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to eat,“ Ranger said. ”You smell like a party."
“It's birthday cake breath. And are we looking at another double entendre?”
“Yeah,” Ranger said, “but it's not going anywhere. I have to get back to work. Tank's waiting for me with the motor running. I just wanted to find out if you're serious about quitting.”
“I got a job at the button factory. I start tomorrow.”
He reached across and removed the note from the pillowcase next to me. "New
boyfriend?"
“Someone broke in while I was out. And I guess he shot at me this afternoon.”
Ranger stood. “You should discourage people from doing that. Do you need help?”
“Not yet.”
“Babe,” Ranger said. And he left.
I listened carefully, but I didn't hear the front door open or close. I got up and tiptoed through the apartment. No Ranger. All the locks were locked and the bolt was in place.
I suppose he could have gone out the living room window, but he would have
had to climb down the side of the building like Spider-Man.
The phone rang, and I waited to see the number pop up on my caller ID. It was Lula. “Yo,” I said.
“Yo, your ass. You got some nerve sticking me with this job.”
“You volunteered.”
“I must've had sunstroke. A person have to be nuts to want this job.”
“Something go wrong?”
“Hell, yes. Everything's wrong. I could use some assistance here. I'm trying to snag Willie Martin, and he's not cooperating.”
“How uncooperative is he?”
“He hauled his nasty ass out of his apartment and left me handcuffed to his big stupid bed.”
“That's pretty uncooperative.”
“Yeah, and it gets worse. I sort of don't have any clothes on.”
“Omigod! Did he attack you?”
“It's a little more complicated than that. He was in the shower when I busted in. You ever see Willie Martin naked? He is fine. He used to play pro ball until he made a mess of his knee and had to turn to boosting cars.”
“Un hunh.”
“Well, one thing led to another and here I am chained to his hunk-of-junk bed. Hell, it's not like I get it regular, you know. I'm real picky about my men. And besides, anybody would've jumped those bones. He's got muscles on muscles and a butt you want to sink your teeth into.”
The mental image had me considering turning vegetarian.
Willie Martin lived in a third-floor loft in a graffiti-riddled warehouse that contained a ground-floor chop shop. It was located on the seven-hundred block of Stark Street, an area of urban decay that rivaled Iraqi bomb sites.
I parked behind Lula's red Firebird and transferred my five-shot Smith & Wesson from my purse to my jacket pocket. I'm not much of a gun person and almost never carry one, but I was sufficiently creeped out by the shooting and the notes that I didn't want to venture onto Stark Street unarmed. I locked the c
