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When we hit gridlock approaching Trenton, Ranger took an exit, cut down a side street, and parked in a small lot set between brick storefront businesses and three-story row houses. The street was narrow and felt dark, even during daylight hours. Storefront windows were dirty with faded displays. Black spray-painted graffiti covered the first-floor fronts of the row houses.
If at that very moment someone staggered out of a row house, blood gushing from bullet holes in multiple places on his body, it wouldn't take me by surprise.
I peered out the windshield and bit into my lower lip. “We aren't going to the Bat Cave, are we?”
“No, babe. We're going to Shorty's for pizza.”
A small neon sign hung over the door of the building adjoining the lot. Sure enough, the sign said Shorty's. The two small windows in the front of the building had been blacked out with paint. The door was heavy wood and windowless.
I looked over my shoulder at Ranger. “The pizza is good here?” I tried not to let my voice waver, but it sounded squeezed and far away in my head. It was the voice of fear. Maybe fear is too strong a word. After the past week maybe fear should be reserved for life-threatening situations. But then again, maybe fear was appropriate.
“The pizza is good here,” Ranger said, and he pushed the door open for me.
The sudden wash of noise and pizza fumes almost knocked me to my knees. It was dark inside Shorty's, and it was packed. Booths lined the walls and tables cluttered the middle of the room. An old-fashioned jukebox blasted out music from a far corner. Mostly there were men in Shorty's. The women who were there looked like they could hold their own. The men were in work boots and jeans. They were old and young, their faces lined from years of sun and cigarettes. They looked like they didn't need gun instruction.
We got a booth in a corner that was dark enough not to be able to see bloodstains or roaches. Ranger looked comfortable, his back to the wall, black shirt blending into the shadows.
The waitress was dressed in a white Shorty's T-shirt and a short black skirt. She had big hooters, a lot of brown curly hair, and more mascara than I'd ever managed, even on my most insecure day. She smiled at Ranger like she knew him better than I did. “What'll it be?” she asked.
“Pizza and beer,” Ranger said.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked him.
“Often enough. We keep a safe house in the neighborhood. Half the people in here are local. Half come from a truck stop on the next block.”
The waitress dropped cardboard coasters on the scarred wood table and put a frosted glass of beer on each.
“I thought you didn't drink,” I said to Ranger. “You know, the-body-is-a-temple thing? And now wine at my apartment and beer at Shorty's.”
“I don't drink when I'm working. And I don't get drunk. And the body is only a temple four days a week.”
“Wow,” I said, “you're going to hell in a handbasket, eating pizza and boozing it up three days a week. I thought I noticed a little extra fat around the middle.”
Ranger raised an eyebrow. “A little extra fat around the middle. Anything else?”
“Maybe the beginnings of a double chin.”
Truth is, Ranger didn't have fat anywhere. Ranger was perfect. And we both knew it.
He drank some beer and studied me. “Don't you think you're taking a chance, baiting me, when I'm the only thing standing between you and the guy at the bar with the snake tattooed on his forehead?”
I looked at the guy with the snake. “He seems like a nice guy.” Nice for a homicidal maniac.
Ranger smiled. “He works for me.”
Stephanie Plum 8 - Hard Eight
12
THE SUN WAS setting when we got back to the car.
“That was possibly the best pizza I've ever had,” I said to Ranger. “Overall, it was a frightening experience, but the pizza was great.”
“Shorty makes it himself.”
“Does Shorty work for you, too?”
“Yeah. He caters all my cocktail parties.”
