SIXTEEN

I woke on Wednesday morning intending to keep my promise to myself. Today, I would use my time to track down some of my other skips. I'd worked late at Rangeman, trying to make sense of the complicated web surrounding Fortecelli. I'd discovered that Baresi was his mother's maiden name, but not much else. If he had a bank account, he used a third alias I didn't know. Greenridge had come back annoying clean, though I suspected he had people who scrubbed his name from anything undesirable. I'd also searched for other suspicious fires at abandoned buildings throughout Trenton. There had been more than expected. I'd written down their addresses, but had run out of time to dig any deeper than that.

Besides Fortecelli, I had two other FTA's: Clay Thompson and Regina Mancini. Thompson looked like an NFL linebacker. He worked as a bouncer for a higher end bar in downtown Trenton. Mancini was in her early twenties and waitressed part-time at Dolly's Diner to work her way through community college. Both were out on bond after DUI charges.

I wasn't looking forward to bringing in Thompson. He looked like he could give Tank a run for his money, so I'd need to think of a good plan before I attempted to cuff him. Mancini seemed like the better bet for a cold January Wednesday. And she worked at a diner, so I could get breakfast. Double win.

I picked Lula up at the bonds office and explained my plan to her while we drove.

"I love Dolly's," Lula remarked. "They fry their eggs in bacon grease. Actually, they fry everything in bacon grease. It's amazing."

Dolly's sat a few blocks outside of the Burg. The restaurant resembled a classic railcar shaped diner, with a slightly dingy stainless steel coating. Big neon letters spelled out "Dolly's" along the front. It had been tucked between two four story brick buildings. A small parking lot fit only four cars in front, with a larger one around back.

With the breakfast rush already over, I found parking in the front lot. Lula and I walked in, instantly bombarded with the aroma of bacon and coffee. A long counter with round stools bolted to the floor ran the length of the diner. Small booths abutted the windows along the outside edges. I glanced around, but didn't see Regina.

Lula and I slid into a booth and an older waitress ambled over, wearing a checkered apron with "Dolly's" embroidered across the chest. She handed us a set of menus tucked into plastic sleeves. "Good morning. Can I start you with something to drink?"

We ordered coffee and the waitress soon returned with two white china mugs and a glass pot of coffee. She took our orders and retreated from the table.

I added my usual cream and sugar to my coffee and took a sip. "Whoa, this stuff could take paint off walls." I dumped in a few more creamers and two more packets of sugar.

"Yeah, they make it good and strong here," Lula replied. "None of that watered down stuff you get at them fancy coffee shops."

I observed the restaurant staff silently for a few minutes. Regina didn't appear to be on shift. Oh well, at least I got breakfast out of the deal.

Our food arrived and I stopped the waitress before she could walk away. "Excuse me. Last time I was here, we had a really nice server. She was young, blonde hair, her name started with an "R," I think. Rachel, maybe? Does she still work here?"

"Oh, you mean Regina," the waitress replied. "Yeah, she still works here. Her college classes are back in session, so she works the afternoon and dinner shift."

Looked like my dinner would be fried in bacon grease too. Good thing I had six months until swimsuit weather.

As we ate, I showed Clay Thompson's file to Lula. "If this guy doesn't want to come willingly, we're going to need a good plan."

Lula looked over Connie's notes. "If he's a bouncer, he probably works real late. I bet if we go to his house after breakfast, we could catch him asleep. He'd be all slow and groggy."

"He might also be pissed as hell that we woke him up."

"We could get him some coffee to go."

"How's he going to drink it if he's cuffed?"

Lula paused. "I didn't think of that. How about, if he doesn't cooperate, we just stun gun him and drag him to the car."

"That's always our fall back plan."

"If it's not broke, don't fix it," Lula said with a shrug.

Except, ninety percent of the time, it didn't work.

I left cash on the table for our breakfast, along with a generous tip for our waitress. It was the least I could do, since, if things went to plan, she'd probably have to cover Regina's shift tomorrow.

Lula and I climbed back into my borrowed Rangeman SUV and drove across town to Clay Thompson's address. We drove past his house once, scoping it out. Thompson lived in the third floor of an old, rundown Victorian house that had been renovated into apartments. The painted siding, perhaps bright once upon a time, had peeled away to reveal mostly dull gray wood. Boards covered one of the first floor windows. A sketchy looking set of external, narrow wooden steps led to Thompson's door. I parked two houses down on the second pass.

Getting out of the SUV, I tucked flexi-cuffs into my back pocket, pepper spray into my front pocket, and placed my charged stun gun into my right jacket pocket for easy access. I tried to ignore the way the wooden steps creaked as Lula and I ascended. Knocking on the door to Thompson's apartment, I waited with bated breath. After a few minutes, I knocked again, louder. This time I heard heavy footsteps approach the door, along with a string of cuss words.

Clay Thompson wrenched open the door. "What the fuck you want?" Clearly, we'd woke him up. His eyes were heavy, his hair matted, and he wore nothing except a tight pair of red boxer briefs.

"You're in violation of your bond. I need you to come with me to get your court date rescheduled."

"Fuck that." Thompson tried to close the door, but I'd anticipated his reaction. I reached through the gap and touched the stun gun to his arm, pressing the button.

Thompson lurched and dropped to his knees, not quite out cold, be severely disoriented.

"Uh oh, I think the jolt woke something else up," remarked Lula, her eyes wide.

I looked down to see that Thompson had a stiffie sticking out the fly of his underwear.

"Should we tuck it back in?" Lula asked.

"Go ahead. I'm not touching it."

"I'm not touching it neither. I touched enough of those for a lifetime when I was a 'ho. Now I only touch the ones I want to touch."

I carefully stepped around Thompson and secured his hands behind his back with the flexi-cuffs. He eyes were slowly regaining focus.

"Help me get him down the stairs," I told Lula.

"Really, you're going to drag him back to jail like that?"

I sighed, walked into Thompsons' apartment, and quickly looked around. In the kitchen I found a dirty dish towel. I carried it out and tucked it into the front of his boxer briefs, so that it hung down like a loin cloth.

Lula and I grabbed Thompson under his armpits and heaved, trying to get him to his feet. He twitched and groaned but couldn't find his footing. So we dragged him onto the landing. I locked his door and pulled it shut behind us. Carefully, we eased Thompson down the steps, ignoring the ominous creaking from our combined weight. Half way down, the creaking turned into a CRACK and my feet fell through the broken board. Lula and Thompson lurched forward, tumbling down the stairs.

I hung from the broken step, legs frantically kicking at air. I tried to pull myself up, but the wood split again and I plummeted to the earth, landing in a heap of garbage bags.

For one terrifying minute, my body forgot how to breath. Finally, one of my gasps drew air into my lungs. I wiggled my fingers and toes, pleased to find I wasn't paralyzed, and rolled out of the garbage. Several of the bags had burst when I landed on them, scattering their frozen contents all over me and the ground.

"Are you okay?" asked Lula, rushing over.

I took stock of my injuries. A few scratches and I'd probably be sore as hell tomorrow, but otherwise, I'd escaped unscathed.

"Yeah. You?" Both knees were ripped out of Lula's leggings and her hair looked wild.

"I'm alright."

I looked back toward the foot of the stairs. "Where's Thompson?"

Lula followed my gaze. "Huh. He was just there, laying on the ground groaning."

We walked back to the foot of the stairs. Thompson was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen towel lay forgotten on the sidewalk.

I drove around the block a couple times and didn't spot Thompson.

"Ugh, what's that smell?" Lula asked.

I sniffed at my jacket and grimaced. "I think it's me. The garbage I fell into was frozen but now it's thawing out."

I dropped Lula at the bonds office and headed home. I stripped out of my clothes in my foyer and stuffed everything, including my winter coat, into a trash bag. Stepping into the shower, I washed my hair twice before getting out. I got dressed, grabbed the trash bag of smelly clothes, and left my apartment.

My upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Whidecker, stood in the lobby, checking her mailbox as I came down the steps.

"Were you having work done on your apartment?" she asked me.

"No," I replied warily. "Did you see workmen there?"

Mrs. Whidecker shook her head. "There was a bunch of hammering on that side of the building this morning. I couldn't hear the bidding on the Price is Right over all the racket. Usually, it's your place that needs work done."

"Nope, not me this time," I told her as I pushed through the door to the parking lot.

I drove to my mother's house and found Grandma Mazur waiting at the door for me. I carried in my bag of stinky garbage clothes.

"I need to use the washing machine," I said, entering the kitchen and dropping the bag onto the floor.

My mother eyed up the bag suspiciously. "I have a load in right now, but I'll do yours next. I'm not going to open that and find blood soaked clothing, am I?"

"No blood," I promised. "I landed in a pile of garbage earlier today."

I saw my mother's eyes drift to the cabinet where she kept the liquor. "Do you need lunch? There's cold cuts from Giovichinni's in the fridge."

I made myself a sandwich and sat down at the small kitchen table. I felt my mother's eyes boring a hole into my left hand. "I'm going to a jeweler after I eat to get them cut off," I assured her.

Leaving my parents' house, I headed back to Hamilton Ave, parking in front of a jewelry store just a few blocks down from the bonds office. A bell rang as I pushed through the door. Illuminated glass fronted display cases lined both sides of the store. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman, greeted me warmly.

"I heard you might have something that can cut rings off. I have two rings that are stuck on my finger."

"Just one moment." The woman disappeared into the back and returned with a small handheld metal device about the size of a pair of scissors. Instead of flat blades, it had a curved hook on one side and a circular blade on the other, with a thumb screw jutting out from the side.

I took a step back. Maybe I should rethink this.

"It's perfectly safe," the woman assured me. "The hook goes under the ring, so there is no risk of cutting your finger."

Taking a shaky breath, I offered up my left hand. She slid the little hook under the first ring.

"This is going to destroy the rings. You're sure about this. Have you tried olive oil?"

"I've tried everything. Please, continue."

The little bell rang again and we both looked toward the door. A man wearing a ski mask over his face stomped inside, brandishing a pistol in one hand and an empty pillow case in the other. The shopkeeper slowly slipped her hand below the rim of the display case and I knew she was pressing a silent alarm.

"Hands where I can see them!" the man shouted. We both raised our hands in the air. The ring cutter slipped off my ring and clattered to the floor.

"What's that?" the robber demanded.

"It's just a ring cutter," the shopkeeper said.

The guy looked at it uncertainly. "Kick it over here," he demanded, pointing the gun at my chest. I kicked the ring cutter over to him and he scooped it up and put it into his pillow case. He pointed the gun at the shopkeeper. "Start emptying the cases. Now. Fast."

Her hands shaking, the jeweler began to unlock cases. The robber put the pillow case on the counter and directed her to start filling it up. His gun swung back and forth between her and me.

"Those rings you got on your hand?" he asked, aiming the barrel at me yet again. "Put them in the bag."

"I c-can't," I stuttered. "They're s-s-stuck."

BANG! He fired a shot into the floor a few inches from my toes. I screamed, jumping backwards against the display case behind me.

"Give me the fucking rings!"

Frantically, I pulled at the rings. They didn't move. "You d-don't w-want these rings," I told him. "They're j-just W-Walmart rings."

"Fine, keep them. Who buys wedding rings from Walmart anyway? Your husband must be a real loser." His attention and gun returned to the shopkeeper.

Finally, he decided he'd gotten enough loot, grabbed the bag back from the shopkeeper, and fled out the door. Sirens could already be heard in the distance as a big black SUV skidded to a halt at the curb. A bunch of guys jumped out of the SUV and gave chase after the robber.

Cautiously, the shopkeeper and I crept out the door and looked down the street. The robber lay prone on the sidewalk, tackled by the men from the SUV.

"Is Rangeman your security company?" I asked her, thinking I recognized one of the guys.

"Yes. How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess." And Tank stood out in a crowd.

The Rangeman guys yanked the robber to his feet, hands cuffed behind his back, and began to march him back up the street. I made eye contact with Tank and gave him a thumbs up.