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“Hannibal's in Deal.”
Ranger snapped the table lamp off and stood. He was wearing a black T-shirt, black Gore-Tex windbreaker, and black cargo pants tucked into black boots, army style. The well-dressed urban commando. I could guarantee that any man facing him in a blind alley would have an empty scrotum, his most prized possessions gone north. And any woman would be licking dry lips and checking to make sure all her buttons were buttoned. He looked down at me, hands in pockets, his face barely visible in the dark room.
“Would you be willing to visit your ex and check out Cynthia Lotte?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
He smiled, and when he answered his voice was soft. “Not with your grandmother in the next room.”
Eek.
When Ranger left I slid the security chain in place and flopped back onto the couch, thrashing around, thinking erotic thoughts. No doubt about it. I was a hopeless slut. I looked heavenward, only the ceiling got in the way. “It's all hormones,” I said to Whoever might be listening. “It's not my fault. I have too many hormones.”
I got up and drank a glass of orange juice. After the orange juice I returned to the couch and thrashed around some more because Grandma was snoring so loud I was afraid she'd suck her tongue down her throat and choke to death.
“ISN'T THIS A pip of a morning!” Grandma said, on her way to the kitchen. “I feel like having some pie!”
I checked my watch. Six-thirty. I dragged myself off the couch and into the bathroom where I stood under the shower for a long time, sullen and bitchy. When I got out of the shower I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. I had a big zit on my chin. Well, isn't this just great. I have to go see my ex-husband with a zit on my chin. Probably God's punishment for last night's mental lusting.
I thought about the .38 in the cookie jar. I made a fist, thumb up, index finger extended. I put the index finger to my temple and said, “Bang.”
I dressed myself up in an outfit like Ranger's. Black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black boots. Big zit on my face. I looked like an idiot. I took the black T-shirt and pants and boots off and stuffed myself into a white T-shirt, topped with a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of Levi's with a small hole in the crotch which I convinced myself no one could see. This was an outfit for someone with a zit.
Grandma was reading the paper when I came out of the bedroom.
“Where'd you get the paper?” I asked.
“Borrowed it from that nice man across the hall. Only he don't know it yet.”
Grandma was a fast learner.
“I don't have another driving lesson until tomorrow, so Louise and me are going to look at some condos today. I've been checking out the job situation too, and it looks to me like there's lots of good stuff. There's jobs for cooks and cleaning people and makeup ladies and car salesmen.”
“If you could have any job in the world, what would you choose?”
“That's easy. I'd be a movie star.”
“You'd make a good one,” I said.
“Of course, I'd want to be a leading lady. Some of my parts have started to sag, but my legs are still pretty good.”
I looked at Grandma's legs sticking out from under her dress. I guess everything is relative.
Bob was standing at the door with his knees together, so I clipped his leash on him and we headed out. Look at this, I thought, I'm getting exercise first thing in the morning. Probably after two weeks of Bob I'll be so skinny I'll have to buy all new clothes. And the fresh air is good for my pimple, too. Hell, it might even cure it. Maybe the pimple will be gone by the time I get back to the apartment.
Bob and I were walking along at a pretty good rate. We rounded the corner and swung into the lot, and there were Habib and Mitchell, waiting for me in a ten-year-old Dodge totally upholstered in chartreuse broadloom. A neon sign on the top of the car advertised Art's Carpet's. It made the wind machine look tasteful.
“Holy cow,” I said. “What is this?”
“It was all that was available on short notice,” Mitchell said. “And I wouldn't make a big deal out of it if I was you, because it's a sensitive topic. And not to change the subject, or anything, but we're getting impatient. We don't want to freak you out, but we're gonna have to do something real mean if you don't deliver your boyfriend pretty soon.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Well, yeah, sure,” Mitchell said. “It's a threat.”
Habib was behind the wheel, wearing a large foam whiplash collar. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
“We're professionals,” Mitchell said. “You don't want to be fooled by our pleasant demeanor.”
