Without question, my first priority was to locate and recover the Panamera. Since Winkerman took my car, I suspected he didn't have his own car. I borrowed Lula's phone and dialed the DMV, asking for Marilyn. She confirmed my suspicion. Winkerman did not own a car. He didn't even have a driver's license. I was having heart palpitations while Lula dialed Connie for a ride.

After what seemed like an eternity, Connie rolled up. We piled into her car. She had her police scanner on.

"Nothing has been reported yet," Connie said. "That's a good sign."

"Yeah," Lula said. "Just because that idiot doesn't have a license, doesn't mean he don't know how to drive."

"Sure," I agreed, nervously. At this point, I was ready to believe anything positive.

"Where to?" Connie asked.

"I need transportation," I said. Transportation that wasn't being tracked by Rangeman, I thought. "Take us back to my parent's house."

"Big Blue?" Connie asked.

"Yes."

Big Blue was a 1953 powder blue Buick, complete with white wall tires and porthole windows and miles of chrome. It was willed to Grandma by her Uncle Sandor. Like Winkerman, Grandma didn't have a license either, so she let me drive it whenever I was between vehicles. The downside to the Buick was that it sucked gas like there was no tomorrow. It was also very conspicuous. The up side was that it was virtually indestructible. I hated to say it, but I felt safe in the Buick.

"Well, how'd it go?" Grandma asked as we swung through the door.

"It went bad," I answered. I explained about the body and Ranger's car.

"Wow. Didn't see that coming," Grandma said, clacking her dentures.

Zook was still deeply engrossed in Minionfire. He had leveled up and was working on building his magic in the realm of the Mystic Pixies, deep in the forest.

"Can we keep your phone for awhile?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "If I get a call, just forward it to your granny."

"Okay," I said, not quite sure how to do that. I figured I could just take a message and pass it on.

"We need to form a posse to search out that car. He couldn't have gotten far. Especially if he didn't have a plan. Sounds like you surprised him," Grandma said.

"That's what I was just thinking," Lula said. "We need a bunch of people who can identify that car."

"I'll call the girls from Clara's," Grandma said. And she was on it. Who was I to argue. I needed all the help I could get.

"I've got to get back to the office, but I'll call you if I hear anything," Connie said, taking her leave.

"Okay. Thanks," I called after her.

I followed her out. Lula left too, with Grandma riding shotgun. Zook stayed behind. His bike was out front, but I was pretty sure he intended to mooch lunch from my mom before he took off.

How do you find a car like the Panamera in a city like Trenton without help from the police or Rangeman? Wait. How do you locate a Piranha-mera? I knew it was probably stupid, but I cruised by Graham's mother's place. It was late morning, and I was hoping Lula's know-it-all friend who told me off for dissing Ranger would have better connections than I did.

I pulled up in Big Blue, letting the eight cylinders rattle the windows of the apartment building before turning off the engine. Faces were plastered to the glass up and down the block. I walked up to the door and knocked.

The door opened and I was yanked off my feet and dragged into the apartment. The door slammed shut behind me. I couldn't see. My eyes were trying to adjust to the dark interior of the apartment.

"Girl, can't you ever drive a normal car?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Lula's friend. I recognized her obnoxious voice immediately. We were alone in her apartment.

"What the hell are you doing back here?" she demanded. "Ain't you caused enough trouble?"

"I need help," I said.

"No shit," she said, giving me the mother of all eye rolls.

"I need to locate the Panamera," I told her.

"So?"

"So, I was hoping you might have some connections, some way of helping me...without Ranger or the police becoming involved."

"Wait," she said, taking a step back, eyebrows raised. "You tellin' me someone jacked the Piranha-mera our from under you?"

I nodded. My whole body conveyed my defeated attitude.

"Oh, girl," she said. "You dead."

"No kidding," I said.

"Who jacked it?"

I sat down in the living room and gave her the short version.

"Wait. So, you got jacked by a nerdy white boy? Not homeboys. Not gangstas. And you think I can help you, why?"

"Because the streets talk. The streets recognize that car. Someone has to have seen it. Isn't there some way to ask around? Casually, you know, without raising too much suspicion?"

"And why you think I should help you?" She crossed her arms, looking down at me. "You really don't know how it works around here, do you?"

"No," I admitted. "I rely on Ranger for intel from the streets. But I need to do this on my own. And I need your help."

"Girl," she said, almost laughing. "I wouldn't even know where to start." She looked me up and down. "Why don't you ask Lula?"

"Lula hasn't been on the streets for a long time. Most of her connections have moved on."

"Yeah, that's true," she said, mulling it over. "I ain't seen her around in years."

"She's working with me down at the bonds office," I explained.

"I heard. Didn't expect that to last, though. Figured she'd be back by now." She sat down opposite me on the couch. "You been a good friend to Lula, then."

"I hope so."

She had a bright yellow sponge sitting on the coffee table with ten large toothpicks sticking out of it. The sharp points had been cut off. One by one, she started gluing long, fake finger nails to the little wooden spikes, preparing to paint the nails before putting them on.

"Around here, you don't get something for nothing," she explained. "What you got to offer?"

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want a deal, like you got Lula. I want off this corner."

"I promise to do my best, but I can't make any guarantees. I barely pay the rent myself."

"Whose car is that outside, then?"

"My Grandma's."

"What do you drive?"

"I'm between vehicles right now."

"Wait. You a bounty hunter, and you don't even own a car?"

"Like I said, my job barely pays the bills."

"So, you ain't got much to offer," she realized, rolling her eyes at me. "May as well put on a Mr. Clucky hat." She laughed. "You want to join me on my corner?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Look, I'm running out of time, here. Please. I'm begging you. Is there any way you can help me locate Ranger's car?"

"You know he came down here last night, right?"

"Here?"

"No, not this apartment. He came to this neighborhood. Because of you."

I thought about it for a beat. "Ranger promised to take care of the misunderstanding I had with the 3-2 Crew, thanks to Norman," I told her.

"Yeah. He took care of it." She leaned forward. "Look, here's how it works in our world. Aggression equals wealth. Wealth equals fame. Fame equals success. You ain't shit if you ain't rich and famous. That's it. You get famous, you get money. Don't matter how you get famous. Maybe you a rapper, or you play ball, or you kill someone. Any way you do it, you make people know your name. People know your name, and that get you money. You get money, you show it off. The money gets you more fame and more money. Around and around it goes. That's what we call being successful. Then, you gotta be able to keep what's yours. You either prove you can kill or you hire protection to kill for you. And that's how you get respect."

"What about earning an honest living. What about character? I'd hate to live like that, constantly looking over my shoulder." The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the irony of that statement hit me. I was sick of living in fear and looking over my shoulder, and I was doing it for next to nothing.

"It's about survival of the fittest, bitch. Out here, the bullets are flying and people are dying. And that's why your man had to come down here. You dissed him when you dissed Sid."

"Who's Sid? Is that Rude Tyrant's brother?"

"Yeah. Finally, you got something right." She was shaking a dark purple bottle of glittery nail polish.

"I didn't mean to dis anyone, especially Ranger. I didn't even know Sid or Rude Tyrant existed."

"That's disrespect right there," she said, rolling her eyes at me again. "You don't know the rules of the game, you shouldn't be playing."

"I'm not playing a game, and neither is Ranger," I told her. "He may have possession of Rude Tyrant's car, but he lives by his own code. And he's a good man." I shook my head trying to clear it. "I don't care what you say. I know Ranger. He navigates his way through this seedy underworld to bring in the bad guys. He doesn't subscribe to this gangsta philosophy." I got up to leave.

She smiled. "So, you do know him after all." She opened the nail polish and started painting the fake nails.

"I know him very well," I said with growing anger.

"Good," she said. "You gonna fight for your man?"

"He's not my man, but yes, I would fight to defend Ranger. And you're wrong. He's not one of the Piranha. There's no one like Ranger."

"You're right," she agreed. She motioned for me to sit back down. "Your man works hard to try to break down that system. He's one of the few intelligent men we have around here. Ranger Manoso is no fool."

I sank back down on the couch. "What do you mean he's trying to break down the system?"

"Most men like him leave the inner city. They make something of themselves and never look back. Ranger came back, and he stays. He doesn't fit the mold. For most, fame comes quickly and soon disappears. A shooter kills until he's getting jobs, getting paid, showing off his gold chains and diamond earrings. He's got cars and women and eats in fancy restaurants. Till someone guns him down and takes his place. A rapper or a ball player has to work a little harder, but the fame still comes pretty fast, if it comes at all. For most, it never does. They're the ones stealing for drugs and liquor, wasting their lives in the gutters. Ranger's star didn't rise overnight. Everyone knows he put in his time, earned his skills. Ain't but a few men around here could physically survive Special Forces training. None that would be smart enough to pass the exams. Fools can't hardly read, most of 'em. Don't figure they'll need it. Spend their times on the basketball courts or learning to run numbers."

"They don't see education or the military as an option at all?"

"Those that do don't talk about it. They just disappear, and they don't come back. If they do, they ain't 'real' anymore. They ain't legit. You know, they ain't livin' the life no more, so they ain't one of us. And it's hard to get back in."

I nodded.

"Ranger came back with nothing. He walked the streets. He educated himself on who's who and what was what. He proved he was real. He was legit, even if he was working as a bounty hunter."

"I remember," I said. "He was working for my cousin, Vinnie, when I met him."

"Yeah. He could have come down here shooting up the place, taking over territory, taking what he could, which would have been just about everything with his training. But he didn't. And those para-military boys from South America ain't got nothing on Ranger. They tell stories about him stepping out of the shadows and taking on a dozen or more men single handed. He just picked them off, one at a time."

"He killed them?" I asked, doubtfully.

"Disabled them," she explained. "Ranger doesn't kill for money."

"But he will if he has to," I said.

"No shit," she said, as if there were plenty of stories being told about that too. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

I nodded for her to continue.

"Ranger started recruiting men off the street, some right out of prison, getting a crew together. It made a lot of people nervous. They didn't trust him, you know? Thought he might have been feeling things out, making his plans, and then, he'd take over down here."

I smiled, shaking my head.

"Pretty soon, he was driving around in fancy cars, handing out business cards. He had a big office building, and Rangeman started cashing in on the big bounties, you know, the really hard core gangstas that even the feds didn't touch."

"I was surprised at the change in Ranger's lifestyle too," I admitted. I remembered when I first noticed him wearing cashmere and listening to classical music.

"So, now Ranger's got himself famous. He's got a crew. He's got money. But here's where things don't add up with him. Ranger don't do fashion. You know what I mean? He don't come down here wearing no one else's name. He's not rocking Billionaire Boys Club, Diamond Supply, Supreme. He's true to himself, you know? Ranger don't put no one else's brand on. He is his own brand. Black on black. You know? He's so cool like that. And that says to the kids around here that handing their money over to those fools ain't cool. Why you wanna make some other fool rich? He don't give them street brands his hard earned green. Know what I'm sayin'? When the boys ask him where his bling is, he tells them their money is going right to the 1% they hate so much. There may be a street name like Jay-Z associated with it, but it's just a shirt made in China and the money goes to whatever big money corporation bought out the label. The money is leaving the neighborhood, and that isn't going to make life better on the streets."

I nodded, smiling. I used to think Ranger just didn't care about fashion, or that black hid the blood stains better, or that he didn't take time to coordinate. But I wasn't surprised to hear that the Rangeman uniform was a calculated decision.

She had finished painting the nails, and started peeling off some press on overlays, carefully applying them on top of the purple polish, so there were random white stripes criss-crossing each other.

"The other difference is, 'round here, a man seeks fame for himself, not his family or his crew. Rude Tyrant gets famous, he don't want any of his boys getting famous too. It's Rude Tyrant's show, and them boys he been hanging with better step off. Even his brother's 3-2 Crew had to watch themselves. Tyrant would remove all threats. All threats. Rangeman is up and down the coast. Ranger's got bad-ass boys from Boston to Miami. And all them boys are known. And everyone knows they doin' good with Ranger. They drivin' Porsches. They got style, black on black style with sun glasses on. But they also stay put in their communities. They are role models to the kids. Some are heros. They're real, but they're not 'hard'. They don't eat their own. They protect their neighborhoods. That's something new most of these kids ain't seen before."

I didn't think of my friends at Rangeman as being famous, but who could ever forget the sight of them? Cal with a flaming skull tattooed on his forehead and bulging biceps that would intimidate Mr. Universe. Hector with his gang tattoos on his neck and tear drops on his face was scary as hell. Ranger's cousin, Lester, with his green eyes, Latino good looks, and an off-beat sense of humor. There were so many of them, and they were all had unique personalities. I could also see how each would be intimidating in his own way. I could only imagine what gang members said to each other when they saw these guys driving down the street in a Porsche, armed to the teeth. Did they know they were probably just talking about where to get a good sub sandwich and complaining about pulling monitor duty? I didn't think so.

"Rangemen don't wear flashy jewelry. They don't parade around the streets at night with girls hanging off them. They don't take over a restaurant or buy drinks for everyone in the club. They don't make a show of throwing money around." I smiled remembering Ranger paying strippers to stay off of him at one night club we visited while chasing down one of my leads. But she was right. He wasn't making a show of it.

"There are no wild parties hosted at Rangeman," she continued. "They don't sell drugs. They don't gamble."

I had a flash of Ranger asking me to bet on a horse while I was at the track. His horse paid off five to one. He had said that even superheroes needed to have fun once in a while.

"Rangeman doesn't shake down the locals for protection. They earn their money, doing actual relocation jobs. You know what that is?"

"I think so," I said, remembering the time I had accompanied Ranger on a "redecorating job". It had involved Tank throwing a drug dealer out a third story window. I had nearly had a heart attack before realizing the scumbag was lying unconscious on the fire escape.

"But what speaks the loudest are the cars," she said, finally making her point. "Ranger always drives shiny new cars. Always black on black. Always expensive. And that Piranha-mera is the most expensive of them all."

I nodded, leaning forward.

"We all know Ranger doesn't pay full price for those cars."

"You know how he gets his cars?" I asked. I sat up and leaned forward. My curiosity was peaked.

She shrugged. "It's said that he shoots up the cars on purpose. Then buys them cheap and has them repaired."

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't get it."

"Say he corners a bad guy in a parking lot. And say, there's gunfire exchanged. Maybe there is, and maybe there isn't, but the car is going to look like it's been though a trash compactor by the time it arrives at impound. It's listed as inoperable. It goes to auction, and Ranger buys it. Two days later, he's on the street in a shiny new car. It's a mystery."

Something clicked the moment I heard the words "trash compactor". Manny was the key. Ranger probably called Manny to have the vehicle towed. Probably Manny stopped by his salvage yard and gave it a make-over. Maybe he stripped it, put on damaged body panels riddled with bullet holes and rust before he dragged it to the impound yard. No one else would give $10 for the car, and Ranger would buy it cheap. Then Manny would tow it back to the yard, polish it up, and deliver it to Rangeman.

"You know what else? The money Ranger spends on cars doesn't go to the fat cats at Porsche like Rude Tyrant's money did. It goes to the state. And we are the state. So that money stays here, in the community."

"You said Ranger takes the cars, as trophies."

She was shaking a bottle of gel clear coat now, getting ready to seal the nails. I looked on, admiring her work, even though the nails were way too long for my taste.

"A man's car is his most prized possession. It tells the world who he is. Ranger takes the cars those fools sold their souls for and treats them like they're disposable. He gets one dirty, he tosses it and gets a new one. It's extravagant, but it proves his point. Those guys are dead or in prison because they treated people like they were disposable. They murdered. They betrayed family and friends. They cut out their partners and managers. They stole a rhyme, and a future, from someone else. They did whatever they did, to have that car, to have the money, to have the fame, just to be somebody. And in the end, they are just another name on the court docket. They go away. Ranger stays. It makes you think. He's just one man, but with his crew around, things are changing, little by little."

"Really?"

"Yeah, girl. We got a new generation coming up, watching that man roll by in his Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, whatever. They see Ranger take Rude Tyrant's Piranha-mera and give it to his woman, and even if she don't get it, it means something." She shook her head. "How you think those boys gonna treat their woman? You think they gonna put her on the corner and take her money, or they gonna make sure she's respected and got a nice ride? Maybe they can afford to treat her good if they ain't gotta spend $80 on a t-shirt and $200 on a hat and $300 on sneakers, and $1000 on a gold braid? Maybe they can keep her off the corner if they got a job that don't bring the po-po after him. Then he wouldn't have to leave her every couple years." She looked sad suddenly.

"Is that what happened to you?" I asked gently.

"My man's in," she said, nodding. "Been five years. Be out next year."

"Then what?" I asked. She didn't look too excited about his return. She looked scared.

"He'll be expecting me to get him back where he was before," she said, a hard edge to her voice. "He'll be angry I ain't been saving. But there ain't nothing to save. I been without a pimp, so he ain't gotta kill no one, but that means I don't get high end customers."

"You could do so much more than this," I told her.

"Says the bitch with no car," she sniffled, wiping a tear away.

"I have an apartment, and people who love and protect me, and someone always loans me a car," I told her. "Lula has her Firebird and her own apartment. You can change your life too."

"I can dream," she said, "but that's all. My man ain't gonna let me go. We got a kid. He's with my mom."

"Then you got something to live for," I told her. "You got someone who loves you and needs you, no matter what."

"Your man protects you," she said, bitterly. "You know what he said to those boys?"

"The 3-2 Crew?"

She nodded. "He come rolling up in here last night, knocking on Sid's door. Sid was humiliated by your little performance. Fool opened the door and put a gun to Ranger's forehead."

She paused for a moment to let that sink in. "How is Sid?" I asked, assuming he was in traction at St. Francis.

She smiled a little. "Couple broken fingers is all. Ranger threatened to make him swallow all the bullets in the clip if it happens again. They sat down and talked about you. Ranger explained about Norman. They all know Norman. He's a dumb shit old man. Norman might get away with flipping the bird, but you can't."

"I wasn't flipping the bird! I was just taking Norman for a ride in exchange for information. I didn't know he was going to do that."

"That's what Ranger told him."

"So, everything is okay?"

"I told you before. Around here, you gotta give something to get something. Ranger wants Sid to forget about you. So Ranger's gotta do something for Sid."

I swallowed. "What's that?"

"Ranger's gonna forget Sid put that gun to his head."

I considered for a moment. "Did Ranger know Sid was going to pull a stupid stunt like that."

She grinned. "I think they orchestrated the whole thing."

"What?"

"I don't think Sid's got the balls to pull a gun on Ranger. Now he can brag that he did."

"But he got his fingers broken."

"Small price to pay to make it look real."

I furrowed my brow at that.

"I think he'd be drinking liquids through a straw if he really pulled a gun on Ranger," she said.

I nodded.

"I don't think I can help you find the car. But leave me your number, and I'll call you if I hear anything," she offered.

I gave her my card, and was walking out the door, when I realized I didn't even know her name.

"Thank you," I said, pausing for her name.

"Leticia," she said.

"When this is over, I would like to take you to meet Clara. She owns her own salon. Maybe she could use another manicurist."

"Girl, don't waste your time. She ain't gonna hire me, cause I ain't Burg, and I ain't got no license."

"You have talent, and you can get a license. And if you're a good listener, those old ladies tip very well."

"I'll think about it," she said. "You better get going."

I nodded, my stomach turning as I walked back to Big Blue. I was just pulling away from the curb when Zook's cell phone rang. I recognized Grandma's number and answered it.

"We've got a lead!" Grandma said, excited. "Rose White called me yesterday. She wanted me to get you to help her with her grandson's stalker."

"I can't," I said.

"Well, you better, because I just called her about Frank Winkerman. And guess what? He just made a purchase at Henderson Hardware. He used his debit card. And guess what else?"

"His account has deposits equal to the amounts withdrawn from Gordon Graham's account."

"Bingo!" Grandma exclaimed.

"Great work," I told her. "I'm headed to the hardware store to find out what he purchased. You keep looking for the car."

"We're on it!" And she disconnected.