Hot Six, Page 7

  “How about the police? What's their angle today?” I asked.

  “They're looking for Ranger, big time.”

  “As a witness?”

  “As far as I can tell, as an anything.”

  Connie and Lula looked at me.

  “Well?” Lula asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “You know well, what.”

  “I'm not sure, but I don't think he's dead,” I said. “Just a feeling I've got.”

  “Hah!” Lula said. “I knew it! Were you naked when you got this feeling?”

  “No!”

  “Too bad,” Lula said. “I would have been naked.”

  “I have to go,” I said. “I need to give Mooner the bad news about the wind machine.”

  THE GOOD THING about the Mooner is that he's almost always home. The bad thing is that, while his house is occupied, his head is frequently vacant.

  “Oh, wow,” he said, answering the door. “Did I forget my court date again?”

  “Your court date is two weeks from tomorrow.”

  “Cool.”

  “I need to talk to you about the wind machine. It's sort of dented. And it's missing a rear light. But I'll fix it.”

  “Hey, don't worry about it, dude. These things happen.”

  “Maybe I should talk to the owner.”

  “The Dealer.”

  “Yeah, the dealer. Where's he located?”

  “He's at the end row house. He's got a garage, dude. Can you dig it? A garage.” Since I'd just spent the winter scraping ice off my windshield, I could appreciate Mooner's garage excitement. I thought a garage was a pretty wondrous thing, too.

  The end row house was about a quarter-mile away so we drove.

  “Do you think he'll be home?” I asked Mooner when we got to the end of the block.

  “The Dealer's always home. He's gotta be there to deal.”

  I rang the bell, and Dougie Kruper opened the door. I went to school with Dougie but hadn't seen him in years. In fact, I'd heard a rumor that he'd moved to Arkansas and died.

  “Jeez, Dougie,” I said, “I thought you were dead.”

  “Naw, I just wished I was dead. My dad got transferred to Arkansas, so I went with them, but I'm telling you, Arkansas was no place for me. No action, you know what I mean? And if you want to go to the ocean it takes days.”

  “Are you the dealer?”

  “Yessiree. I'm the Dealer. I'm the man. You want something. I got it. We make a deal.”

  “Bad news, Dougie. The wind machine was in an accident.”

  “Girl, the wind machine is an accident. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I can't unload it on anyone. Soon as you brought it back I was gonna push it off a bridge. Unless, of course, you want to buy it.”

  “It doesn't actually suit my purposes. It's too memorable. I need a car that disappears.”

  “A stealth car. The Dealer might have such a vehicle,” Dougie said. “Come around back, and we'll take a look-see.”

  Around back was wall-to-wall cars. There were cars on the road, and cars in his yard, and a car in his garage.

  Dougie led me to a black Ford Escort. “Now this here is a genuine disappearing car.”

  “How old is it?”

  “I don't exactly know, but it's got a few miles on it.”

  “Isn't the year on the title?”

  “This particular car doesn't have a title.”

  Hmm.

  “If you need a car with a title, that would adversely effect the price,” Dougie said.

  “How adversely?”

  “I'm sure we can come to terms. After all, I'm the Dealer.”

  Dougie Kruper was the big geek of my graduating class. He didn't date, and he didn't do sports, and he didn't eat like a human being. His greatest accomplishment in high school was being able to suck Jell-O into his nose through a straw.

  Mooner was walking around laying his hands on the cars, divining karma. “This is it,” he said, standing by a small khaki-colored jeep. “This car has protective qualities.”

  “You mean like a guardian angel?”

  “I mean, like, it has seat belts.”

  “Does this car come with a title?” I asked Dougie. “Does it run?”

  “I'm pretty sure it runs,” Dougie said.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER I had two new pairs of jeans and a new watch, but no new car. Dougie was also willing to make a deal on a microwave, but I already had one.

  It was early in the afternoon, and the weather wasn't terrible, so I walked to my parents' house and borrowed Uncle Sandor's '53 Buick. It was free, and it ran, and it had a title. I told myself it was a very cool car. A classic. Uncle Sandor had bought it new, and it was still in prime condition, which was more than could be said for Uncle Sandor, who was deep in the ground. Powder blue and white with gleaming chrome portholes and a big V-8 engine. I hoped I'd have my insurance money by the time Grandma got her license and needed the Buick. I hoped the insurance money would come through fast because I hated the car.

  When I finally headed home the sun was low in the sky. The lot to my apartment building was filled and the big black Lincoln was parked next to one of the few open spaces. I pulled the Buick into the open space, and the Lincoln's passenger-side window rolled down.

  “What's this?” Mitchell asked. “Another car? You wouldn't be trying to confuse us, would you?”

  Ah, if only it was that simple. “I've been having some car problems.”

  “You don't find that Ranger guy soon and you're gonna have other problems that could be fatal.”

  Probably Mitchell and Habib were very tough guys, but I was having a hard time working up genuine fear. They just didn't seem to be in the same league as psycho Morris Munson.

  “What happened to your shirt?” Mitchell asked.

  “Someone tried to set me on fire.”

  He shook his head. “People are nuts. You gotta have eyes in the back of your head today.”

  From the guy who just threatened me with death.

  I entered the lobby, keeping my eyes peeled for Ranger. The elevator doors opened, and I peeked inside. Empty. I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed. The hall was also empty. No such luck with my apartment. Grandma popped out of the kitchen the instant I opened my front door.

  “Right on time,” she said. “I've got the pork chops ready to put on the table. And I made macaroni and cheese, too. Only we don't have any vegetables because I figure your mother isn't here so we can eat what we want.”

  The table in the dining area was set with real dishes and knives and forks and paper napkins folded into triangles.

  “Wow,” I said. “It's nice of you to make supper like this.”

  “I could have done an even better job, but you've only got one pot. What happened to that set of Revere Ware you got at your wedding shower?”

  “I threw it away when I found Dickie doing . . . you know, with Joyce.”

  Grandma brought the macaroni and cheese to the table. “I guess I can understand that.” She sat down and helped herself to a pork chop. “I gotta get a move on. Melvina and me didn't have time to go to the viewing this afternoon, so we're going tonight. You're welcome to come along.”

  Next to sticking myself in the eye with a fork, my favorite thing in the world is to go visit dead people. “Thanks, but I have to work tonight. I'm doing surveillance for a friend.”

  “Too bad,” Grandma said. “It's going to be a good viewing.”

  AFTER GRANDMA LEFT I watched a Simpsons rerun, a Nanny rerun and a half-hour of ESPN, trying to distract myself from thinking about Ranger. There was a nasty little corner of my mind that harbored doubt of his innocence in the Ramos murder. And the rest of my head was filled with anxiety that he'd get shot or arrested before the real killer was found. And to further complicate things, I'd agreed to do surveillance for him. Ranger was Vinnie's primo bounty hunter, but Ranger also engaged in a variety of entrepreneurial activities, some of which were even legal.
I'd worked for Ranger in the past, with varying degrees of success. I'd eventually taken my name off his employment roster, deciding it wasn't in anyone's best interest for us to partner up. It seemed like now was the time to make an exception. Although I wasn't sure why he wanted my help. I wasn't especially competent. On the other hand, I was loyal and lucky, and I guess I was affordable.

  When it was almost dark I changed my clothes. Black spandex running shorts, black T-shirt, running shoes, a black hooded sweatshirt, and, to complete the outfit, a pocketsized pepper spray. If I got caught snooping I could claim to be out jogging. Every pervert peeper in the state used the same lame M.O., and it worked every time.

  I gave Rex a piece of cheese and explained that I'd be home in a couple hours. Out in the parking lot, I looked for a Honda Civic, and then I remembered it had been toasted. Then I looked for the wind machine, but that wasn't right either. And finally, with a disheartened sigh, I picked out the Buick.

  Fenwood Street was cozy at night. Lights were on in house windows, and walk lights dotted the pathways leading to the town houses. There was no activity on the street.

  Hannibal Ramos still had his drapes drawn, but light peeked from behind the drapes. I drove around the block once and parked the Buick just beyond the bike path I'd walked earlier in the day.

  I did some stretches and some jogging in place in case someone was watching me, wondering if I was a suspicious character. I took off at a slow jog and quickly reached the path that ran through the common ground behind the houses. Less ambient light filtered through the trees back here. I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. Each privacy fence had a back door, and I cautiously walked along, counting off doors until I figured I was behind Hannibal's house. His upper story windows were dark, but light spilled over the privacy fence from the ground-level windows in the back of the house.

  I tried the door to the fence. Locked. The brick fence was seven feet tall. The brick was smooth, impossible to climb. No handholds or footholds. I looked around for something to stand on. Nothing. I eyeballed the pine growing next to the fence. Slightly mishapen from the fence pressing into some lower branches. The upper branches hanging over the yard. If I could get up in the tree, the branches would give me cover, and I could spy on Hannibal. I grabbed hold of a bottom branch and hoisted myself up. I scrabbled a couple feet higher and was rewarded with a view of Hannibal's backyard. The fence was bordered with flower beds, which were covered with mulch. An irregular stone patio backed up to the patio doors. And the rest of the yard was grass.

  Just as I'd suspected, the drapes at the back of the house weren't drawn. A double window looked into the kitchen. The patio doors opened to a dining area. A small piece of another room was visible beyond the dining area. Probably the living room, but it was hard to tell. I didn't see anyone moving around.

  I sat there for a while, watching nothing happen. No action in Hannibal's house. No action in either of his neighbors' houses. Very boring. No one on the bike path. No dog walkers. No joggers. Too dark. This is why I love surveillance. Nothing ever happens. Then you have to go to the bathroom and you miss a double homicide.

  After an hour my butt was asleep and my legs were feeling twitchy from inactivity. Bag this, I thought. I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for, anyway.

  I turned to climb down, lost my balance, and flopped to the ground. Wump! Flat on my back. In Hannibal's backyard.

  The patio light flashed on, and Hannibal looked out at me. “What the hell?” he said.

  I wiggled my fingers and moved my legs. Everything seemed to be working.

  Hannibal stood over me, hands on hips, looking like he wanted an explanation.

  “I fell out of the tree,” I said. Pretty obvious, since there were pine needles and twigs scattered around me.

  Hannibal didn't move a muscle.

  I dragged myself to my feet. “I was trying to get my cat to come down. ”He's been up there since this afternoon."

  He looked up at the tree. “Is your cat still there?” Not sounding like he believed a word of it.

  “I think he jumped when I fell.”

  Hannibal Ramos was California tan and couch-potato soft. I'd seen photos of him so I wasn't surprised. What I hadn't expected was the exhaustion in his face. But then, he'd just lost a brother, and that had to be taking a toll. His brown hair was thin and receding. His eyes were assessing behind tortoiseshell glasses. He was wearing gray suit slacks that were badly in need of pressing, and a white dress shirt, open at the collar, also rumpled. Mr. Average Businessman after a hard day at the office. I guessed he was in his early forties and a couple years away from a quadruple bypass.

  “And I suppose he ran away?” Ramos said.

  “God, I hope not. I'm tired of chasing after him.” I am the best liar. Sometimes I amaze even myself.

  Hannibal opened the door to the fence and gave the bike path a cursory glance. “Bad news. I don't see a cat.”

  I looked over Hannibal's shoulder. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I called. I was feeling pretty stupid now, but there was no place to go with this but forward.

  “You know what I think?” Hannibal said. “I think there's no cat. I think you were in that tree spying on me.”

  I gave him a look of total incredulity. Like . . . oh, duh? “Listen,” I said, scooting around him to the door. “I've got to go. I need to find my cat.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Black.”

  “Good luck.”

  I looked under a couple bushes en route to the bike path. “Here kitty, kitty.”

  “Maybe you should give me your name and phone number in case I find him,” Hannibal said.

  Our eyes locked for a couple beats, and my heart stumbled in my chest.

  “No,” I told him. “I don't think I want to do that.” And then I left, walking in the opposite direction I came.

  I exited the bike path and circled the block to get to my car. I crossed the street and stood in the shadows for a few minutes, looking at Hannibal's house, wondering about the man. If I'd seen him on the street I'd have pegged him as an insurance salesman. Or maybe middle management in corporate America. That he was the crown prince of black market arms wouldn't occur to me.

  A light blinked on in an upstairs window. The crown prince was probably changing into something more comfortable. Too early for bed, and the lights were still on downstairs. I was about to leave when a car cruised down the street and turned into Hannibal's driveway.

  Woman at the wheel. Couldn't see her face. The driver's door opened and a long, stocking-clad leg swung out, followed by a killer body in a dark suit. Short blond hair. Briefcase under her arm.

  I copied the license number on the pad I kept in my shoulder bag, got my mini-binoculars out of the glove compartment, and scuttled around to the back of Hannibal's house. Again. Everything was quiet. Hannibal probably felt confident that he'd scared me off. I mean, what idiot would be crazy enough to try to snoop on him twice in one night?

  This idiot, that's who.

  I went up the tree as quietly as possible. Easier this time. I knew where I was going. I found my perch and got the binoculars out. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to see. Hannibal and his caller were in the front room. I could see a slice of Hannibal's back, but the woman was out of view. After a few minutes there was the distant sound of Hannibal's front door closing and of a car driving off.

  Hannibal walked into the kitchen, got a knife from a drawer, and used it to open an envelope. He took a letter out and read it. Had no reaction. He carefully returned the letter to the envelope and put the envelope on his kitchen counter.

  He looked at the kitchen window, seemingly lost in thought. Then he moved to the patio door, slid it open and stared out at the tree. I froze in place, not daring to breathe. He can't see me, I thought. It's dark in the tree. Don't move and he'll go back inside. Wrong, wrong, wrong. His hand came up from his side, a flashlight snapped on, and I was caught.

  “Here kitt
y, kitty,” I said, shielding my eyes with my hand to see past the light.

  He raised his other arm, and I saw the gun.

  “Get down,” he said, walking toward me. “Slowly.”

  Yeah, right. I flew from the tree, breaking branches on the way, landing with my feet already running.