04 Four to Score (10 page)

The jogger jumped to his feet. “Jesus Christ!” he shrieked. “What are you nuts?”

Lula was off the swing and moving in. Joyce ran down from the parking lot. Kuntz edged off his bench. Even Sally was on his feet.

Everyone converged on the jogger, who had one of the pie guys by the shirt. People were yelling “Break it up” and “Stop” and trying to untangle the two men.

“I was only doing my job!” the pie guy was saying. “Some lady told me to get the guy sitting on the bench by the fountain.”

I glared at Eddie Kuntz. “You dunce! You were on the wrong bench!”

“The fountain, the flagpole . . . how am I supposed to keep track of these things?”

The aluminum pie plate and globs of chocolate cream pie were lying ignored on the ground. I fingered through the remains and found the scrap of paper, tucked into a plastic bag. I stuffed the bag, chocolate globs and all, into my purse.

“What's that?” Joyce said. “What did you just put in your purse?”

“Pie crust. I'm taking it home for my hamster.”

She grabbed at my shoulder strap. “I want to see it.”

“Let go of that strap!”

“Not until I see what you put in your purse!”

“What's going on here?” Lula asked.

“Stay out of this, fatso,” Joyce said.

“Fatso,” Lula said, eyes narrowed. “Who you calling fatso?”

“I'm calling you fatso, you big tub of lard.”

Lula reached out to Joyce, Joyce made a squeak, her eyes went blank, and she crashed to the ground.

Everyone turned to Joyce.

“Must have fainted,” Lula said to the crowd. “Guess she's one of those women can't stand to see men fighting.”

“I saw that!” I said to Lula, keeping my voice low. “You zapped her with your stun gun!”

“Who me?”

“You can't do that! You can't zap someone just because they call you fatso!”

“Oh, excuse me,” Lula said. “Guess I didn't understand that.”

Joyce was coming around, making feeble movements in her arms and legs. “What happened?” she murmured. “Was I struck by lightning?”

Kuntz sidled up to me. “Like your disguise. Want to go out for a drink later?”

“No!”

“Try me,” Sally said to Kuntz. “It's my wig. And I wouldn't look bad in that skirt, either.”

“Jesus,” Kuntz said to me. “Is he with you?”

“Damn right, I'm with her,” Sally said. “I'm the fucking cryptographer. I'm part of the team.”

“Some team,” Kuntz said. “A fruit and a fatso.”

Lula leaned forward. “First off, let me tell you something. I'm not a fatso. I happen to be a big woman.” She reached into her purse and came out with the stun gun. “Second, how'd you like to have your brain scrambled, you dumb, overdeveloped gorrilla?”

“No!” I said. “No more brain scrambling.”

“He called us names,” Lula said. “He called Sally a fruit.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “Just this once, but then no more scrambling.”

Lula looked at her stun gun. “Damn. I used all my juice. I got a low battery here.”

Kuntz made a hands-in-the-air, I-give-up, I-hired-a-loser gesture and walked away. Several bystanders helped Joyce to her feet. And Lula and Sally and I retreated to the car.

“So what was it you and Joyce were squabbling about?” Lula wanted to know.

“I got another clue. As soon as I saw the pie I knew it was supposed to be for Eddie Kuntz, and I figured there was a clue in it. Joyce saw me pick the clue up off the ground.” I pulled the plastic bag from my purse. “Ta dah!” I sang.

“Hot dang!” Lula said. “You are so good.”

“We're like the A-team,” Sally said.

“Yeah, only the A-team didn't have no drag queen,” Lula said.

“Mr. T. liked jewelry,” Sally said. “I could be Mr. T.”

“Nuh uh. I want to be Mr. T. on account of he was big and black like me.”

Sally had taken the note out of the bag and was reading it. “This is interesting. She keeps changing the code. This is much more sophisticated than the others.”

“Can you read it?”

“Hey, I'm the fucking code master. Just give me some time.”

*    *    *    *    *

I PARKED in the lot to my apartment building and took the stairs to the second floor. Mrs. Delgado, Mr. Weinstein, Mrs. Karwatt and Leanne Kokoska were standing, staring at my door.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Someone left you a message,” Mrs. Karwatt said. “I was going out with the garbage when I noticed it.”

“It's a pip, too,” Mrs. Delgado said. “Must be from one of them hoodlums you're out to get.”

I stepped up and looked at the door. The message was scribbled in black marker: “I hate you! And I'll get even!”

“Who do you suppose did this?” Leanne asked. “Are you on a real dangerous case? You after a murderer or something?”

Truth is, I had no idea anymore who I was after.

“Permanent marker,” Mr. Weinstein said. “Gonna be the devil to get off. Probably gonna have to paint over it.”

“I'll call Dillon,” I told them, shoving the key in the lock. “Dillon will fix it for me.”

Dillon Ruddick was the super, and Dillon would fix anything for a smile and a beer.

I let myself into my apartment, and my neighbors went off looking for a new adventure. I slipped the safety chain into place, bolted my door and headed for the kitchen. The light was blinking on my answering machine. One message.

I punched Replay. “This is Helen Badijian, the manager at the Seven-Eleven.” There was a pause and some fumbling. “You left your card here and said I should call if I had information about Miss Nowicki.”

I dialed the 7-Eleven and Helen answered.

“I'm very busy now,” she said. “If you could drop by later, maybe around ten, I think I might have something for you.”

This was turning into a halfway decent day. Sally was working on the clue, and the 7-Eleven woman had a potential lead.

“We need to celebrate,” I told Rex, trying to overlook the fact that I was actually very creeped out by the message on my door. “Pop-Tarts for everyone.”

I looked in my cupboard, but there were no Pop-Tarts. No cookies, no cereal, no cans of spaghetti, no soup, no extra jars of peanut butter. A piece of paper was taped to the cupboard door. It was a shopping list. It said, “buy everything.”

I took the note down and shoved it into my bag so I wouldn't forget what I needed and slung the bag over my shoulder. I had my hand on the doorknob when the phone rang.

It was Kuntz. “So, about that drink?”

“No. No drink.”

“Your loss,” he said. “I saw you fingering the pie on the ground. You find another note?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I'm working on it.”

“Looks to me like we're not making much progress with the note crappola. All we ever get are more notes.”

“There might be more. The manager at the Seven-Eleven called and said she had something for me. I'm going to stop around later tonight.”

“Why later? Why don't you go now? Cripes, can't you move faster on this? I need those letters.”

“Maybe you should tell me what this is really about. I'm having a hard time believing you're in this much of a sweat about a couple of love letters.”

“I told you they could be embarrassing.”

“Yeah, right.”

*    *    *    *    *

I LOOKED in my shopping cart and wondered if I had everything. Ritz crackers and peanut butter for when I felt fancy and wanted to make hors d'oeuvres, Entenmann's coffee cake for PMS mornings, Pop-Tarts for Rex, salsa so I could tell my mother I was eating vegetables, frosted flakes in case I had to go on a stakeout, corn chips for the salsa.

I was in the middle of my inventory when a cart crashed nose to nose into mine. I looked up and found Grandma Mazur driving and my mother one step behind.

My mother closed her eyes. “Why me?” she said.

“Dang,” Grandma Mazur said.

I was still in the wig and the little skirt. “I can explain.”

“Where did I go wrong?” my mother wanted to know.

“I'm in disguise.”

Mrs. Crandle rattled her cart down the aisle. “Hello, Stephanie, dear. How are you today?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Crandle.”

“Some disguise,” my mother said. “Everybody knows you. And why do you have to be disguised as a tramp? Why can't you ever be disguised as a normal person?” She looked into my cart. “Jars of spaghetti sauce. The checkout clerk will think you don't cook.”

My left eye had started to twitch. “I have to go now.”

“I bet this is a good getup for meeting men,” Grandma said. “You look just like Marilyn Monroe. Is that a wig? Maybe I could borrow it sometime. I wouldn't mind meeting some men.”

“You loan her that wig and anything happens, I'm holding you responsible,” my mother said.

*    *    *    *    *

I UNPACKED my groceries, replaced the wig with a Rangers hat, traded the skirt in for a pair of shorts and resigned the retro slut shoes to a back corner of my closet. I shared a Pop-Tart with Rex and cracked a beer open for myself. I called Dillon to tell him about my door, and then I went out the bedroom window to my fire escape to think. The air was still and sultry, the horizon dusky.

The parking lot was filled with cars. The seniors were all home at this time of day. If they went out to eat it was for the early bird special at the diner, and even if they went to the park to sit for a half hour they were home by six. If they were eating in it was at five o'clock so as not to interfere with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.

Most cases I get from Vinnie are routine. Usually I go to the people who put up the bond and explain to them that they'll lose their house if the skip isn't found. Ninety percent of the time they know where the skip is and help me catch him. Ninety percent of the time I have a handle on the sort of person I'm dealing with. This case didn't fall into the ninety percent. And even worse, this case was weird. A friend had lost a finger, and a mother had been scalped. Maxine's treasure hunt seemed playful by comparison. And then there was the message on my door. “I hate you.” Who would do such a thing? The list was long.

A pickup pulled away from the curb half a block away, exposing a black Jeep Cherokee which had been parked behind the pickup. Joyce.

I allowed myself the luxury of a sigh and drained the beer bottle. You had to respect Joyce's tenacity, if nothing else. I raised my bottle in a salute to her, but there was no response.

The problem with being a bounty hunter is it's all on-the-job training. Ranger is helpful, but Ranger isn't always around. So most of the time when something new comes up I end up doing it wrong before I figure out how to do it right. Joyce, for instance. Clearly, I don't know how to get rid of Joyce.

I crawled back through the window, got another bottle of beer and another Pop-Tart, stuffed the portable phone under my arm and went back to the fire escape. I ate the Pop-Tart and washed it down with beer and all the while I watched the black Cherokee. When I finished the second bottle of beer I called Ranger.

“Talk,” Ranger said.

“I have a problem.”

“So what's your point?”

I explained the situation to Ranger, including the tire and the park episode. There was a silence where I sensed he was smiling, and finally he said, “Sit tight, and I'll see what I can do.”

Half an hour later, Ranger's $98,000 BMW rolled to a stop in my parking lot. Ranger got out of the car and stood for a moment staring at me on my fire escape. He was wearing an olive-drab Tshirt that looked like it had been painted on him, GI Joe camouflage pants and shades. Just a normal Jersey guy.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

Ranger smiled and turned and walked across the lot and across the street to the black Cherokee. He walked to the passenger-side door, opened the door and got in the car. Just like that. If it had been me in the car, the door would have been locked, and no one looking like Ranger would get in. But this is me, and that was Joyce.

Five minutes later, Ranger exited the car and returned to my lot. I dove through my window, rushed out the door, down the stairs and skidded to a stop in front of Ranger.

“Well?”

“How bad do you want to get rid of her? You want me to shoot her? Break a bone?”

“No!”

Ranger shrugged. “Then she's gonna stick.”

There was the sound of a car engine catching and headlights flashed on across the street. We both turned to watch Joyce pull away and disappear around the corner.

“She'll be back,” Ranger said. “But not tonight.”

“How'd you get her to leave?”

“Told her I was gonna spend the next twelve hours ruining you for all other men, and so she might as well go home.”

I could feel the heat rush to my face.

Ranger gave me the wolf smile. “I lied about it being tonight,” he said.

*    *    *    *    *

AT LEAST Joyce was gone for a while, and I didn't have to worry about her following me to the 7-Eleven. I trudged upstairs to my apartment, made myself a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich on worthless white bread and channel surfed until it was time to go see Helen Badijian.

Most of the time I enjoyed my aloneness, relishing the selfish luxury of unshared space and ritual. Only my hand held the television remote, and there was no compromise on toilet paper brand or climate control. And even more, there was a tentative, hopeful feeling that I might be an adult. And that the worst of childhood was safely behind me. You see, I said to the world, I have my own apartment. That's good, right?

Tonight my satisfaction with the solitary life was tempered by a bizarre message still scrawled on my door. Tonight my aloneness felt lonely, and maybe even a little frightening. Tonight I made sure my windows were closed and locked when I left my apartment.

En route to Olden I did a two-block detour, checking my mirror for headlights. There'd been no sign of Joyce, but better to be safe than sorry. I had a feeling this was a good lead, and I didn't want to pass it on to the enemy.

I reached the 7-Eleven a few minutes before ten. I sat in my car a while to see if Joyce would miraculously appear. At 10:05 there was no Joyce, but from what I could see through the store's plate glass windows there was also no Helen Badijian. A young guy was behind the register, talking to an older man. The older man was waving his arms, looking royally pissed off. The young guy was shaking his head, yes, yes, yes.