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TWELVE
Ranger and I were in his den watching a basketball game.
“Hows your leg?” he asked.
“It's a little sore.”
"I need to leave for Domino's. Do you want to come with me or would you rather stay
here?"
“I'll go with you.”
He looked at my V-neck sweater with the RangeMan logo embroidered in purple. "Do you
have something to wear that doesn't say RangeMan?"
“No. Even my underwear has your name on it.”
"It's Ella. She got a machine that stitches the logo, and she can't control herself. She puts it
on everything.“ He stood. ”I'm going to change. I'll be ready to go in a minute."
I'd been to Domino's once before. Lula and I made an apprehension there last spring. It was a typical titty bar with a raised stage and pole dancers. I was told it had a back room for lap dances, but Lula and I didn't get back there. Our man was at the bar, stuffing money into Gstrings.
Ranger had changed into black jeans and a long-sleeved, collared black shirt that he wore out to hide his gun.
“Do you have money for the girls?” I asked him.
“I try not to hand money out at strip bars. Its like feeding stray cats. Once you feed them, they never go away.”
“Yes, but I'll be there to protect you this time.”
Ranger held my jacket for me. “I usually rely on Tank, but tonight the job is yours.”
We took the elevator to the garage, and Ranger chose a black Explorer over one of his private cars. Easier to blend. Domino's was just ten minutes away from Range-Man. For that matter, everything was ten minutes from RangeMan. Ranger had placed his security company in a good location. If an alarm went off anywhere in Trenton, RangeMan was there in ten minutes or less.
On weekends, Domino's rocked. It was filled to capacity with bachelor parties and couples out for fun. On a Monday night, it was half empty, and there was no problem getting a table. Ranger steered us to a dark corner where he could put his back to the wall. Most of the men were at the bar that surrounded the dance platform. A bunch of sad regulars and some out-oftown businessmen who'd straggled in from the hotels on Route One. Tonight, I was the only woman.
The music was loud. Disco. The two women onstage were in four-inch stilettos and dental floss. They looked like they wouldn't mind getting out of the shoes.
A waitress stopped by, all smiley face. “Hey handsome,” she said to Ranger. “What'U it be?”
“Vodka rocks,” Ranger said. “Two of them.”
I raised an eyebrow at him when the waitress left. “You drink vodka rocks?”
“Less to dump on the floor,” he said.
We didn't want to make an entrance and have Gorvich spot us, so we'd arrived early. The disadvantage to this soon became apparent. Ranger was a bimbo magnet.
The dancers finished their set, and one immediately strolled over to our table and straddled Ranger.
“Want a private party?” she asked.
“Not tonight,” Ranger said. He handed her a twenty, and she left.
“What about the cat-feeding theory?” I asked him.
