Hot Six

  The next time I opened my eyes, the Mooner and Dougie were sitting on the coffee table, staring down at me.

  “Yow!” I yelled. “What the hell?”

  “Hey duder,” the Mooner said, “hope we didn't, like, startle you.”

  “What are you doing here?” I shrieked.

  “The dude formerly known as the Dealer needs someone to talk to. He's, like, confused. You know, one minute he's a successful businessman, and then—wham—his whole future is ripped out from under him. It just isn't fair, man.”

  Dougie shook his head. “It isn't fair,” he said.

  “So we thought you might have some ideas for future employment,” Mooner said. “Since you're so successfully employed. You and the Dougster, you're like . . . an entrepreneurial dude and dudette.”

  “It isn't like I haven't had offers,” Dougie said.

  “That's right,” Mooner said. “The Dougster is in large demand in the pharmaceutical trade. There's always openings for enterprising young men in pharmaceuticals.”

  “You mean like Metamucil?”

  “That too,” Mooner said.

  As if Dougie wasn't in enough trouble. Selling hijacked Metamucil was one thing. Selling crack was a whole other ball game.

  “Probably pharmaceutical sales isn't a good idea,” I told them. “It could have an adverse effect on your life expectancy.”

  Dougie did another nod. “Exactly what I thought. And now that Homer's out of the picture, things are going to get tight.”

  “Damn shame about Homer,” Mooner said. “He was a fine human being. Now there was a businessman.”

  “Homer?” I asked.

  “Homer Ramos. Homer and me were like this,” Moon said, holding up two fingers side by side. “We were close, dude.”

  “Are you telling me Homer Ramos was involved in drugs?”

  “Well, sure,” Mooner said. “Isn't everybody?”

  “How did you know Homer Ramos?”

  “I didn't actually know him in the physical sense. It was more of a mutual cosmic connection. Like, he was the big drug kahuna, and I'm, you know, like a consumer. It sure was bummer luck that he got his head ventilated. Just when he got that expensive rug, too.”

  “Rug?”

  “I was at Art's Carpets last week, contemplating a rug purchase. And you know how in the beginning you're thinking all the rugs are totally excellent, and then the more you look at them, the more they all start looking the same. And before you know it you're, like, rug hypnotized? And next thing you know, you're taking a break, laying on the floor, chilling? And while I was laying there behind the rugs, I heard Homer come in. He went into the back room, got a rug, and left. And the rug dude, you know, the owner guy, and Homer were talking about how the rug was worth a million dollars, and Homer should be real careful with it. Far out, huh?”

  A million-dollar rug! Arturo Stolle had handed a million dollar rug over to Homer Ramos just before Ramos was killed. And now Stolle was looking for Ranger, the last person to see Ramos alive . . . with the exception of the guy who killed him. And Stolle was thinking Ranger had something that belonged to him. Could this Stolle business be over a rug? Hard to believe. Must be a hell of a rug.

  “I'm pretty sure I wasn't, like, hallucinating,” Mooner said.

  “That would be a strange hallucination,” I said.

  “Not as strange as the time I thought I'd turned into a giant blob of bubble gum. That was scary, dude. I had these little hands and feet, and everything else was bubble gum. I didn't even have a face. And I was like, all chewed, you know.” Mooner gave an involuntary shiver. “It was a bad trip, dude.”

  The front door opened, and Morelli walked in. He looked at Mooner and Dougie, and then he looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows.

  “Hey, man,” Mooner said. “Long time no see. How's it going, dude?”

  “Can't complain,” Morelli said.

  Dougie, not being nearly as mellow as Mooner, jumped to his feet at the sight of Morelli and accidentally stepped on Bob. Bob yelped in surprise, sank his teeth into Dougie's pants leg and ripped off a chunk of material.

  Grandma Mazur opened the bedroom door and looked out. “What's going on?” she asked. “Am I missing something?”

  The Dougster was fidgeting on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint for the door at the earliest opportunity. The Dougster didn't feel comfortable being in the presence of a vice cop. The Dougster was lacking many of the talents necessary for success as a criminal.

  Morelli raised his hands in a symbol of surrender. “I give up,” he said. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the lips and turned to leave.

  “Hey, wait,” I said. “I need to talk to you.” I looked at Mooner. “Alone.”

  “Sure,” Mooner said. “No problemo. We appreciate the sage advice on the pharmaceutical issue. Me and the Dougster will have to research other avenues of employment for him.”

  “I'm going back to bed,” Grandma said when Mooner and Dougie left. “This doesn't look too interesting. I liked it better the other night when you were on the floor with the bounty hunter.”

  Morelli gave me the same kind of look Desi always gave Lucy when she'd just done something incredibly stupid.“It's a long story,” I said.

  “I bet.”

  “You probably don't want to hear the whole, boring story right now,” I said.

  “I think it sounds like it might be entertaining. Is that how your security chain got destroyed?”

  “No, Morris Munson did that.”

  “Busy night.”

  I gave a sigh and sank back down onto the couch.

  Morelli slouched into a chair across from me. “Well?”

  “You know anything about rugs?”

  “I know they go on the floor.”

  I told him Mooner's story about the million-dollar rug.

  “Maybe it wasn't the rug that was worth a million dollars,” Morelli said. “Maybe there was something inside the rug.”

  “Such as?”

  Morelli just looked at me.

  I did some out-loud questioning. “What's small enough to fit in a rug? Drugs?”

  “I saw a segment of the security tape from the Ramos fire,” Morelli said. “Homer Ramos was carrying a gym bag when he walked past the hidden camera the night he met Ranger. And Ranger was carrying the bag when he left. Word on the street is that Arturo Stolle is missing a load of money and wants to talk to Ranger. What do you think?”

  “I think maybe Stolle gives Ramos drugs. Ramos passes the drugs on to be cut and distributed and ends up with a gym bag filled with money, some or all of which might belong to Stolle. Something happens between Ranger and Homer Ramos, and Ranger gets the bag.”

  “And if that's the way it went down, then probably this was an extracurricular activity for Homer Ramos,” Morelli said. “Drugs, extortion, and numbers go to organized crime. Guns go to the Ramos family. Alexander Ramos has always respected that.”

  Except, in Trenton, it was more like disorganized crime. Trenton fell right in the middle of New York and Philadelphia. No one cared a whole lot about Trenton. Mostly Trenton had a bunch of middle-management guys who spent their days running numbers through social clubs. The numbers money helped give stability to the drug trade. And the drugs were distributed by black street gangs that had names like the Corleones. If it wasn't for the Godfather movies and PBS specials on crime, probably no one in Trenton would know how to act or what to call themselves.

  So now I was getting a better picture of why Alexander Ramos might be disenchanted with his son. The question still being, Was he disenchanted enough to have him killed? And maybe I had a reason for Arturo Stolle to be looking for Ranger.

  “All this is speculation,” Morelli said. “Just conversation.”

  “You never share police information with me. Why are you telling me this?”

  “This isn't exactly police information. This is loose change rattling around in my head. I've been watching Stolle for a long tim
e without much luck. Maybe this is the break I've been waiting for. I need to talk to Ranger, but I can't get him to call me back. So I'm passing this on to you, and you can feed it to Ranger.”

  I nodded. “I'll give him the message.”

  “No details on the phone.”

  “Understood. How'd it go with Gilman?”

  Morelli grinned. “Let me guess. Your finger accidentally hit the redial button on the phone.”

  “All right, I admit it, I'm nosy.”

  “Crimes R Us is having some organizational problems. I noticed an increase in traffic going in and out of the social clubs, so I expressed some concern to Vito. So Vito sent Terry to assure me the boys weren't stockpiling nuclear arms for World War III.”

  “I saw Terry on Wednesday. She delivered a letter to Hannibal Ramos.”

  “Crimes R Us and Guns R Us are attempting to reestablish boundaries. Homer Ramos tore down some fences, and now that he's out of the picture, the fences need to be repaired.” Morelli nudged my foot with his. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “How about it?”

  I was so tired my lips were numb, and Morelli wanted to fool around. “Sure,” I said. “Just let me rest my eyes for a minute.”

  I closed my eyes, and when I woke up it was morning. Morelli was nowhere to be seen.

  “I'm late,” Grandma said, trotting from the bedroom to the kitchen. “I overslept. It's all those interruptions every night. This place is like Grand Central Station. I got my last driving lesson in a half-hour. And then tomorrow I take my test. I was hoping you could take me for it. First thing in the morning.”

  “Sure. I could do that.”

  “And then I'm moving out. Nothin' personal, but you live in a loony bin.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I'm going back with your mother. Your father deserves to have to put up with me, anyway.”

  It was Sunday, and Grandma always went to church on Sunday morning. “What about church today?”

  “No time for church. God's just gonna have to make do without me today. Anyway, your mother will be there representing the family.”

  My mother always represented the family, because my father never went to church. My father stayed home and waited for the white bakery bag to arrive. For as long as I can remember, every Sunday morning, my mother went to church and stopped at the bakery on the way home. Every Sunday morning my mother bought jelly doughnuts. Nothing but jelly doughnuts. Cookies, coffee cakes, and cannoli were bought on weekdays. Sunday was jelly doughnut day. It was like taking communion. I'm a Catholic by birth, but in my own personal religion, the Trinity will forever be the Father, the Son, and the Holy Jelly Doughnut.

  I clipped the leash onto Bob's collar and took him out for a walk. The air was cool, and the sky was blue. Spring felt like it wasn't too far away. I didn't see Habib and Mitchell in the parking lot. Guess they didn't work on Sunday. I didn't see Joyce Barnhardt, either. That was a relief.

  Grandma was gone when I got back, and the apartment was blissfully quiet. I fed Bob. I drank a glass of orange juice. And I crawled under the quilt. I woke up at one o'clock, and I thought about my conversation with Morelli the night before. I'd held out on Morelli. I hadn't told him I'd seen Ranger leaving Hannibal's town house. I wondered if Morelli had kept information from me, too. Chances were good that he had. Our professional relationship had a whole other set of rules from our personal relationship. Morelli had set the tone from the very beginning. There were cop things he just didn't share. The personal rules were still evolving. He had his. And I had mine. Once in a while we agreed. A while ago we'd had a short fling at living together, but Morelli wasn't comfortable with commitment, and I wasn't comfortable with confinement. So we separated.

  I heated up a can of chicken noodle soup and called Morelli. “Sorry about last night,” I said.

  “At first I was afraid you'd died.”

  “I was tired.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “Grandma's gone for the day, and I have some work to do. I was wondering if you'd baby-sit Bob for me.”

  “For how long?' Morelli asked. ”A day? A year?"

  “A couple hours.”

  I called Lula next. “I need to do some breaking and entering. Want to come along?”

  “Hell, yes. Nothing I like better than illegal entry.”

  I dropped Bob off and gave Morelli instructions. “Keep your eye on him. He eats everything.”

  “Maybe we should make him a cop,” Morelli said. “What's his liquor capacity?”

  Lula was waiting on her stoop when I drove up. She was discreetly dressed in poison green spandex pants and a shocking pink faux-fur jacket. You could stand her on a corner, in a fog, at midnight, and she'd be visible for three miles.

  “Nice outfit,” I said.

  “I wanted to look hot in case I got arrested. You know how they take your picture, and all.” She buckled herself in and looked over at me. “You're gonna be sorry you wore that drab-ass shirt. It's not gonna show up. And for that matter, you didn't even mousse your hair. What kind of Jersey hair is that?”

  “I'm not planning on getting arrested.”

  “You never know. Doesn't hurt to take some precaution and add a little extra eyeliner. Who we breaking in on, anyway?”

  “Hannibal Ramos.”

  “Say what? You mean like the brother of the dead Homer Ramos? And the number one son of the Gun King, Alexander Ramos? Are you freakin' nuts?”

  “He's probably not home.”

  “How are you gonna find out?”

  “I'm going to ring his doorbell.”

  “And if he answers?”

  “I'll ask him if he's seen my cat.”

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “You don't have a cat.”

  All right, so it was a little lame. It was the best I could come up with. I was betting Hannibal wasn't home. I didn't hear Ranger yodel good-bye to anyone last night. I didn't notice lights on after he left.

  “What are you looking for?” Lula asked. “Or do you just want to die young?”

  “I'll know it when I see it,” I said. At least I hoped so.

  The truth is, I didn't want to think too hard about what I was looking for. I was half afraid it'd incriminate Ranger. He'd asked me to watch Hannibal's house, and then he'd gone snooping without me. Made me feel just a tad left out. And it had me a little worried. What had he been looking for in Hannibal's house? For that matter, what was he looking for at the Deal house? I suspected my window- and door-counting expedition had given him information he needed to break in to the building. What on earth could be in there to warrant taking such a risk?

  Ranger, the Man of Mystery, was okay when everything was going just fine. But I was involved in something serious here, and I was thinking that the constant mystery surrounding Ranger was getting old. I wanted to know what was going on. And I wanted some assurance that Ranger was on the right side of the law on this one. I mean, who was this guy?

  LULA AND I stood on the sidewalk and studied Hannibal's house. Drapes still drawn. Very quiet. The houses on either side of Hannibal were quiet, too. Sunday afternoon. Everyone was out at the mall.

  “You sure this is the right address?” Lula asked. “This don't look like no big-ass arms-dealer house. I was expecting something like the Taj Mahal. Like where the Donald lives.”

  “Donald Trump doesn't live in the Taj Mahal.”

  “He does when he's in Atlantic City. This turkey don't even have no gun turrets. What kind of arms dealer is he, anyway?”

  “Low profile.”

  “Fuckin' A.”

  I approached the door and rang the bell.

  “Low profile or not,” Lula said, “if he answers I'm gonna mess my pants.”

  I tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  I looked to Lula. “You can pick a lock, right?”

  “Hell, yes. They don't make the lock I can't pick. Only I didn't bring my whatchamacallit.”
/>   “Your lock-picking thing?”

  “That's it. And anyway, what about the alarm system?”

  “I have a feeling the alarm system isn't working.” And if it is, we run like hell when we set it off.

  We walked back to the sidewalk, around the block, and got on the bike path from one street over, just in case someone was watching. We walked to Hannibal's privacy fence and let ourselves in through the gate, which was now unlocked.