The Concert
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Previously on The Concert: ...Ranger paired Steph and the big guy whose name seemed to be Junior, sending them backstage, organized my DEA colleagues as backup and partnered me and Santos. Then he headed off with Tank.
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Chapter Six ~ Rumor Has It...
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Stephanie
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I watched Ranger and Tank fade into the crowd, feeling a little miffed. Not only had Ranger chosen to partner with Tank, he left me with my own Baby-Tank aka Junior. Not that I don't like Junior! He is actually a sweetheart, not to mention relentlessly polite. But tonight in their hip-hop clothing both he and Tank looked like very large versions of 50Cent back in his baddest thug days. If my mother finds out about my "date" I'm dead meat. Or at least cakeless. In her defense, it's the thug part that would worry her, not his ethnicity, alright?
"Where to, Ms Plum?" asked Junior in the sugarcane Southern drawl that neither Ranger nor the military had successfully eradicated. I looked him over and decided that a 50Cent clone was better than Morelli's fed sidekicks who wore dorky knitted watch caps (despite the heat) and ass-crack jeans and white wifebeaters, looking like pale and scrawny versions of Eminem.
Junior said, "M and M's? Maybe there's a snack bar, Ms Plum." I glared at him and wondered if I had been mumbling out loud or he had the Rangeman ESP going there.
I said, "No! No candy. We'll get a beer later." Junior opened his mouth and I held up a hand. "Do not argue. Please."
"Yessir Ms Plum."
"Please call me Steph. And since we have press passes that let us go backstage, let's head there first."
Junior actually laid a hand on my arm. Gently, carefully but still... "You promised the boss, Ms Plum."
"We're just doing recon." He smiled. "Let's go."
I strode off towards what I thought was the back of the arena.
Fifteen minutes later we ended up right where we started. No backstage.
"Let's ask security," suggested Junior. He walked over to a non-Rangeman rent-a-cop who put his hand on his nightstick and looked like he wished he was armed.
I trotted after Junior, got there first and asked the rent-a-cop, "Where is the backstage area?" I held up my press pass which was clearly marked BS and I was hoping that actually did mean backstage and not bullshit, a sneaky Ranger way of keeping me safe.
In a bored tone the guard said, "Take the elevators to down to B-3. That's the backstage area for the music groups." He pointed.
"Basement?" I asked. "You're telling me the backstage is in the fuckin' basement?"
"Yeah, lady, B1 is private VIP offices and board rooms, B2 is locker rooms for the Jets and Giants and visiting teams. Singers and politicians get to go to three. Ladies toilets on B6, that other elevator there." He pointed again.
Junior and I stared at him. The guard shrugged, "It's a new system, what can I tell you?"
Like I'm gonna wait for a freakin' elevator if I have to pee? C'mon! And what's the point of getting to go backstage at a concert if you're so far underground you can't see or hear the bands? Junior took my elbow and steered me to the elevator. Ranger trains his men well: focus on the goal and all that shit...
"I can't believe the backstage is in the fuckin' basement." I glared at Junior, surely Rangeman had briefed him.
He shrugged, "I didn't know."
I bitched at him, an easy target, "A basement. You know, picking up a skip in a basement offers a lot of difficulties. Number one being, you're fighting some asshole in a basement!"
Junior looked like his church-going mama would have washed my mouth with soap. He didn't respond, taking refuge in Rangeman stoic silence.
The elevator doors opened to-bedlam. An open lounge area filled with musicians, from rock and roll greats to wannabe backup dancers. The noise was deafening.
I grabbed Junior's arm. "Look! I swear that is Jon Bon Jovi!" I pointed discreetly.
Junior looked blank—he was all of maybe 24—and asked, "That old skinny white man? He's our skip?"
"No! He, he's famous! Like Springsteen!"
"Uh huh."
Jersey hasn't produced a lot of big names in hip hop, so Junior's scan of the room came up empty, star-wise. I dragged him through the crowd towards a 6'6" Howard Stern look-alike...my good friend-and skip-Sally Sweet.
"Hey, it's fucking Stephanie Plum! How the hell are you, girl?" Sally gave me a bear hug and twirled me around. I caught the look on Junior's face and he had his hand on his gun.
Sally was as tall as Junior, even taller in his black stiletto fuck-me boots. What he lacked in comparison to Junior's hot-and-built Rangeman physique, he made up for with a lot of pasty white skin and black hair. Sally had his signature long black ringlets and hairy chest thing going tonight.
I wiggled out of Sally's arms and said, "It's okay, Junior." I introduced them and they reluctantly bumped fists. Junior said, "You need to have some respect, Mr. Sweet. That's no way to talk to a woman. Especially Ranger Manoso's woman."
"Oh man, far fuckin' out! How the fuck is Ranger anyways? I heard you dumped Morelli and got cozy with the Wizard. Lucky you, sweetheart, fucking lucky you! Except, you know, doll—he's so much prettier than you are, how's that working for you, hmmmm? No fucking disrespect, Steph." He eyed Junior carefully.
I folded my arms across my chest and said, "Ranger and I are not a couple."
Both men stared down at me and mumbled, "Uh huh." Geez.
Besides the boots Sally was wearing a sequined back tank top and a very tiny red tartan plaid miniskirt. (I sent up a quick prayer to St. Euonymus, the patron saint of public decency that he was not commando under the few inches of fabric that were masquerading as a skirt.) Sally is into accessorizing too, so in addition he wore a dog collar with three inch studded nails and rhinestone chandelier earrings. Lotsa chains and doodads. Black lace Bella gloves. Interesting. I waved a hand at his skirt and said, "Real hot, Sally. Channeling your inner Axl Rose?"
"Huh?"
"Love the boots," I said. "Gucci?'
"Oh man, they're like total fucking knockoffs, Steph. My goddamn feet are so swollen already, I'll be lucky if I can get on stage later."
I nodded sagely."Take them off and elevate your feet until time to go onstage, Sally."
"Yeah, like that will fucking help? I have to maintain my image, doll."
'Speaking of images and maintaining, rumor has it you're FTA."
"I love rumors! Facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are so revealing."
"Double-talk bullshit won't help your case, Sal. You gotta check in." Junior had grabbed my upper arm and was squeezing it. I was pretty sure he wanted to clap his huge hand over my mouth and drag me to safety.
Sally said, "Now?"
"No, no. Maybe—soon, though." Junior exhaled in relief.
"Soon. Sure. I'll fucking call you, Steph, we'll fucking do lunch!" He air-kissed my cheeks, left, right, left, and hustled off towards the stars' dressing rooms.
Junior said, "That went well."
His face was shiny with perspiration and if he hadn't been so black he'd be looking pale. Why are the guys so scared of Ranger, anyway? I mused.
Junior said, "I hated K-stan. If I fu-mess up this job, Ranger might send me back, Ms Plum. Please!" Huh, he does have Rangeman ESP. He added, almost a whisper, "Boss sent Lester Santos to a pig farm once! His own cousin. A pig farm! In Somalia, they say." He looked grim.
I patted his arm. "No worries. Let's go watch the show."
tbc