“No. It's not true. There's not a shred of truth to it.” Well, what the hell—what's one more lie?
The front door crashed open and Joyce Barnhardt stomped in.
Lula, Connie, and I all ran to get Bob on the leash.
“You dumb bitch,” Joyce yelled at me. “You sent me on a wild goose chase. Ranger doesn't have a sister working at the Macko Coat Factory.”
“Maybe she quit,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lula said, “people quit all the time.”
Joyce looked down at Bob. “What's this?”
“It's a dog,” I said, shortening his lead.
“Why's his hair standing up like that?”
From the woman who adds five inches to her height with a rat-tail comb.
“Beside the wild goose chase, how're you doin' on the Ranger hunt?” Lula asked. “You track him down yet?”
“Not yet, but I'm getting close.”
“I think you're fibbing,” Lula said. “I bet you don't have anything.”
And I bet you don't have a waistline," Joyce said.
Lula leaned forward. “Oh yeah? If I throw a stick, will you go fetch it?”
Bob wagged his tail.
“Maybe later,” I told him.
Vinnie popped back out of his office. “What's going on out here? I can't hear myself think.”
Lula, Connie, and I all exchanged glances and bit down hard on our lower lips.
“Vinnie!” Joyce cooed, pointing her C cups in his direction. “Looking good, Vinnie.”
“Yeah, you're not looking so bad yourself,” Vinnie said. He looked at Bob. “What's with the dog with the bad hair day?”
“I'm dog-sitting,” I told him.
“I hope you're getting paid a lot of money. He's a train wreck.”
I fondled Bob's ear. “I think he's cute.” In a prehistoric way.
“So what's going on here?” Joyce asked. “You got anything new for me?”
Vinnie thought about it for a moment, looked from Connie to Lula to me, and retreated into his office.
“Nothing new,” Connie said.
Joyce narrowed her eyes at Vinnie's closed door. “Chickenshit.”
Vinnie opened the door and glared out at her.
“Yeah, you,” Joyce said.
Vinnie pulled his head back inside his office, closed the door, and clicked the dead bolt.
“Fungule,” Joyce said, with a gesture. She turned on her stiletto heel and swung her ass out the door.
We all rolled our eyes.
“Now what?” Lula wanted to know. “You and Bob got some big day planned?”
“Well, you know . . . a little of this, a little of that.”
Vinnie's office door opened again. “How about a little of Morris Munson?” he yelled. “I'm not running a charity here, you know.”
“Morris Munson is a nut!” I yelled back. “He tried to set me on fire!”
Vinnie stood, hands on hips. “So what's your point?”
“Fine. Just fine,” I said. “I'll go get Morris Munson. So what if he runs me over. So what if he sets me on fire and bashes my head in with a tire iron. It's my job, right? So here I go to do my job.”
“That's the spirit,” Vinnie said.
“Hold on,” Lula said. “I don't want to miss this one. I'll go with you.”
She shoved her arms into a jacket and grabbed a purse that was big enough to hold a sawed-off shotgun. “Okay,” I said, eyeballing the purse. “What have you got in there?”
“Tech-9.”
The urban assault weapon of choice.
“Do you have a license to carry that?”
“Say what?”
“Call me crazy, but I'd feel a lot better if you left your Tech-9 here.”
“Boy, you sure know how to ruin a good time,” Lula said.
“Leave it with me,” Connie told her. “I'll use it for a paperweight. Give the office some atmosphere.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
I opened the office door, and Bob bounded out. He stopped at the Buick and stood there, tail wagging, eyes bright.
“Look at this smart dog,” I said to Lula. “He knows my car after only riding in it once.”
“What happened to the Rollswagen?”
“I gave it back to the Dealer.”
The sun was climbing in the sky, burning off a morning haze, warming Trenton. Bureaucrats and shopkeepers were pouring into center city. School buses were back at the lot, awaiting the end of the school day. Burg housewives were bent over their Hoovers. And my friend Marilyn Truro at the DMV was on her third double decaf latte, wondering if it would help if she added a second nicotine patch to the one she already had on her arm, thinking it would feel really good to be able to choke the next person in line.
Lula and Bob and I kept to our own thoughts as we rolled along Hamilton en route to the button factory. I was going through a mental inventory of equipment. Stun gun: in my left pocket. Pepper spray: in my right pocket. Cuffs: hooked to the back loop on my Levi's. Gun: at home, in the cookie jar. Courage: at home, with the gun.
“I don't know about you,” Lula said when we got to Munson's house, “but I'm not planning on going up in smoke today. I vote we bash this guy's door in and stomp on him before he has a chance to light up.”
“Sure,” I said. Of course, I knew from past experience that neither of us was actually capable of bashing in a door. Still, it sounded good while we were idling at the curb, locked up in the car.
I cruised around back, got out, and looked in Munson's garage window. No car. Gee, too bad. Probably Munson wasn't home.
“No car here,” I said to Lula.
“Hunh,” Lula said.
We drove around the block, parked, and knocked on Munson's front door. No answer. We looked in his front windows. Nothing.
“He could be hiding under the bed,” Lula said. “Maybe we should still bash his door in.”
I stepped back and made a sweeping gesture with my hand. “After you.”
“Unh-unh,” Lula said. “After you.”
“No, no . . . I insist.”
“The hell you do. I insist.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let's face it. Neither of us is going to bash this door down.”
“I could do it if I wanted,” Lula said. “Only I don't feel like it right now.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You think I couldn't do serious damage to this door?”
“That's what I'm suggesting.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
The door to the adjoining house opened, and an old woman stuck her head out. “What's going on?”
“We're looking for Morris Munson,” I said.
“He isn't home.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know?” Lula said. “How can you be sure he isn't hiding under the bed?”
“I was out back when he drove away. I was letting the dog out, and Munson came with a suitcase. Said he was gonna be gone for a while. As far as I'm concerned, he could be gone forever. He's a wacko. He was arrested for killing his wife, and some idiot judge let him out on bail. Can you imagine?”
“Go figure,” Lula said.
The woman looked us over. “I guess you're friends of his.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We work for Munson's bail bonds agent.” I handed her my business card. “If he returns I'd appreciate a call.”
“Sure,” the woman said, “but I got a feeling he isn't returning anytime soon.”
Bob was waiting patiently in the car, and he got all happy-looking when we opened the doors and slid in.
“Maybe Bob needs breakfast,” Lula said.
“Bob already had breakfast.”
“Let me put it another way. Maybe Lula needs breakfast.”
“You have anything special in mind?”
“I guess I could use one of those Egg McMuffins. And a vanilla shake. And breakfast fries.”
I put the Buick in gear and headed for the drive-through.
“
How's it going?” the kid at the window said. “You still looking for a job?”
“I'm thinking about it.”
We got three of everything and parked on the edge of the lot to eat and regroup. Bob ate his Egg McMuffin and breakfast fries in one chomp. He slurked his milkshake down and looked longingly out the window.
“Think Bob needs to stretch his legs,” Lula said.
I opened the door and let him out. “Don't go far.”
Bob jumped out and started walking around in circles, occasionally sniffing the pavement.
“What's he doing?” Lula wanted to know. “Why's he walking in circles? Why's he—Uh-oh, this don't look good. Looks to me like Bob's taking a big poop in the middle of the parking lot. Holy cow, look at that! That's a mountain of poop.”
Bob returned to the Buick and sat down, wagging his tail, smiling, waiting to be let back in.
I let him in, and Lula and I slumped down low in our seats.
“Do you think anyone saw?” I asked Lula.
“I think everyone saw.”
“Damn,” I said. “I don't have the pooper-scooper with me.”
“Pooper-scooper, hell. I wouldn't go near that with a full contamination suit and a front-loader.”
“I can't just leave it there.”
“Maybe you could run over it,” Lula said. “You know . . . flatten it out.”
I cranked the engine over, backed up, and pointed the Buick at the pile of poop.
“Better roll the windows up,” Lula said.
“Ready?”
Lula braced herself. “Ready.”
I stomped on the gas and took aim.
SQUISH!
We rolled the windows down and looked out.
“So what do you think? You think I should make another pass?”
“Wouldn't hurt,” Lula said. “And I'd forget about getting a job here.”
I WANTED TO do a fast check on Hannibal's town house and I didn't want to get Lula involved in my Ranger business, so I told her a fib about spending the day bonding with Bob, and drove her back to the office. I slid to a stop at the curb and the black Town Car eased up behind me.
Mitchell got out of the Town Car and came to peek in my window. “Still driving this old Buick,” he said. “Must be some kind of a personal record for you. And what's with the dog and the big babe, here?”
Lula gave Mitchell the once-over.
“It's okay,” I told Lula. “I know him.”
“I bet,” Lula said. “You want me to shoot him, or something?”
“Maybe later.”
“Hunh,” Lula said. She heaved herself out of the car and ambled into the office.
“Well?” Mitchell asked.
“Well, nothing.”
“That's real disappointing.”
“So, you don't like Alexander Ramos?”
“Let's just say we're not on the same team.”
“Must be hard for him these days, grieving over his son.”
“That son was nothing to grieve over,” Mitchell said. “He was a fuckin' loser. Fuckin' cokehead.”
“How about Hannibal? Does he do drugs, too?”
“Nah, not Hannibal. Hannibal's a goddamn shark. Alexander should have named that one Jaws.”
“Well, I've gotta go now,” I said. “Things to do. People to see.”
“The raghead and me haven't got a lot to do today, so we thought we'd follow you around.”
“You should get a life.”
Mitchell smiled.
“And I don't want you following me around,” I said.
He smiled some more.
I glanced up at the traffic coming toward us on Hamilton and focused on a blue car. Looked like a Crown Victoria. Looked like Morris Munson behind the wheel!
“Yikes!” I yelled as Munson yanked the car over the white line and aimed it at me.
“Shit!” Mitchell yelped, panicked, dancing in place like a big trained bear.
Munson swerved to avoid Mitchell at the last second, lost control, and crashed into the Town Car. For a moment the cars seemed fused together, and then there was the sound of Munson gunning his engine. The Crown Vic jumped back a couple feet, its front bumper clattered to the ground, and it sped away.
Mitchell and I ran back to the Town Car and looked in at Habib.
“What by everything holy was that?” Habib shouted.
The Town Car's left front quarter panel was crumpled into the wheel, and the hood was buckled. Habib seemed okay, but the Town Car wasn't going anywhere until someone crowbarred the fender away from the wheel. Too bad for them. Lucky break for me. Habib and Mitchell weren't going to be in following mode for a while.
“He was a madman,” Habib said. “I saw his eyes. He was a madman. Did you get his license plate number?”
“It happened so fast,” Mitchell said. “And cripes, he was coming right at me. I thought he was aiming for me. I thought . . . Jeez, I thought . . .”
“You were frightened like a woman,” Habib said.
“Yeah,” I said, “like the daughter of a pig.”
Now here was a dilemma. I dearly wanted to tell them who was behind the wheel of the car. If they killed Munson, I was off the hook. No more flaming shirttails. No more maniac with a tire iron. Unfortunately, I'd also be sort of responsible for Munson's death, and that didn't feel entirely comfortable. Better to leave him to the court.
“You should report this to the police,” I said. “I'd stick around and help out, but you know how it is.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “Things to do. People to see.”
IT WAS ALMOST noon when Bob and I rolled past Hannibal's town house. I parked at the corner and dialed Ranger's number to tell his answering machine I had news. Then I chewed on my lower lip some while I worked up enough nerve to get out of the car and snoop on Hannibal.
Hey, it's no big deal, I told myself. Look at the house. Nice and quiet. He isn't home. Just like yesterday. You go around back, take a peek, and leave. No sweat.
Okay, I can do this. Deep breath. Think positive. I grabbed Bob's leash and headed for the bike path behind the houses. When I got to Hannibal's backyard I stopped and listened. Very quiet. Plus, Bob looked bored. If someone was on the other side of the wall Bob would be excited, right? I studied the wall. Daunting. Especially since I'd gotten shot at the last time I was here.
Hold it, I said to myself. None of that negative thinking. What would Spiderman do in a situation like this? What would Batman do? What would Bruce Willis do? Bruce would get a running start, plant his sneaker, and scale the wall. I tied Bob's leash to a bush and ran at the wall. I got my size eight Skechers halfway up, slapped my palms onto the top of the wall, and dug in and hung there. I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth and attempted a pull-up . . . but nothing pulled up. Damn. Bruce would have made it to the top. But then, Bruce probably goes to the gym.
I dropped to the ground and cut my eyes to the tree. The tree had a bullet lodged in its trunk. I really didn't want to climb the tree. I did some pacing and knuckle cracking. What about Ranger? I asked myself. You're supposed to be helping him. If the situation was reversed Ranger would climb the tree to take a look.
“Yeah, but I'm not Ranger,” I said to Bob.
Bob gave me a long look.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I'll climb the stupid tree.”
I went up fast, looked around, saw nothing going on in the house or the yard, and scrambled down. I untied Bob and skulked back to the car, where I settled in and waited for the phone to ring. After a couple minutes, Bob moved to the backseat and got into nap position.
At one o'clock, I was still waiting for Ranger's call back, and I was thinking I needed lunch, when Hannibal's garage door slid open and the green jag backed out.
Holy cow, the house hadn't been empty!
The door closed; the jag turned away from me and rolled down the street, toward the freeway. Hard to tell who was behind the wheel but I bet it was Hannibal. I cranked the engine ov
er and raced around the block, picking the jag up just as it was leaving the subdivision. I stayed as far back as possible without losing sight.