Hard Eight (28 page)

“I got excited.”

“You weren’t excited. You were berserk!”

We were in a neighborhood of large old houses. Some of them had been renovated. And some were waiting for renovation. Some had been turned into apartment buildings. Most of the houses were on good-size lots and sat back from the road. The rabbit and his partner had disappeared around the side of one of the apartment houses. Vinnie and I prowled around the house, standing still from time to time, listening, hoping the rabbit would give himself away. We checked between cars parked in the driveway, and we looked behind shrubs.

“I don’t see them,” Vinnie said. “I think they’re gone. Either they slipped past us and doubled back to their car, or else they’re holed up in this house.”

We both looked at the house.

“Do you want to search the house?” Vinnie asked.

It was a big Victorian. I’d been in houses like this before, and they were filled with closets and hallways and closed doors. Good houses for hiding. Bad houses for searching. Especially for a chickenshit like me. Now that I was out in the air, sanity was returning. And the longer
I was out walking around, the less I wanted to find the rabbit.

“I think I’ll pass on the house.”

“Good call,” Vinnie said. “Easy to get your head blown off in a house like this. Of course, that wouldn’t figure into the equation for you, because you’re so freaking nuts. You’ve gotta stop watching those old Al Capone movies.”

“You should talk. What about the time you shot up Pin-wheel Soba’s house? You just about destroyed it.”

Vinnie’s face creased into a smile. “I got lost in the moment.”

We walked back to the car with guns still drawn, staying alert to sounds and movement. Half a block from the convenience store, we saw smoke billowing from the other side of the brick building. The smoke was black and acrid, smelling like burning rubber. The sort of smoke you get when a car catches fire.

Sirens were wailing in the distance, and I had another one of those parakeet-flying-away feelings. Dread in the pit of my stomach. It was followed by a rush of calm that signaled the arrival of denial. It couldn’t possibly be happening. Not another car. Not
Ranger’s
car. It had to be
someone else’s
car. I started making deals with God. Let it be the Explorer, I suggested to God, and I’ll be a better person. I’ll go to church. I’ll eat more vegetables. I’ll stop abusing the shower massage.

We turned the corner and, sure enough, Ranger’s car was burning. Okay, that’s it, I told God. All deals are
off
.

“Holy crap,” Vinnie said. “That’s your car. That’s the second CR-V you’ve burned up this week. This might set a new record for you.”

The clerk was standing outside, watching the spectacle.
“I saw the whole thing,” he said. “It was a big rabbit. He rushed into the store and got a can of barbecue starter fuel. And then he poured it in the black car and lit a match to it. Then he drove away in the green SUV.”

I holstered my gun, and I sat on the cement apron in front of the store. Bad enough the car was totaled, my bag had been in it. My credit cards, my driver’s license, my lip gloss, my defense spray, and my new cell phone were all gone. And I’d left the keys in the ignition. And the keypad to my security system was hooked onto the key ring.

Vinnie sat next to me. “I always have a good time when I go out with you,” Vinnie said. “We should do this more often.”

“Do you have your cell phone on you?”

Morelli was the first number I dialed, but Morelli wasn’t home. I hung my head. Ranger was next on the list.

“Yo,” Ranger said when he answered.

“Small problem.”

“No kidding. Your car just went off the screen.”

“It sort of burned up.”

Silence.

“And you know that keypad you gave me? It was in the car.”

“Babe.”

Vinnie and I were still sitting on the curb when Ranger arrived. Ranger was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and boots, and he looked almost normal. He glanced at the smoldering car, then he looked at me and
shook his head. The head shake was actually more the
suggestion
of a head shake. I didn’t want to try to guess the thought that prompted the head shake. I didn’t imagine it would be good. He spoke to one of the cops and gave him a card. Then he collected Vinnie and me and brought us back to my apartment building. Vinnie got into his Caddie and took off.

Ranger smiled and gestured to the gun on my hip. “Looking good, babe. Did you shoot anyone today?”

“I tried.”

He gave a soft laugh, crooked his arm around my neck, and kissed me just above my ear.

Hector was waiting for us in the hall. Hector looked like he should be wearing an orange jumpsuit and leg irons. But hey, what do I know? Probably Hector is a real nice guy. Probably he doesn’t know that a teardrop under the eye signifies a gang kill. And even if he
does
know, it’s only
one
teardrop, so it’s not like he’s a
serial
killer, right?

Hector gave Ranger a new keypad, and he said something in Spanish. Ranger said something back, they did one of those complicated handshakes, and Hector left.

Ranger beeped my door open and went in with me. “Hector’s already been through. He said the apartment is clean.” He put the keypad on the kitchen counter. “The new keypad is programmed exactly like the last.”

“Sorry about the car.”

“It was just a matter of time, babe. I’ll write it off as entertainment.” He glanced at the readout on his pager. “I have to go. Make sure you engage the floor bolt when I leave.”

I kicked the bolt into place, and I paced around in my kitchen. Pacing is supposed to be calming, but the more I paced, the more annoyed I became. I needed a car for tomorrow, and I wasn’t going to take another car from Ranger. I didn’t like being entertainment. Not automotive entertainment. Not sexual entertainment.

Ah hah!
a voice inside me said. Now we’re getting somewhere. This pacing you’re doing isn’t about the car. This is about the sex. You’re all bummed out because you got boinked by a man who wanted nothing more than physical sex.
Do you know what you are?
the voice asked.
You’re a hypocrite
.

So? I said to the voice. And? What’s your point?

I thrashed through my cupboards and refrigerator looking for a Tastykake. I knew there were none left, but I looked anyway. Another exercise in futility. My specialty.

Okay. Fine. I’ll go out and buy some. I grabbed the keypad Ranger left for me, and I stomped out of the apartment. I slammed the door shut, punched in the code, and realized I was standing out there with nothing but a keypad. No car keys. Unnecessary, of course, because I didn’t have a car. Also, I was without money and credit cards. Large sigh. I needed to go back inside and rethink this.

I punched in the code and tried the door. The door wouldn’t open. I put the code in again. Nothing. I didn’t have a key. All I had was the damn stupid keypad. No reason to panic. I had to be doing something wrong. I went through it again. It wasn’t that complicated. Punch in the numbers and the door unlocks. Maybe I was remembering the numbers wrong. I tried a couple other combinations. No luck.

Piece of shit technology. I hate technology. Technology
sucks
.

Okay, take it easy, I told myself. You don’t want a repeat performance of the car window shoot-out. You don’t want to go gonzo over a silly keypad. I took a couple deep breaths, and I fed the numbers into the keypad one more time. I grabbed the doorknob and pulled and twisted, but the door wouldn’t open.

“
Goddamn!
” I threw the keypad down on the floor and jumped up and down. “
Damn, damn, damn!
” I kicked the keypad all the way to the far end of the hall. I ran down the hall, unholstered my gun, and shot the keypad.
BAM!
The keypad jumped, and I shot it again.

An Asian woman opened the door across the hall. She looked out at me, gave a gasp, pulled back inside, and closed and locked her door.

“Sorry,” I called out to her, through the door. “I got carried away.”

I retrieved the mangled keypad and skulked back to my half of the hall.

My next door neighbor, Mrs. Karwatt, was in her doorway. “Are you having a problem, dear?” she asked.

“I’m locked out of my apartment.” Fortunately, Mrs. Karwatt kept a key.

Mrs. Karwatt gave me the spare key, I inserted it in the lock, and the door wouldn’t open. I followed Mrs. Karwatt into her house, and I used her phone to call Ranger.

“The frigging door won’t open,” I said.

“I’ll send Hector.”

“No! I can’t understand Hector. I can’t talk to him.” And he scares the bejeezus out of me.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the hall with my back to the wall, and Ranger and Hector showed up.

“What’s wrong?” Ranger asked.

“The door won’t open.”

“Probably just a programming glitch. Do you have the keypad?”

I dropped the keypad into his hand.

Ranger and Hector looked down at the keypad. They looked up at each other, exchanged raised eyebrows, and smiled.

“I think I see the problem,” Ranger said. “Someone’s shot the shit out of this keypad.” He turned it over in his hand. “At least you were able to hit it. Nice to know the target practice paid off.”

“I’m good at close range.”

It took Hector twenty seconds to open my door and ten minutes to remove the sensors.

“Let me know if you want the system put back in,” Ranger said.

“I appreciate the thought, but I’d rather walk blindfolded into an apartment filled with alligators.”

“Do you want to try your luck with another car? We could raise the stakes. I could give you a Porsche.”

“Tempting, but no. I’m expecting an insurance check tomorrow. As soon as I get it, I’ll have Lula drive me to a dealer.”

Ranger and Hector took off, and I locked myself into my apartment. I’d worked out a lot of aggression shooting the keypad, and I felt much more mellow now. My heart was only skipping a beat once in a while, and the eye twitch was hardly noticeable. I ate the last lump of frozen
cookie dough. It wasn’t a Tastykake, but it was pretty good, all the same. I zapped the television on and found a hockey game.

“Uh-oh,” Lula said the next morning. “Was that a taxi that brought you to the office? What happened to Ranger’s car?”

“It burned up.”

“Say what?”

“And my bag was in it. I need to go shopping for a new handbag.”

“I’m the woman for the job,” Lula said. “What time is it? Are the stores open yet?”

It was ten o’clock, Monday morning. The stores were open. I’d reported my melted credit cards. I was ready to roll.

“Hold on,” Connie said. “What about the filing?”

“The filing’s just about all done,” Lula said. She took a stack of files and shoved them into a drawer. “Anyway, we aren’t gonna be long. Stephanie always gets the same boring bag. She goes straight to the Coach counter and gets one of them big-ass black leather shoulder bags, and that’s the end of that.”

“Turns out that my driver’s license burned up, too,” I said. “I was hoping you might also give me a ride to the DMV.”

Connie did a big eye roll. “Go.”

It was noon when we got to Quaker Bridge Mall. I bought my shoulder bag, and then Lula and I tested out
some perfume. We were on the upper level, walking toward the escalators on our way to leave for the lot, and a familiar shape loomed in front of me.

“You!” Martin Paulson said. “What is it with you? I can’t get away from you.”

“Don’t start with me,” I said. “I’m not happy with you.”

“Gee, that’s too bad. I almost really care. What are you doing here today? Looking for somebody new to brutalize?”

“I didn’t brutalize you.”

“You knocked me down.”

“You
fell
down. Twice.”

“I told you I have a bad sense of balance.”

“Look, just get out of my way. I’m not going to stand here and argue with you.”

“Yeah, you heard her,” Lula said. “Get out of her way.”

Paulson turned to better see Lula, and apparently he was caught off guard by what he saw, because he lost his balance and fell backward, down the escalator. There were a couple people in front of him, and he knocked them over like bowling pins. They all landed in a heap on the floor.

Lula and I scrambled down the escalator to the pile of bodies.

Paulson seemed to be the only one who was hurt. “My leg’s broken,” he said. “I bet you anything my leg’s broken. I keep telling you, I have a problem with equilibrium. Nobody ever listens to me.”

“There’s probably a good reason why no one listens to you,” Lula said. “You look like a big bag of wind, if you ask me.”

“It’s all your fault,” Paulson said. “You scared the hell
out of me. They should get the fashion police out after you. And what’s with the yellow hair? You look like Harpo Marx.”

“Hunh,” Lula said “I’m outta here. I’m not standing here getting insulted. I got to get back to work anyway.”

We were in the car at the exit to the parking lot, and Lula stopped short. “Hold on. Do I have my shopping bags in the backseat?”

I turned and looked. “No.”

“Damn! I must have dropped them when that sack of monkey doodie pushed me.”

“No problem. Pull up to the door, and I’ll run in and get them.”

Lula drove to the entrance, and I retraced our steps, back to the middle of the mall. I had to walk past Paulson to get to the escalator. The EMTs had him on a stretcher and were getting ready to wheel him out. I took the escalator to the second level and found the shopping bags laying on the floor by the bench, right where Lula had left them.

Thirty minutes later, we were back at the office, and Lula had her bags spread out on the couch. “Uh-oh,” she said. “We got one too many bags. You see this here big brown bag? It’s not mine.”

“It was on the floor with the other bags,” I said.

“Oh boy,” Lula said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I don’t even want to look in that bag. I got a bad feeling about that bag.”