A Random Life

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9 - Another Summer Day in Trenton

Stephanie

It was midmorning on a muggy summer day in Trenton. Lula and I were headed to my current POS car, just having just finished our session at Thor's Dojo-and-Spa Salon on Hamilton Avenue. I was sweating profusely and Lula was dancing around, throwing out jabs and shadowboxing. In this heat!

We've lost our minds.

Yes, Lula and I are taking kickboxing lessons at the dojo. Tank of all people signed up me and Lula as a birthday gift to Lula. He told her, "Baby girl, I want to know you can protect yourself when I'm not there to do it for you. Please." Lula had gotten all starry-eyed about the please, yeah I know how that is, and so here we were. Surprisingly Lula was a natural at kickboxing. Or at least she loved it. First day of class the instructor had taken one look at her spike heeled sandals and declared her feet lethal weapons. The rest is, maybe, history.

Now she whirled, twirled...and stopped dead. She grabbed my arm.

"Don't look!"

I stopped and looked around. "Don't look at what?"

''Over there! At the sidewalk table!" Lula rolled her eyes to the opposite side of the street. I casually cut my eyes over.

"The Monkey and The Bear?" I whispered.

It was a Jersey style pseudo-British pub with darkened windows and neon signs advertising British and Irish ales. The standing blackboard by the door blared Full English Breakfast!! in bright pink chalk.

The pub wasn't very busy at a little past 10 AM but there was one customer sitting outside, his face bent over the local paper, shoveling food into his mouth.

"Take a picture!" hissed Lula. "Be casual"

''What?"

''Just do it.''

I dug out my phone and snapped a shot of the man. Lula pulled me into the doorway of a mom-and-pop drugstore. We stared at the color photo. The man was late middle aged, nasty thinning once-red hair on his head and face, bad teeth, freckles and wrinkles. Despite the heat he was wearing corduroy pants and a tweed jacket over a grubby once-white wifebeater. Red-grey chest hair sprouting out of the frayed ribbing.

The photo caught him open mouthed, smearing his fried bread into an oozing puddle of yucky yellow egg yolk.

"Eeeew," we whispered in unison.

Then, "So?" I asked.

Lula whispered, "That there is Bryce Clinton-Barton! He's been FTA for at least ten years! We gotta call Connie!"

Skips turn up everywhere, anywhere. Any time. I knew not to argue. I phoned Connie and sent her the picture.

"Omigod, it does look like him,'' she squealed. ''He's the longest un-captured FTA on our books, just mentioning his name gives Vinnie a rash!"

Vinnie with a rash is good, a capture fee to share with Lula is better.

"What do you want us to do?'' I asked Connie.

''Let me think! For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do...I am almost positive it's him, but still..."

"Hurry! He's eating his sausages now!" said Lula. "This Clinton-Barton is worth fifty thousand dollars, white girl."

"Plus interest," added Connie who overheard.

" You an' me could have one hell of a shoe shopping trip with our cut, lady!"

Over the cell phone Connie said, "I think Ranger has the file on Clinton-Barton, you should call him, ask for a recent photo. Ranger can access DMV files."

"What did he do? Why does Ranger have the file?"

"You gotta ask him."

I pressed one on my speed dial.

"Babe."

"Ranger!"

"Your GPS is still working."

"Nevermind that! It's not about my car!" Geez. "Listen, you know about a guy called Bryce Clinton-Barton? Connie says you have the file.''

''Yes.''

''So...?''

''He's an ex-pat Brit, or pretends to be. Really he's from Paramus, born and raised in Jersey. Real name is Joe Smolkowskiwicz. Owes Vinnie mucho dinero, babe."

"Well, he's here at this Monkey and Bear Pub, stuffing cholesterol down his throat. What were the charges anyway?''

''He's a sex offender, babe, stay clear.''

''Sex offender? Like rape? Or—child molester?''

"He posed as a cut-rate x-ray technician, worked out of a medical imaging office that was busted for Medicaid fraud. When the principles at the clinic were arrested, they found out that Clinton-Barton was taking naked photos of the patients instead of x-rays, was selling them online. Bust was for federal pornography violations."

"Eeeew," Lula and I chorused again. She added, "That's just like them there transit authority guys at the airport!"

A beat of silence while I am guessing Ranger silently sighed.

I asked him, "Do you want me to take him down or would you rather send in more guys for him, to maybe beat him up?"

"Oooh! Oooh! He's payin' this bill, Steph! He leavin'...shit, that man is a bad tipper. A single buck for that breakfast and all the coffee he could drink?"

I heard Ranger again say, ''Babe,'' but I interrupted.

''Email me the pickup contract!" Then to Lula, "Let's get him!"

Thirty seconds later, Lula landed on top of Mr. Clinton-Barton. The old creep let out an ooouf! and puked up his breakfast.

Lula scolded him, ''Now look what you done! That ain't gonna keep Stephanie from cuffing you, nuh uh. Put the cuffs on him, Steph."

''I don't have cuffs.''

''What!''

''We were at the gym! Who needs handcuffs at a gym!'' I yelled.

Lula looked interested, ''Well, back when I was a 'ho..."

I clapped my hands over my ears and therefore didn't hear Rangeman arrive. Ranger in the 911, Brett and Hal in an Explorer.

My neck tingled though and I turned. "He barfed,'' I told Ranger.

"Wonderful."

Ranger reached over the canvas street barrier of the sidewalk cafe and grabbed a pitcher of ice water. "Pick him up," he told Hal. Hal put on blue rubber gloves and complied, standing warily to one side. Ranger dumped the water on poor Clinton-Barton's head. He howled.

Lula told him, ''No sense cryin' over spilt water, boy. You'll have plenty to cry about in jail."

We watched the black SUV carry the low-life away.

Finally Ranger gave a tiny nod and said, "Good one, ladies," and he was gone.

''Don't that beat all? Just—all...," whispered Lula.

the end

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