PROBLEMATIC

Chapter 9

oOoOo

Problematic was the nature of my work while I chased felons to bring them back to justice.

Let's consider all the crazy skips I have encountered in my life, since I became a bond enforcement agent. It's hard to ignore them, from stalkers to crazies who want to hurt me, kidnap me, kill me, stab me, shoot at me, run me over, spit or cuss at me, and other vicious deeds, just because they failed to appear in court. Being taunted by naked fat men still makes me shudder at the images indelibly imprinted on my brain. I've been firebombed, well, my vehicles and my apartment. My apartment has been destroyed or broken into so many times. That damned ugly bathroom survived every time. I have been chased by a pack of humping dogs, attacked by a flock of Canadian honkers down by the lake, and rolled in garbage countless times. Rolling in garbage was while wrestling to capture and cuff a skip. Then there were the mobsters.

Ironically, one of my stalkers, Dave Brewer, who had my mother's approval, liked to cook for me. He seemed rather innocuous. I say stalker because he kept showing up, even entering my apartment with a stolen key! Not invited. Even inside my bathroom, which earned him a broken nose. He was a great cook, mind you. At the same time, he also had a penchant for strangling people before burying their bodies, like in the sandy plot where the Bonds Office used to be. Some of his other victims were in the Pine Barrens. He was quite proud of the tally, at least seven of which were in Trenton. Some more were in Georgia, from before he moved to Trenton. Sometimes there was a note: for Stephanie. Creepy.

That was the time I had three people after me, all at the same time. Lucky me. One, in a Lexus, Regina, who wanted to run me down, and tried many times, mostly in my parking lot. Nick Alpha wanted payback for shooting his brother Jimmie, and maybe the mayhem about some roosters, you know, illegal cockfighting roosters. The other was Dave Brewer, my cooking stalker "friend" who wanted to take me to Thailand, but he only purchased a single airline ticket, mind you. Go figure. Apparently, this was payback for Morelli taking his girl at the prom. The prom! That was like half a lifetime ago. Why the hell wasn't he stalking Morelli?! These people, like many of those other crazies, held a grudge. Why the hell was he cooking for me? Sheesh! Because he thought Morelli and I were still an item. Nope. Instead of a ticket for me, he left a bunch of travel cheques, which I cashed in later on. That was a bonus. My first holiday away in ages, ever, in Hawaii. It turned out to be two wonderful weeks pretending to be married, to Ranger, until Morelli appeared.

They were all problematic, each in their own way. Some were not even my skips! Somehow, I was caught in the crossfire, or ended up on their radar, by association. Or, remarkably, they were part of cases Morelli was trying to solve! Go figure. Hm. Ironic.

My cars have been destroyed at an alarming rate. The betting pools at the cop shop, and also at Rangeman were always on the go. I have a permanent reservation for my next vehicle in car heaven. Meh. Apparently, it comes with the territory. But, no one else has their vehicle destroyed.

The guys at the TPD bet on everything to do with me when I brought in my skips. Not just my vehicles. My appearance especially gave them the jollies as well. Assholes. Coming in with food scraps in my hair, being wet, or better still muddy, with torn clothing and generally looking a mess, seemed to add to their delight, and winnings. Ugh! After my cars going to heaven, the element of fires and explosions gave them the greatest pleasure. If it had been a particularly stressful capture, I was too tired to react to the exchange of betting money and the celebratory high fives.

At Rangeman however, the Merry Men did bet on my vehicles, but for the rest, their concern was more about my welfare. The mirth and mockery that existed in the TPD, when I came in with a skip, was not appreciated by my Merry Men. In particular, they hated it when my dishevelled appearance was also part of their betting. Never had those assholes at the TPD shown any concern for my welfare, even when I arrived with obvious injuries. The sniggers and derision with their smart ass nasty asides were more prevalent.

Ranger did say he had me down as a line item in his budget, under the heading Entertainment. I wasn't sure what to make of that. But the sardonic laughter, like I experienced frequently at the TPD, was not part of their betting when I arrived at Rangeman. I was greeted with concern and a wellness check. The difference was significant. They cared. Ranger cared the most.

Ironically, despite his complaints about me embarrassing him in front of his colleagues, I have since discovered that Joseph Fucking Asshole Morelli initiated and perpetuated the betting circle! He had always denied it. The Secret Morelli Betting Gang. Assholes. He was just playing a role. His fan club were a bunch of despicable morons.

Anyway, that's why my cars were mostly older models, not always with the same colour panels and doors. It was also a reflection of what I could afford at the time. Forgoing heating in a Summer purchase was alright, until Winter arrived. That's if the vehicle survived that long. The same went with aircon. A couple of my vehicles had messages graffitied on them, by Joyce, or a skip, gang brats, or a stalker.

After my Honda CRX was doused with petrol, set on fire and subsequently exploded, my cars and I became Burg infamy. I drove the powder blue 1953 Roadmaster Buick for a while. It was Uncle Sandor's car. It was a gas-guzzling muscle car which felt like driving a fridge, especially when making turns. It was a challenge. Parking? Pfft! The problem was, that Big Blue was rather conspicuous, but, it was indestructible.

One day Ranger offered me the keys to his black Porsche Boxter saying, "This is temptation… to broaden your horizons."

Oh boy. Memorable times.

Yup. It was the most spectacular car death! It happened while I was making enquiries inside the RGC office, when the Porsche was sideswiped by an RGC Garbage truck and then blew up in the RGC Garbage Company lot. Then the garbage truck fell on it because of the explosion. A bomb. Ranger's Porsche! Fried! Flat as a pancake! I was mortified. It was like seeing its demise in slo-mo, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Not long after that, Ranger gave me the keys to a Beemer. I returned it to him on the same day, well, what was left of it. All I had to show was just the scorched registration tag and the plates. It had been stolen. Again, I was mortified. Two of his shiny black cars in as many days! That was also the first time he kissed me. Holy hot flash, Batman!

As if I didn't have enough problems. To be honest, it was probably the best kind of problem to have, in the mix of things.

"It's just a car, Babe," was his reply. "It wasn't important."

"Wheels," was what he called them. "Cars can be replaced. You can't." I was important.

My green Saturn suffered multiple "injuries" before its final demise, probably more than any of my vehicles. The damage list included being shot up; pounded with a sledgehammer by Willie Martin; then shot up by Lula; spray painted on the driver's side door; set on fire; it had a police boot; and finally, it exploded with Mama Macaroni in the driver's seat! Another bomb. The bomb was targeted for me.

Such was the infamy of my vehicular history that it always made the newspaper and the betting pools.

Other than the expected dead bodies at the funeral parlour, I had the misfortune of finding dead bodies, corpses, or parts thereof, in all sorts of places. A foot in my fridge! Dead bodies in barrels, or basements. Or rolled up in a carpet. A sawn in half corpse sitting on my couch, in my very own apartment! Once the police and forensics had completed their investigations, that couch and all those death cooties had to go. I think I have lost count of the number of dead bodies I discovered in the process of my searches and investigations as a BEA, but it's more than I care to remember. Not all of them were my skips. Some were shot. Some blown up. Some were burnt. The list goes on. I shuddered at some of the memories.

I'm a bond enforcement agent but a lot of that did not come in the job description, nor were any of those behaviours in the fine print. Huh! So that's how I also found myself kidnapped, many times, shot, shot at and missed, knocked out, burned with a cigarette and also a hot poker, stabbed, chased by a giant rabbit, repeatedly stalked by a psycho with a flame thrower, and, let's not forget being thrown off the bridge into the Delaware River. That's just for starters. The list is endless.

Am I numb to all of this? It's like the new normal. That sucks. However, that too was not under the job description. In saying that, since I blackmailed Vinnie into giving me the bounty hunting job, there was no paperwork involved. Hence, no written job description was ever sighted. I did sign something, to give me authority to capture skips, Connie made sure I was covered.

But things got better, once I agreed to taking a partner, a competent Rangeman partner. And there it was. A competent partner. Training. Training was important and despite being in denial for so long, I had to admit, eating a bit of humble pie, (okay, more than just a bit), that I could be more effective with some self-defence skills. Besides, I had to have my partner's back while he had mine. My previous partner, Lula, did not have those qualities. Abandonment was not a Rangeman trait. Nor was desertion a prerequisite. Lula was good at those. Lula was confrontational and impulsive, in a provocative way. That was not the Rangeman way. Desertion was a dirty word for these military men.

I have lost count the number of times I have been stun gunned, although I have inflicted a lot as part of my role in capturing skips, so maybe there's a balance. Whatever.

Bobby is concerned about how much zapping I have endured, and what effect it could have on me short term, but also long term. He has tended to my wounds and injuries many times. Tank suggested I rest while recovering from my most recent injury, setting me up with new research tasks. The guys were excited about that and it did my ego no harm in hearing positive accolades on my researching skills and prowess. Hector set me up in a bigger cubicle with the latest high tech search engines, the real invasive stuff. This was a new set up, like an upgrade from my earlier research visits to Rangeman. Tank guided me through a couple and trusted me with my spidey senses in the mix. Being nosey and curious were ideal qualities in exploring the background searches more deeply. Whether investigating people or companies, doing a thorough background search was critical. The fact that I often went on an unconventional path of investigation pleased Tank and Hector, with trust and pride.

Oftentimes, one of the guys would ask my advice regarding an elusive skip, wondering if I was familiar with the name. Of course, having lived in the Burg practically all my life, my local knowledge gave me a significant edge. Frequently it was about connections and associations that led me to more intel, into which they were not able tap. They were surprised how much I knew, and appreciated my advice. After a few quick cross references, I was able to advise them on where, or when, would be best to capture them, including the skip's favourite haunts. If I didn't have an immediate recollection, I was able to find out more by checking in with Grandma Mazur and Connie.

Grandma was a great source of information if I needed background on a local, which no computer would ever hold. Genealogy and Burg hijinks and connections, was great to tap with her. If she didn't know first-hand, she knew how to source that intel and whom to contact.

Being in a work environment where I was appreciated was a huge mental bonus. They respected me, and my skills. Likewise, I respected and valued their skills. I discovered a sense of belonging in a conducive work environment which is beneficial to all. This was a first for me. It was not evident when I worked for EE Martin, as a lingerie buyer, and certainly not while I worked for Vinnie with skip chasing.

The bonus of Ella and her tasty lunches and meals, with access to healthy food every day and the well-equipped gym, were keeping me fitter inside and out. To tell the truth, I am not actually eating bark and twigs as I always implied about Ranger's diet. But, I still get that yearning for something sweet. I get cravings. Still do.

Omigod. That time when I went off sugar and all those crazy jelly doughnut hormones! It was about keeping a balance. I still had the need for a doughnut. Then, at times, when Ranger was not around, a Boston cream would mysteriously appear on my desk in a distinctive paper bag, or a cache of hidden Tastykakes would be revealed secretly. Contraband. That's what Ranger disallowed. All that refined and processed sugar was not good for concentration in their role as a security company. Being alert at all times was essential.

Omigod! That first time Ranger offered me a job! I shake my head at the memory of the "redecorating job". I was totally unprepared for what that entailed. My dress code was not quite suitable. That's the first time I met Tank, Bobby and Lester. Tank throwing the junkie out of the window freaked me out, but luckily there was a landing. He was amused. I learned a lot that night.

In the past, Ranger had offered me some part-time work at Rangeman. At first, I thought it was a pity job, since it seemed to coincide with when my fridge was practically empty, when I was struggling to pay my rent, and other bills. With Vinnie always being on my case didn't help, but low bonds bring in low returns. By the time I captured my skips, it was still hard to make ends meet. Sometimes I had low to medium bonds but their charges reflected the more serious nature of their crimes.

Distractions offered a bigger payout since the skips were usually a higher bond. Ranger ensured my team had eyes on me at all times. It was my task to lure the skip outside, thus minimising property damage to the establishment. Some of my outfits were quite risqué! Once I got over the sleazy aspects, I got into my role. Seductress extraordinaire. There were some memorable times, like enticing the skip with my (non-existent) group sex experiences! I was miked up each time. My poor Merry Men. It was a desperate attempt to maintain the skips interest. It worked.

Mooching meals from my mum was no longer a desirable option. Sometimes I would drive by my childhood home and find Grandma home alone. She happily made me a tasty lunch with some leftovers to take home for my dinner.

Making ends meet was a constant dilemma. My life was problematic, but I just didn't see it. Because of that, I wouldn't admit it openly. In those times when Lula was my partner, I would share some of the bounty with her. But then she became greedy. I did consider other jobs. My mum always reminded me of the safer options of the assembly line for sanitary products or the button factory.

"They're always hiring."

She didn't like me working as a bounty hunter. I was an embarrassment and the cause of her many disappointments.

At one point I quit my job at Vinnie's Bond Office. I'd had enough. Perhaps it was the culmination of all the Junkman and Slayers crap that caught up with me, not excluding any of the previous crapfest of shit I dealt with.

However, it was a reality check when I went after Sam Sporky that morning, AKA, Melon-head Sporky. I had chased him through three yards, a dog tore a hole in my jeans, and some crazy old lady shot at me. Then I finally tackled Sporky behind the Tip Top Café. He rolled me into a bunch of kerbside garbage bags. Lucky me! It was garbage day. To top it off, when I cuffed him, he spat at me. I didn't smell too good, and there was stuff in my hair, as Lula so quickly pointed out, and something indistinguishable mustard-coloured on my jeans, as in on my ass. That was the line crossed. I asked myself, "Was it worth it?"

Perhaps Sporky was the catalyst, or just the last straw. Yup. The straw that broke the camel's back.

"Give me a break," Connie responded, pointing at the stack on her desk. "You can't quit. I've got a heap of open files here."

"Give them to Ranger," I told Connie.

"Ranger doesn't do low bonds."

"Give them to Lula."

"Hell yeah," Lula had said eagerly. "I could catch them sonsabitches. I could hunt down their asses good."

Cue the timely arrival of Ranger while I was in my messy, stinky glory. He reached around me, dropping a file and a receipt on Connie's desk, while keeping a safe distance behind me. He glanced at me when Lula announced my retirement, removing a couple of pieces of sauerkraut from my shirt, which he pitched into Connie's wastebasket. I confirmed about getting a job at the button factory. That was the plan.

"I don't have a lot of domestic instincts," Ranger said to me, while fixated on that unidentifiable glob of goo in my hair, "but I have a real strong urge to take you home and hose you down."

I was speechless. My mouth went dry. Connie bit her bottom lip while Lula fanned herself with a file. I was close to self-combustion with the innuendo and double entendres. Yikes. Yeah! I had to hold myself steady not to swoon.

Stupidly, I declined. In hindsight, I don't know if that was the right decision but there it was.

Yeah. Well, how that man of mystery can say something so tantalisingly sexy despite my odious smelling appearance, surprised me.

I was conflicted. Most of all, I was fed up.

In reflection, my decision to quit might have been spurred by the note I had found slipped under my door, two days earlier: "I'm back."

What the heck did that mean? Then there was the follow-up note tucked under the wiper blades of my car: "Did you think I was dead?"

Time for a change. My life was too weird. Time to get a safer, more sensible job, preferably one that didn't involve any running. I hate running. Quitting my job coincided with my decision to take a timeout from Ranger and Morelli. Feeling so conflicted after the Vordo curse was another factor.

I had two men who said they loved me. They're both Mr Right. They're both Mr Wrong. They are both a little scary and I didn't know if I wanted a relationship with either of them. One wanted to marry me, sometimes - Morelli. He liked to celebrate. Any occasion. His idea of celebration involved getting me naked in his bed. The other wanted to get me naked and leave a smile on my face - Ranger. He was my mentor, my protector, my friend, and one time lover for one spectacular night. That changed later.

Morelli wanted me to stay far away from Ranger. I thought six to ten inches was sufficient.

I needed to get a better grip on my feelings but I wasn't making much progress. It was like choosing between birthday cake and a big-boy margarita.

Life was difficult. I hated making decisions. Deciding to ignore the elephant in the room, I pressed onwards with my current plan.

While doing skip chasing, my hours were not fixed, as sometimes it was more suitable to capture them later in the day. I got a job at the button factory. My mum was pleased, and stopped that incessant ironing after the last lot of critical incidents.

I was tired. It was Morelli's fault. He'd invited me over for pizza and beer, and "Bob misses me". Was there a game? Yes. The Mets. But, using Bob to lure me was sneaky. Anyway, we didn't get that far as we went upstairs to his bedroom. Yeah. Big mistake. Not totally in the dead zone, it seems. Morelli liked to celebrate. Any excuse to celebrate. Celebrate involved bedroom activities. So, we celebrated me getting a safer job.

However, I was fired for being late. Two hours late. I slept in.

I got a job at Kan Klean Dry Cleaning. Scary place. Mama Macaroni was ferocious. Mama Macaroni with the monster mole with one hair. I had a massive headache in no time with her yelling at me about the system with the pink tags for dry cleaning and the green tags for laundry. Things went to shit when Lula arrived, to pick up her dry cleaning, and also for Connie and Vinnie, while she was there. Long story short there was a shoot-out. Lula had pulled out her Glock, while Mama Macaroni reached for a semi-automatic, from underneath her long black skirt, and started shooting up the place. I wasn't sticking around. We left in a hurry. The message, quite some time later, sent via a chuckling Morelli, was that I was fired.

When Lula and I tried a little B&E to retrieve Lula's dry cleaning, Mama Macaroni was waiting to ambush us. With her semi pointed at me, she demanded my keys. The short version is that she was blown to smithereens as she started my Saturn. Car bomb from my latest stalker, Constantine Stiva's son, Spiro. Or so I thought, at the time.

I then got a job at Cluck-in-a-Bucket, the three-to-eleven shift. From the clucking of orders for bratty kids, to the fryer, and then the drive thru, it was awful, especially when it became busier. Suddenly, Spiro Stiva pulled up at the drive thru window for his order and paid. With scarred hands and face, he kind of grinned at me as he tossed a gift-wrapped box at me, a ticking box with the message: Time is ticking away. Fred tossed it in the fryer and then the place was toast. End of that job. To make matters worse, the two men in my life flipped a coin for me! Ranger won. Morelli lost. He got to clean me up. I was too exhausted to be totally irate. Men!

I'd quit my job to normalise my life. Yeah. Right. All along it had been Con masquerading as Spiro causing more mayhem in my life. Con needed a scapegoat.

Being shoved in a coffin, satin-lined or not, was dark and scary. But being zapped again and stuffed in a cabinet, with my wrists bound, bundled tightly in the foetal position in such a confined space, was terrifying.

Who rescued me? Ranger, and my Merry Men. I tumbled into his arms as he unlocked the cabinet above the bench, holding me tight, his heart pounding. Mine too. An unforgettable, terrifying moment.

So why was I not sitting in a padded room trembling uncontrollably? Who knows? What is normal? I would probably get bored with normal.

Problematic. That was my life. I wasn't prepared to accept it like it was, not any more. No more denial.

Time to broaden my horizons.

oOoOo