Chapter Eleven

We met a couple of Ranger's men in the underground lot and piled into a black

SUV with Ranger and me in the back. I recognized the man in the passenger seat as Bobby Brown. I'd worked with him once before during an eviction. The driver I had seen around the office a couple times, but I didn't know his name.

"We're an Explorer short," Ranger explained. He pulled a bullet-proof vest from the back and helped me into it, subtly copping a feel as he secured the Velcro tabs beneath my too-big sweat-shirt. Then he loaded my gun and passed it back to me.

"Besides, if we leave it parked out front, it won't be there when we get back."

The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the Fuzzy Hole and Ranger and I got out. It was pitch black except for the glow of a few Budweiser signs. The windows were almost opaque, tinted by a combination of dirt and cigarette smoke. The street was quiet except for the buzzing of neon lights and the occasional far-off gunshot. Ranger took me by the arm. "Stay close and try not to start anything."

I gave him what I hoped was an indignant look. "Excuse me? I do not start things." Not intentionally, anyway. Things just happen to start themselves a lot when I was around.

Ranger gave me a look and we stepped inside.

The interior of the Fuzzy Hole was just as I had pictured it, only dirtier. I waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust and looked around. Small, round tables were littered around the room at random, and two beat-up pool tables sat in a cramped space to my right. An Exit sign hung at the rear left. Good to know. It was still relatively early, but already the bar was near full capacity. Several of the patrons stopped what they were doing and watched as Ranger and I entered. I followed him to the bar and watched him work. Ranger was fearless, aggressive, the master of the hunt. He approached the bartender with a steady gait and an impassive gaze, and put two palms down on the counter. "I'm looking for someone," he said.

The bartender had been wiping down a glass with a bar mop. He stopped and set the glass open-end-down on the counter. "You got a name?"

Ranger mini-nodded. "Grayson Warner," he said. "Blonde. Five-nine. Caucasian. Word is he's a regular here."

The bartender shrugged. "Sorry. Can't help you," he said.

Ranger stared at him for a while. Then he slid a business card across the counter with two fingers. "Let me know when you're ready to talk."

"What? That's it?" I asked as we moved through the bar.

Ranger shook his head. "He's lying. Let's split up. Ask around. Stir things up a bit. I'm betting a lot of these guys are regulars. Chances are, it will get back to Warner that his cover is blown. Maybe something will happen." That sounded like a pretty good idea to me. "And remember what I said."

I threw another annoyed look in his direction. "I do not start things!"

"Stay close."

I took the booths and bystanders at the left-hand side, working my way down from the Exit sign, while Ranger flanked the middle. After a couple minutes of blank stares and lewd suggestions, I glanced in his direction. He was talking to a group of about four men by one of the pool tables. I figured he was having better luck. At least he didn't have someone's hand on his ass, which is more than I could say for me.

"Hey, sweet thing," the man with his hand on my ass said. He had red hair, too many freckles to count, and a small gap between his teeth. He was dressed in a grimy slate blue T-shirt, faded jeans, and muddy work boots. He was totally shit-faced. His hand started crawling up my sweat-shirt and I slapped it away. I asked the man about Warner and he laughed. I rolled my eyes and slipped him my business card. "Let me know if you think of anything."

The man grabbed hold of my sweat-shirt and pulled me back to him. "I already thought of something," he slurred. "Why don't you show me what's under that tent?"

I lifted the sweat-shirt just enough to reveal my Sig and the last few inches of

Kevlar. Red loosened his grip and turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward me. "You a cop?"

"Naw, man," said a voice to my far left. The man strutted up to me, straightening his do-rag. He was tall. Black. Kate Moss-skinny. His pants were belted at least six inches below the start of his boxers and pooled into wide denim puddles at his feet. He looked strangely familiar, but I couldn't place him. "She ain't no cop. That there's that bounty-hunter bitch."

A few tables down, a dark-haired man stood up, his eyes bulging at the sight of me as he bolted for the door. He tripped over a waitress, sending bottles of beer crashing onto a table of six. There was a lot of yelling and before long, a small riot had broken out in the middle of the bar. I ducked out of the way of a flying beer bottle and took refuge under one of the rear tables. I looked around for Ranger, but couldn't see anything through all the hubbub. I waited for things to die down and then crawled out on all fours.

Something caught me by my ponytail.

"You remember me, bitch?" the guy in the do-rag asked. Then he pulled out his thingy and gave it a few rubs. I made a face and gagged. Arnold "Ziggy" Boom. I had taken him in last year on a possession charge, but not before he had thrown me in the dumpster behind the Grand Hotel on Stark Street and tried to jizz in my hair. "That's right," he said. "It's payback, bitch."

He had my ponytail in his hand, tugging on it back and forth. He made a few disgusting sounds and I felt something wet at the top of my head. I cried out in protest, but it was no use. The damage had been done. Ziggy let go of my hair and grabbed me by the waist. Then he dragged me out the rear entrance, heaved me into the overflowing dumpster in the alleyway, and took off down the street.

I lay there for a moment, flat on my back while the bags of rotten food and filth beneath me settled. I had long given up wondering how this always seemed to happen and instead resigned myself to the fact that it just did. There were worse things than being tossed in a dumpster, I told myself so I wouldn't cry. Like having your head bashed in and hands chopped off, for example. I sat up and pulled myself to a standing position, and checked to make sure I hadn't lost my gun and cell phone. Then I threw my leg over the side of the dumpster and let gravity do its thing. I landed on my back on top of an old refrigerator box, and forced some air back into my lungs. The rear door screeched open and Ranger's silhouette appeared above me. He pulled me to my feet and picked a rotten banana peel off my shoulder.

"You okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Sirens blared in the background and a couple cop cars came onto the scene. Ranger led me through the alleyway toward the front of the bar, where Ranger's men were helping detain three men from inside. Another cop car pulled up and Carl Costanza angled out. Carl was a uniformed officer with the Trenton Police Department and a staple at most of the same crime scenes as me. Many years ago, we had shared our first communion together, among other things. He took one look at me and a smile broadened across his face.

"Pay up," he said to his partner, Big Dog. Then he looked at me and said, "We had a bet on whether you would be here or not. I got real good odds, too, since nothing exploded this time. Mind filling me in?"

All eyes turned to me. I was cold, dirty, and had semen in my hair. I had been shot at, jizzed on, and almost poisoned. And it was time for my period. I clenched my jaw tight as I could and tried to swallow back the hoard of tears racing up my throat.

#

"Oh, crap," Costanza said. "I know that look. That's not a good look."

"My wife gets that look," Big Dog agreed. "I hate it when she gets that look. That look means only one thing."

I bit down hard on my lip, but it was no use. The tears kept welling up in my eyes. My vision got all blurry for a second, and a single tear dropped down my cheek. Then came another, and I sniffled. Crap.

Costanza shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Then he turned to Ranger. "They going downtown?"

Ranger nodded. "They were recognized as being outstanding. I'll have one of my men stop by with the paperwork and pick up the body receipts."

Costanza nodded and he and Big Dog piled the two of the three men into the back of their police cruiser. Another uniformed officer took control of the third, and Ranger guided me at arm's length back to the SUV. We rode back to the Rangeman office with all four windows down, and then Ranger and I took the elevator to his apartment. He steered me into the bathroom, turned on all the shower jets, and helped me out of my clothes. Then he loosened his own and pushed me under the water.

I wiped the water away from my face. "What are you doing?"

Ranger stepped inside and squeezed some shampoo into his palm. "Helping," he said, gently massaging it onto my scalp. "Do I want to know what's in your hair?"

"No."

Ranger grimaced. "Babe."

#

Ella delivered a late dinner while I changed into a pair of sweats and a clean T-shirt. I took a moment to smell my hair again and then pulled myself onto one of the stools by the bar. Ranger removed a lid from one of the food trays and my stomach growled. Grilled Tilapia in orange sauce, with a side of rice and steamed broccoli. I took a bite and sighed. It was almost enough to renounce Pino's. Almost.

"Find out anything?" I asked, forking a piece of broccoli to my mouth.

"Not a lot. A couple people remember seeing Warner around, but nothing recently."

I flaked off a piece of fish and chased it around the plate. "You still think he's in town?"

Ranger nodded, but didn't elaborate.

"You think he had something to do with the shooting?"

"I think there's a good chance. Probably seventy percent. You've got a lot of enemies, Babe."

"No kidding," I said, thinking mostly of Ziggy Boom and what he had just done to my hair. He had just wanted me humiliated. Job well done. But somewhere out there, someone wanted me dead. Probably a lot of someones. That sent chills up and down my spine, so I changed the subject. "So what happened in there, anyway?"

Ranger stared at me for a moment and his eyes danced. I had a feeling I was being entertainment again. "One of the regulars recognized you. Maurice Hinson. Skipped on a carrying charge. He thought you were there to bring him in, so he ran for it."

"Wait a second," I swallowed the last bite of fish, and replaced the cover on the tray. "He ran? From me?"

"You can be pretty scary, Babe." I pretended not to notice when Ranger's eyes darted to my hair and back.

"What about the other two?"

"Bobby recognized them. He and Link had them in custody when I went looking for you." Ranger took a drink of water. "Mind telling me how you ended up in a dumpster?"

I shrugged. "Same as always. Got tossed in."

"And the other?"

I told him about my run-in with Ziggy Boom. When I was done, Ranger's eyes were dark and narrow, and his mouth nothing more than a straight line.

"You want me to have a talk with him?" he asked.

"You mean rough him up a bit?"

"Or something."

I thought about it for a second, then said, "Not necessary. But I appreciate the offer."

We cleared the trays away from the counter and I checked in on Rex while he ran on his wheel. "Show off," I said. Then I tossed in a broccoli stem and followed Ranger into his dressing room.

I stood in the doorway and watched as he lifted his shirt over his head. He folded the shirt and tossed it in the hamper, and then went for his zipper. "Babe, you're staring."

I blushed. Ranger smiled and pulled me to him. Then he slid his hand down the front of my sweats and kissed me.

"How would you feel about another shower?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"That depends. Are you asking because you want to see me naked, or because I still smell like garbage?"

Ranger pulled away just enough for me to see the corners of his mouth twitch upward. "A little of both, actually."

#

I was sleeping when I felt Ranger stir beside me. I rolled over and opened one eye.

"Just the phone," Ranger said. "Go back to sleep."

I nodded and sunk back into my pillow. Ranger answered the phone by the bed and made a few vague comments. Then he asked the person on the line to hold, and turned back to me.

"Leo has the files from Erika Bartlett's website," he said. "You want them on your desk in the morning?"

I sat bolt upright and looked at the clock. It was just after four o'clock. "No," I said, already starting for Ranger's dressing room. "I want them now."

Ranger nodded and put the phone back to his ear. "She'll be down in ten."

I pulled on a black tee and pair of black sweatpants, not taking time to bother with underwear, tamed my hair into a ponytail, and gave my molars a quick brushing. Then I danced in front of the elevator while I waited for it to open. When it did, I jumped in and I pressed five. The file was already on my desk. I stifled a yawn and started reading.

Tank prodded me awake at eight-thirty, armed with a mug of hot coffee. "You got sugar?" he asked.

I shook my head, no, while I blew the coffee cool. "Nope. I'm off sugar."

Tank gave a strained look and then walked back onto the floor.

I gave the coffee a shot and went back to work on the file. My neck was tight and my eyes ached. I stood up, stretched, and locked my computer. I poked my head around my cubby wall and saw Ranger slouched in a chair in front of the monitor bank set aside for private security. I crossed the floor and leaned against the table.

"Is the truck ready yet?"

Ranger tore his eyes away from my chest and shook his head. "No. But you can take mine." He flipped a couple buttons on one of the panels and motioned for Manny to change screens. "Going somewhere?"

"Just out for some air. You got anything for Vinnie?"

"Check with Hal. He has the receipts from last night. You can have the checks mailed to the office."

Ranger dropped the keys to his truck into my palm and I took the elevator to the underground lot. His truck was larger than mine, a customized black Ford F-150. It was parked in a slot near the elevator between his black Mercedes and black Porsche Cayenne. The Turbo was parked on the other side of the Mercedes. I moved to the driver's side and opened the door. Then I looked around the lot. Three slots on the side wall were empty. Normally they would be filled with black SUVs for Ranger and his men. One of them had been shot up and left for dead. Probably Bobby and Link had the second. I made a mental note to look in the rearview mirror for the third.

I turned onto Haywood going west and slowed to a stop at the second traffic light. Sure enough, a black Ford Explorer merged into traffic two car lengths away. I caught a glimpse of Tank behind the wheel and waved in the rearview. The SUV followed me to Vinnie's and parked just up from Fiorello's Deli. I turned the key back and stepped out, locking the truck behind me.

"That's Ranger's truck," Lula said when I entered. She had her nose pressed up against the front window. "He with you?"

"No," I said. "The truck's on loan while I run some errands."

"Hunh. Who's that in the Explorer? That Tank? Mm, mm, mm. That man is fine."

I walked over to Connie's desk and handed her the body receipts. There were four in total. Three from last night and one I found in my coat pocket from a couple weeks ago. Connie screwed the cap back on a bottle of nail polish. She gave her fingers a few quick shakes, then picked up the receipts and placed them in her inbox. "You can mail those to Rangeman," I said. Then I waved goodbye, turned around, and made my way back to the door.

"What, you're leaving?" said Lula, still looking out the window. "You just got here. We ain't even had time for doughnuts and I gotta go get an FTA in a few minutes. You'll wanna stick around for that. I might even let you ride along. You know, for old times' sake."

I sucked in a deep breath and held it. As a file clerk, Lula was bad. As a bounty hunter, she was worse. Assisting in a takedown with Lula had disaster written all over it. I let the air out of my lungs and said, "Okay, fine. But I'm off sugar again, so no doughnuts. And I'm driving."

"Damn skippy." Lula wrapped herself in a lime green faux fur coat and topped it of with a matching hat. She pulled a file from one of the massive stacks on top of the file cabinet, and said, "Let's move."

Lula and I climbed into the cab of Ranger's truck and turned left on Hamilton.

According to her file, Emjay Briggs worked part-time at a downtown sex shop called Speakeasy. It was a small square building made up mostly of windows, and shared a small six-car lot with the package store next door. I parked the truck in the slot nearest the entrance and Lula and I filed out.

The door beeped as we walked through and we were greeted half-heartedly by a tall, skinny woman behind the counter. She had smooth, reddish-brown skin and a yellow-orange 'fro.

"Hey, Emjay," said Lula. "Get ready. We gotta take you in on account of you missed your court date."

Emjay sighed. "I changed my mind," she said. "I ain't going nowhere. They ain't got nothing on me. That skinny-ass cop, he knew I was a 'ho before he even come in here. I spent most of the summer going down on his ass, 'cause his wife had a baby and wouldn't spread. And what thanks do I get? No thanks, that's what. Just a one-way ticket to the slammer. Mm-hmm."

"All you have to do is reschedule," I said, "and we'll have Vinnie bond you out again."

"For real?"

"For real."

Emjay looked at me for a moment. Then cocked an eyebrow and said, "Hey! Hey,

I know you! You're that bounty hunter. The one who-"

"Burned down the funeral home," I finished. "Yeah. Except I didn't really have anything to do with that."

Emjay made a pshaw sound and flipped her hand down at the wrist. "I ain't interested in no funeral home," she said with a shake of her 'fro. "Nuh-uh. Word on the street's that you got marked by Ziggy Boom last night."

I looked over a Lula. She was staring at the ceiling, bouncing on the balls of her feet, pretending not to hear anything. Then I turned back to Emjay. "Hey, how did you hear about that?"

Emjay burst out laughing. "Girl, everybody heard 'bout that! All he's been talking 'bout is how he got his bounty hunter. Said he'd been waiting a real long time to get you wet. Said you growled like a dog in heat once he grabbed your ponytail. Now, don't take it personal or nothing," she added. Probably because I was so mad, my fist was shaking. "Hell, everybody been marked by Boom one time or another. Just that normally you get a twenty out of it."

Emjay agreed to ride down to the police station with Lula and me as soon as her shift was over. To amuse ourselves in the meantime, Lula and I perused through the aisles of crotchless and edible panties, Christmas-themed novelty sex toys, and more flavored massage oils than I thought possible. I passed a row of scary-looking devices near the back and bumped into Lula.

"What'd you get?" Lula bustled up beside me, her arms full with three flavored oils, a pair of ostrich-feather g-strings, a vibrator shaped like a candy cane, and a box of black condoms. I held out empty palms and shrugged.

"Nuh-uh," said Lula. "You gotta get something. You're off sugar now and you ain't got that hottie cop to distract you this time. Here," she handed me the candy cane, a bottle of oil, and the box of condoms. "I think you need these more than I do."

Lula and I checked out and waited in the truck for Emjay. An hour and a half later, we had gotten Emjay re-bonded and dropped her off back at the sex shop. Then Lula and I did the drive-thru thing at the McDonalds on Lincoln Avenue. I dropped Lula off in front of Vinnie's office and drove on auto-pilot back to Haywood Street. I pulled up to the gate at the Rangeman office and parked in one of Ranger's slots. The Mercedes and Cayenne were still there. The Turbo was gone. I took the elevator to five and shuffled back to my desk. Then I folded down the top of the Speakeasy bag and shoved it into a desk drawer, unlocked my computer, and went back to work.

I answered my phone to Morelli at a little after two. He wasn't using his happy voice.

"I'll kill him," he said. "But don't worry, no one will find the body."

I could only imagine that the person Morelli wanted to kill was Ranger, and that the reason for this had something to do with last night's roll in the garbage.

"I just checked my messages," he continued. "Is it true you started a bar fight?"

"No." Not directly, anyway.

"And the thing with Ziggy Boom?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Jesus Christ."

"It's not as bad as it sounds," I said. "Besides, I had my gun."

Tires squealed and horns honked on Morelli's end of the line. Probably I should have left that last part out. "Where are you?" I asked.

"On my way back," Morelli said. "I'm twenty minutes outside Hartford. I'll be back in Trenton by six."

I made a mental note to have Ranger step up security for the night shift and disconnected. One of Ranger's men dropped a couple file folders into my inbox. I reached for them and stopped halfway when I noticed a small brown box on my desk by my inbox.

#

I picked it up and looked it over. It was plain. Square. No postage, no return address. My name, printed neatly at the top, in care of Rangeman Enterprises, LLC. Probably it came by private courier. I shook it a couple times and slit the tape with the pointy edge of a car key. Then I pulled the flaps away and brushed the Styrofoam packing peanuts from the top.

Inside was a smaller rectangular box. It was wrapped in bright red paper with a silver bow. There was a card attached to it. My name was written in silver ink on the envelope. I set the card to the side and moved on to the good stuff. I slipped the bow off the box and tore into the wrapping paper. Then I lifted the lid off the box.

There was a loud bang, followed by a foggy white cloud. Then everything went black.