04 Four to Score (5 page)

I unlocked my door and called to Rex. “Another one of those days.”

Rex was asleep in his soup can and made no response, so I went into the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich. I cracked open a beer and studied the new encrypted message while I ate. I looked for run-together words and extra letters, but it was all a big glob of nothing to me. Finally I gave up and called Sally. His phone rang three times and his machine kicked in. “Sally and Sugar aren't home, but they'd just loooooove to talk to you, so leave a message.”

I left my name and number and went back to staring at the note. By three o'clock my eyes felt fried and there was no word from Sally, so I decided to go door-to-door to the seniors again. Mr. Kleinschmidt told me it wasn't a crossword. Lorraine told me it wasn't a jumble. Mr. Markowitz told me he was watching TV and didn't have time for such nonsense.

The light was blinking on my phone machine when I returned to my kitchen.

The first message was from Eddie Kuntz. “So where is she?” That was it. That was the whole message.

“What a moolack,” I said to the answering machine.

The second message was from Ranger. “Call me.”

Ranger is a man of few words. He's Cuban-American, former Special Forces, he makes a much better friend than an enemy, and he's Vinnie's numero uno bounty hunter. I dialed Ranger's number and waited to hear breathing. Sometimes that was all you got.

“Yo,” Ranger said.

“Yo yourself.”

“I need you to help me take down a skip.”

This meant Ranger either needed a good laugh or else he needed a white female to use as a decoy. If Ranger needed serious muscle he wouldn't call me. Ranger knew people who would take on the Terminator for a pack of Camels and the promise of a fun time.

“I need to get an FTA out of a building, and I haven't got what it takes,” Ranger said.

“And just exactly what is it that you're lacking?”

“Smooth white skin barely hidden behind a short skirt and tight sweater. Two days ago Sammy the Gimp bought the farm. He's laid out at Leoni's, and my man, Kenny Martin, is in there paying his respects.”

“So why don't you just wait until he comes out?”

“He's in there with his mother and his sister and his Uncle Vito. My guess is they'll leave together, and I don't want to wade through the whole Grizolli family to get at this guy.”

No kidding. The landfill was littered with the remains of people who tried to wade through Vito Grizolli.

“Actually, I had plans for tonight,” I said. “They include living a little longer.”

“I just want you to get my man out the back door. I'll take it from there.”

I heard the disconnect, but I shouted into the phone anyway. “What are you freaking nuts?”

*    *    *    *    *

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I was dressed in four-inch FMPs (short for “fuck-me pumps,” because when you walked around in them you looked like Whorehouse Wonder Bitch). I shimmied into a low-cut black knit dress that was bought with the intent of losing five pounds, gunked up my eyes with a lot of black mascara and beefed up my cleavage by stuffing Nerf balls into my bra.

Ranger was parked on Roebling, half a block from the funeral home. He didn't turn when I pulled to the curb, but I saw his eyes on me in the rearview mirror.

He was smiling when I slid in beside him. “Nice dress you're almost wearing. You ever think about changing professions?”

“Constantly. I'm thinking about it now.”

Ranger handed me a photo. “Kenny Martin. Age twenty-two. Minor league loser. Charged with armed robbery.” He glanced at the black leather bag I had draped on my shoulder. “You carrying?”

“Yes.”

“Is it loaded?”

I stuck my hand in the bag and rooted around. “I'm not sure, but I think I've got a few bullets in here somewhere . . .”

“Cuffs?”

“I definitely have cuffs.”

“Defense spray?”

“Yep. Got defense spray.”

“Go get 'em, tiger.”

I sashayed across the street and up the steps to Leoni's. A small knot of old Italian men stood smoking on the front porch. Conversation stopped when I approached, and the group parted to let me pass. There were more people in the vestibule. None of them was Kenny Martin. I went to room one, where Sammy the Gimp was on display, resting nicely in an ornate mahogany casket. There were lots of flowers and lots of old Italian women. No one seemed to be too upset about Sammy's demise. No heavily sedated widow. No wailing mother. No Kenny.

I said good-bye to Sammy and tottered down the hall in my heels. There was a small foyer at the end of the hall. The foyer opened to the back door, and Kenny Martin was standing in front of the door, sneaking a smoke. Beyond the door was a covered driveway, and somewhere beyond the driveway was Ranger.

I leaned against the wall across from Kenny and smiled. “Hi.”

His eyes fixed onto my Nerf balls. “Are you here to see Sammy?”

I shook my head no. “Mrs. Kowalski in room two.”

“You don't look all broke up.”

I shrugged.

“If you was all broke up I could comfort you. I got lots of ways to comfort a woman.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

He was 5'10" and a solid 190 pounds. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and white shirt with the top button popped open.

“What's your pleasure, dollie?” he asked.

I looked him up and down and smiled as if I liked what I saw. “What's your name?”

“Kenny. Kenny 'the Man' Martin.”

Kenny the Man. Unh! Mental head slap. I extended my hand. “Stephanie.”

In lieu of a handshake he laced his fingers into mine and stepped closer. “Pretty name.”

“I was going outside for some fresh air. Want to join me?”

“Yeah, sure. Nothing in here but dead people. Even the people who are alive are dead, you know what I mean?”

A little girl ran down the hall to us. “Kenny, Mama says we have to go now.”

“Tell her I'll be there in a minute.”

“She said I'm supposed to bring you now!”

Kenny did palms-up. A gesture of the futility of arguing. Everyone knows you never win against an Italian mother. “Maybe I could call you sometime?” Kenny said to me. “Maybe we could get together later.”

Never underestimate the power of a Nerf ball. “Sure. Why don't we go outside, and I'll write down my number. I really need some air.”

“Now!” the kid yelled.

Kenny made a lunge at the kid, and she whirled and ran back to Mama, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“I gotta go,” Kenny said.

“One second. I'll give you my business card.” I had my head in my bag, scrounging for my defense spray. If I couldn't get him to walk through the door, I'd give him a shot of spray and drag him out.

I heard more footsteps on the carpet and looked up to find a woman striding toward us. She was slim and pretty with short blond hair. She was wearing a gray suit and heels, and her expression turned serious when she saw me with Kenny.

“Now I see the problem,” she said to Kenny. “Your mother sent me to fetch you, but it looks like you've got a complication here.”

“No complication,” Kenny said. “Just tell her to keep her shirt on.”

“Oh yeah,” the woman said. “I'm going to tell your mother to keep her shirt on. That's like a death wish.” She looked to me, and then she looked to Kenny, and then she smiled. “You don't know, do you?” she asked Kenny.

I was still searching for the spray. Hair brush, flashlight, travel pack of tampons. Damn it, where was the spray?

“Know what?” Kenny said. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't you ever read the paper? This is Stephanie Plum. She blew up the funeral home last year. She's a bounty hunter.”

“You're shitting me!”

Oh boy.

KENNY GAVE ME a shot to the shoulder that knocked me back a couple of feet. “Is that true, what Terry said? Are you a bounty hunter?”

“Hey!” I said. “Keep your hands off me.”

He gave me another whack that had me against the wall. “Maybe you need to be taught a lesson not to mess with Kenny.”

“Maybe you need to be taught a lesson not to jump bail.” I had my hand in my bag, and I couldn't find the lousy defense spray, so I hauled out a can of extra-hold hair spray and let him have it square in the face.

“Yeow,” Kenny yelped, jumping back, hands to his face. “You bitch, I'll get you for this. I'll . . .” He took his hands away. “Hey, wait a minute. What is this shit?”

Terry's smile widened. “You've been hair-sprayed, Kenny.”

The little girl and an older woman hustled down the hall.

“What's going on?” the woman wanted to know.

An old man appeared. Vito Grizolli, looking like he'd walked off the set of The Godfather.

“Kenny's been hair-sprayed,” Terry told everyone. “He put up a pretty good fight, but he just didn't have the muscle to stand up to extra hold.”

The mother turned on me. “You did this to my boy?”

I tried not to sigh, but one escaped anyway. Some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed. “I'm a bond enforcement officer,” I told her. “I work for Vincent Plum. Your son failed to appear in court, and now I need to bring him in to reschedule and have his case reviewed.”

Mrs. Martin sucked in air and faced-off at Kenny. “You did that? You didn't go to court? What's the matter with you? Don't you know anything?”

“It's all bullshit,” Kenny said.

Mrs. Martin smacked him on the side of the head. “You watch your language!”

“And how is this to dress?” she said to me. “If you were my daughter I wouldn't let you out of the house.”

I scrambled away before she could smack me, too.

“Kids,” Vito Grizolli said. “What's happening to this world?”

From a man who had people killed on a regular basis.

He shook his finger at Kenny. “You should have kept your court date. You do this like a man. You go with her now, and you let the lawyers do their job.”

“I got hair spray in my eye,” Kenny said. “It's watering. I need a doctor.”

I held the back door open for him. “Don't be such a big baby,” I said. “I get hair spray in my eyes all the time.”

Ranger was waiting under the canopy. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and black assault pants tucked into black boots. He had a body like Schwarzenegger, dark hair slicked back off his face and a two-hundred-watt smile. He was drop-dead sexy, he was as sane as Batman, and he was a primo bounty hunter.

He gave me all two hundred watts. “Nice touch with the hair spray.”

“Don't start.”

*    *    *    *    *

MONDAY MORNING I woke up feeling restless. I wanted to move on Maxine Nowicki, but I was stalled on the clue. I looked at the note again and felt frustration gnawing at me. Sally Sweet hadn't returned my call. I was itching to call him again, but it was eight o'clock, and I thought it was possible drag queens weren't early risers.

I was on my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.

“It's me,” Sally said.

I read the note over the phone, letter by letter.

Silence.

“Sally?”

“I'm thinking. I'm thinking. I've been up all night, looking sexy, shaking my ass. It isn't easy, you know.”

I could hear yelling in the background. “What's going on?”

“It's Sugar. He's got breakfast all made.”

“Sugar makes your breakfast?”

“I'm on the phone with Stephanie,” Sally yelled back.

“Boy, I don't have anyone make breakfast for me.”

“What you have to do is live with a gay guy,” Sally said. “They're into this cooking shit.”

Something to think about.

“I don't want to rush your breakfast,” I said. “I'll be home for another hour, then I'm going to the office. When you figure it out you can call me at the office, or you can leave a message on my machine.”

“Ten four, kemosabe.”

I took a shower and dressed for another scorcher day. I gave Rex fresh water and some hamster food, which he didn't deem worthy to so much as sniff at.

I slung my black leather tote over my shoulder, locked up and took the stairs to the lobby. Outside, the blacktop was steaming, and the sun was beginning to throb in a murky sky. I played Savage Garden all the way to the office and arrived psyched because I'd had good traffic karma, sailing through the lights.

Connie was bent over a file when I walked in. Her black hair was teased high around her face like a movie set that was all facade. Everything up front and nothing in the back. Killer hair as long as she didn't turn around.

“If you want to talk to the man, he isn't in,” she said.

Lula popped up from behind a bank of file cabinets. “He's doin' a nooner with a goat today. I saw it on his calendar.”

“So how's it going?” Connie asked. “Any action on the Nowicki thing?”

I passed a copy of the note to Connie and Lula. “I have a message from her that's written in some kind of code.”

“Lose me,” Lula said. “Code isn't one of my specialties.”

Connie sunk two teeth into a heavily lipsticked lower lip. “Maybe the numbers are really letters.”

“I thought of that, but I couldn't get it to work.”

We all stared at the note for a while.

“Might not mean anything,” Lula finally said. “Might be a joke.”

I nodded. Joke note was a possibility.

“I helped Ranger with an apprehension yesterday,” I said. “Kenny Martin.”

Connie gave a low laugh. “Vito Grizolli's nephew? Bet that was fun.”

“There was a woman with him that I can't place. I know I've seen her before, but it keeps slipping away from me.”

“What'd she look like?”

“Slim, pretty, short blond hair. He called her Terry.”

“Terry Gilman,” Connie said. “Used to be Terry Grizolli. Was married to Billy Gilman for about six hours and kept his name.”

“Terry Grizolli! That was Terry Grizolli?” Terry Grizolli was two years older than me and had been linked with Joe Morelli all through high school. She'd been voted prom queen and had created a school scandal by choosing Joe as her escort. After graduation, she'd gone on to become a professional cheerleader for the New York Giants. “I haven't seen her in years,” I said. “What's she doing now? Is she still a cheerleader?”