Hot Six

  I was dusty from head to foot, the knee was torn out of my Levi's, my hair was in the throes of a very bad day, and then there was the pimple.

  “You look like you haven't slept in days,” Costanza said.

  “That's because I haven't.”

  “I could talk to Morelli.”

  “It's not Morelli. It's my grandmother. She's moved in with me, and she snores.” Not to mention I had the Mooner in my life. And madmen. And Ranger.

  “So let me get this straight. You're living with your granny and with Simon's dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  Costanza grinned. “Hey, Juniak,” he yelled, “wait'll you hear this.” He looked back to me. “No wonder Morelli's been in such a foul mood.”

  “Tell Simon I was looking for him.”

  “You can count on it,” Costanza said.

  I left the police station and drove to the office and went in with Lula so I could bask in my bounty-hunter excellence. Lula and I had captured our man. It was a big capture, too. A homicidal maniac. Well okay, maybe it hadn't been an entirely flawless operation, but hey, we got him.

  I slapped the body receipt down on Connie's desk. “Are we good, or what?” I said.

  Vinnie popped his head out of his office. “Did I just hear news of an apprehension?”

  “Morris Munson,” Connie said. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  Vinnie rocked back on his heels, hands in pants pockets, smile stretching the width of his face. “Lovely.”

  “He didn't even set either of us on fire this time,” Lula said. “We were good. We hauled his ass off to the clink.”

  Connie eyeballed Lula. “Do you know you're all wet?”

  “Yeah. Well, we rousted the jerk out of the shower.”

  Vinnie's eyebrows shot up into his forehead. “Are you telling me you arrested him naked?”

  “It wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for him running out of the house and down the street,” Lula said.

  Vinnie shook his head, the smile broader than ever. “I love this job.”

  Connie gave me my fee; I gave Lula her share and went home to change.

  Grandma was still there, getting ready for her driving lesson. She was dressed in her purple warm-up suit, platform sneakers, and a long-sleeved T-shirt that had “Eat My Shorts” written across the chest. “I met a man in the elevator today,” she said. “And I'm taking him to dinner with us tonight.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Myron Landowsky. He's an old fart, but I figure I have to start somewhere.” She took her purse off the counter, tucked it into the crook of her arm, and gave Bob a pat on the head. “Bob's been a good boy today, except for eating that roll of toilet paper. Oh yeah, and I was hoping we could ride over with you and Joseph. Myron don't drive after dark, on account of his night vision is shot.”

  “No problem.”

  I made myself a fried-egg sandwich for lunch, changed my jeans, brushed my hair into a half-assed ponytail, and plastered a ton of concealer over my pimple. I gunked up my lashes with mascara and stared at myself in the mirror. Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, I said. What are you doing?

  I was working myself up to going back to the shore, that's what I was doing. I was having brain pain that I'd screwed up my opportunity to talk to Alexander Ramos. I'd sat across the table from him like a big doofus yesterday. We were doing surveillance on the Ramos family, and when I got unexpectedly let into the chicken coop I didn't ask the rooster a single question. I was sure Ranger's advice was sound, that I should stay away from Alexander Ramos, but it felt wimpy not to go back and try to take better advantage of the situation.

  I grabbed my jacket and clipped the leash onto Bob's collar. I stopped in the kitchen to say good-bye to Rex and to put my gun back into the cookie jar. I didn't think it'd be a good idea to be packing while I chauffeured Alexander Ramos around. It'd be hard to explain the gun if I got patted down by Ramos or his babysitters.

  Joyce Barnhardt was parked in my lot when I came down. “Nice pizza face,” she said.

  I guessed the concealer wasn't totally effective. “You want something?”

  “You know what I want.”

  Joyce wasn't the only idiot loitering in my lot. Mitchell and Habib were parked at the rear. I walked back to them, and Mitchell rolled the driver's-side window down.

  “Do you see that woman I was just talking to?” I asked. “That's Joyce Barnhardt. She's the bond enforcement agent Vinnie hired to bring Ranger in. If you want to get Ranger, you need to follow Joyce around.”

  Both men looked over at Joyce.

  “If a woman dressed like that in my village we would throw stones at her until she was dead,” Habib said.

  “Nice hooters, though,” Mitchell said. “Are they real?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What do you think her chances are of catching Ranger?”

  “None.”

  “What are your chances?”

  “None.”

  “We were told to watch you,” Mitchell said. “That's what we're going to do.”

  “Too bad,” Habib said. “I do like to look at the whore, Joyce Barnhardt.”

  “Are you going to follow me around all afternoon?”

  Color crept up Mitchell's neck into his cheeks. “We got some other things to do.”

  I smiled. “Have to get the car home?”

  “Fuckin' car pool,” Mitchell said. “My kid's got a soccer game.”

  I went back to the Buick and loaded Bob into the backseat. At least I didn't have to worry about being followed, thanks to the soccer game. I looked in the rearview mirror just to make sure. No Habib and Mitchell—but Joyce was tailing me. I pulled to the side of the road and stopped, and Joyce stopped a few feet behind me. I got out of the car and walked back to her.

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  “It's a free country.”

  “Are you going to follow me all day?”

  “Probably.”

  “Suppose I ask you nicely.”

  “Get real.”

  I looked at her car. A new black SUV. Then I looked at my car. Big Blue. I walked back to Blue and got in. “Hang on,” I said to Bob. Then I threw the car into reverse.

  CRASH.

  I changed gears and moved forward a few feet. I got out and surveyed the damage. The SUV bumper was Crumple City and Joyce was fighting with the deployed airbag. The back of the Buick was perfect. Not a scratch. I returned to the Buick and drove away. It's not a good idea to mess with a woman who has a pimple.

  IT WAS OVERCAST in Deal, with a mist coming off the ocean. Gray sky, gray ocean, gray sidewalks, big pink house belonging to Alexander Ramos. I rolled past the house, made a U-turn, passed the house a second time, turned, and parked at the corner. I wondered if Ranger was watching. My guess was yes. No vans or trucks were parked on the street. That meant he'd have to be in a house. And the house would have to be unoccupied. Easy to tell the unoccupied beachfront houses. Much more difficult to tell the unoccupied houses on the road. None of those were shuttered.

  I checked my watch. Same time, same place. No Ramos. After ten minutes my phone rang.

  “Yo,” Ranger said.

  “Yo, yourself ”

  “You're not very good at following directions.”

  “You mean about not taking the cigarette smuggler job? Seemed too good to pass up.”

  “You're going to be careful, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Our man's having problems getting out of the house. Hang in there.”

  “How do you know this? Where are you?”

  “Get ready. It's show time,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

  Alexander Ramos was through the gate and running across the road to my car. He wrenched the passenger door open and dove in. “Go!” he shouted. “Go!”

  I took off from the curb and saw two men in suits round the gate and sprint toward us. I floored the Buick, and we roared away.

  Ramos didn
't look good at all. He was pale and sweating and gasping for air. “Christ,” he said, “I didn't think I was going to make it. It's a goddamn freak show in that house. Good thing I looked out the window when I did and saw your car. I was going nuts in there.”

  “Do you want to go to the store?”

  “No. That's the first place they'll look. I can't go to Sal's, either.”

  I was getting a real bad feeling here. Like, this was one of the days Alexander didn't take his medicine.

  “Take me to Asbury Park,” he said. “I know a place in Asbury Park.”

  “Why were those men chasing you?”

  “No one was chasing me.”

  “But I saw them.”

  “You didn't see anything.”

  Ten minutes later he pointed with his finger. “Over there. Stop at that bar.”

  The three of us went into the bar, sat at a table, and went through the same ritual as the last time. The bartender brought a bottle of ouzo to the table without being asked. Ramos slugged two back and then lit up.

  “Everyone knows you,” I said.

  He looked around at the scarred booths that lined one wall and the dark mahogany bar that ran the length of the other. Behind the bar was the usual array of bottles. Behind the bottles was the standard bar mirror. One stool was occupied, at the far end of the room. The man stared down, into his drink. “I've been coming here for a few years,” Ramos said. “I come here when I need to get away from the freaks.”

  “The freaks?”

  “My family. I raised three worthless sons who spend money faster than I can make it.”

  “You're Alexander Ramos, right? I saw your picture in Newsweek a while back. I'm sorry about Homer. I read about the fire in the paper.”

  He poured out another shot. “One less freak to deal with.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. It was a chilling statement for a father to make.

  He took a long pull on his cigarette, closed his eyes, and savored the moment. “They think the old man don't know what's going on. Well, they're wrong. The old man knows everything. I didn't build this business by being stupid. And I didn't build it by being nice, either, so they better watch their step.”

  I glanced back at the door. “Are you sure we're safe here?”

  “Any time you're with Alexander Ramos, you're safe. Nobody touches Alexander Ramos.”

  Yeah, right. That's why we're hiding out in a bar in Asbury Park. This was feeling like Bizarro Land.

  “I just don't like to be bothered when I smoke,” he said. “I don't want to have to look at all the leeches.”

  “Why don't you get rid of them. Tell them to leave your house?”

  He squinted at me through a haze of smoke. “How would it look? They're family.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “There's only one way to get rid of family.”

  Oh boy.

  “We're done here,” he said. “I have to get back before my son runs me into the ground.”

  “Hannibal?”

  “Mr. Big Shot. I should never have sent him to college.” He stood and dropped a wad of money onto the table. “How about you? Did you go to college?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  I was afraid if I told him I was a bounty hunter he'd shoot me. “A little of this and a little of that,” I said.

  “Big fancy education and you're doing a little of this?”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “You probably give your mother angina.”

  That made me smile. He was scary crazy, but I sort of liked him. He reminded me of my uncle Punky. “Do you know who killed Homer?”

  “Homer killed himself.”

  “I read in the paper that they didn't find a gun, so they ruled out suicide.”

  “More than one way to kill yourself. My son was stupid and greedy.”

  “Uh . . . you didn't kill him, did you?”

  “I was in Greece when he was shot.”

  We locked eyes. We both knew that didn't answer the question. Ramos could have ordered his son's execution.

  I drove him back to Deal and parked on a side street, a block from the pink house.

  “Any time you want to make twenty bucks you just show up on the corner,” Ramos said.

  I smiled. I hadn't taken any money from him, and probably I wouldn't be back. “Okay,” I said, “keep your eyes open for me.”

  I took off the second he left the car. I didn't want to risk the guys in the suits spotting me. Ten minutes later, my phone rang.

  “Short visit,” Ranger said.

  “He drinks, he smokes, he goes home.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I think he might be crazy.”

  “That's the consensus.”

  Sometimes Ranger sounded like he was straight off the street, and sometimes he sounded like a stockbroker. Ricardo Carlos Manoso, Man of Mystery.

  “Do you think Ramos might have killed his own son?”

  “He's capable of it.”

  “He said Homer was killed because he was greedy and stupid. You knew Homer. Was he greedy and stupid?”

  “Homer was the weakest of the three sons. He'd always take the easy road. But sometimes the easy road got to be a problem.”

  “How?”

  “Homer would drop a hundred thousand gambling and then look for an easy way to get the money, like hijacking a truck or dealing some drugs. In the process he'd step on Mob toes or have a run-in with the police, and Hannibal would have to bail him out.”

  Which led me to wonder what Ranger was doing with Homer Ramos the night Ramos was shot. No point in asking.

  “Later, babe,” Ranger said. And he was gone.

  I GOT HOME in time to walk Bob and take a shower. I spent an extra half-hour styling my hair so it was deceptively casual, as if I really didn't care enough to put in a lot of effort but I was so naturally gorgeous I looked outstanding anyway. It seemed like sacrilege to have such sexy hair and such a big ugly pimple, so I squeezed the pimple until it popped. Then what was left was a big bloody hole in my chin. Crap. I stuck a piece of toilet paper over the hole to stop the bleeding while I did my makeup. I put on black stretch pants and a red sweater with a scoop neck. I peeled the toilet paper off my chin and stood back to take a look. The bags under my eyes were considerably reduced and the hole in my chin was already starting to scab over. Not cover model material, but I'd look okay in dim light.

  I heard the front door open and close, and Grandma breezed past the bathroom on her way to the bedroom.

  “Boy, this driving is something,” Grandma said. “I don't know what I was thinking about, going all those years with no license. I had my lesson this afternoon, and then Melvina came over and took me to the mall and let me drive around in circles. I did real good, too. Except for when I stopped too short once, and Melvina got a sprained back.”

  The doorbell rang and I opened it to find Myron Landowsky wheezing in the hall. Landowsky always reminded me of a box turtle, with his bald liver-spotted head thrust forward, his shoulders hunched, his trousers hiked up to his armpits.

  “I'm telling you, if they don't do something about that elevator I'm moving,” he said. “I've lived here for twenty-two years but I'll go if I have to. That old lady Bestler gets in there with her walker and then pushes the hold button when she leaves. I've seen her do it a million times. Takes her fifteen minutes just to get out of the elevator, and then she goes off and the hold button's still on hold. And meantime what are we supposed to do on the third floor? I just had to walk all the way down here.”

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “You got any liquor?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind, then.” He looked around. “I'm here to see your grandmother. We're going out to dinner.”

  “She's getting ready. She'll be out in a minute.”

  There was a rap on the door and Morelli walked in. He looked at me.
And then he looked at Myron.

  “We're double-dating,” I said. “This is Grandma's friend, Myron Landowsky.”

  “Would you excuse us, please?” Morelli said, pulling me into the hall.