexplained rash. I was half Italian, but none of my relatives could give the eye. Mostly, my relatives gave the finger.

  We showered together. And that involved some fooling around. So before Morelli even had breakfast he was already a half hour late.

  I had coffee going by the time he came downstairs. He chugged a cup while he did the gun and badge routine. He dropped a blueberry into Rex's cage. And he dumped two cups of dog crunchies into Bob's bowl.

  "What's the reason for the early start?" he asked. "You aren't going back to Comstock Street, are you?"

  "I'm checking out real estate. Valerie isn't doing anything about finding her own place, so I thought I'd do some searching for her."

  Morelli looked over his cup at me. "I thought you were all settled in here. What about the cookbook?"

  "I like living with you, but sometimes I miss my independence."

  "Like when?"

  "Okay, maybe independence is the wrong word. Maybe I just miss my own bathroom."

  Morelli grabbed me and kissed me. "I love you, but not enough to add a second bathroom. I'm not budgeted for any more renovations." He set his cup on the counter and headed for the front of the house. Bob ran with him, woofing, jumping around like a rabbit.

  "Bob needs to go out," I said.

  "Your turn," Morelli said. "I'm late, and besides, you owe me for the shower."

  "What? What do you mean I owe you for the shower?"

  He shrugged into a jacket. "I did your favorite thing today. Almost drowned doing it, too. And I think I got a bruise on my knee."

  "Excuse me? What about that thing I did for you last night? I was just getting payback this morning."

  Morelli was grinning. "They're not nearly equal, Cupcake. Especially since I did it in the shower." He took his keys off the hall table. "Come on. Be a sport. I'm really late."