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“As long as it always comes back.”
I repeated my conversation with Hal and Ramon.
“This business runs on trust,” Ranger said. “Ninety-five percent of the time, the work is mundane. When it rolls over into the other five percent, you need total confidence that the man watching your back is on the job. Knowing there’s an unidentified weak link in the organization puts stress on everyone.”
I left Ranger and walked through the building. I couldn’t listen at doors or rifle through files, because I was always on camera. I peeked into the conference rooms and strolled halls. I stuck my head into the gym but stayed away from the locker room. The garage, the practice range, some high-security holding rooms were below ground, and I didn’t go there. The men I encountered gave me a courteous nod and returned to work. No invitations to stay and chat.
I returned to Ranger. “You have a well-oiled machine,” I told him. “Everything looks neat and clean and secure.”
He almost raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“How much am I paying you?”
“Not enough.”
“If you want more money, you’re going to have to perform more services,” he said.
“Are you flirting with me again?”
“No. I’m trying to bribe you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Would you like to think about it over dinner?”
“No can do,” I said. “I promised Lula I’d test-drive some barbecue sauce with her.”
FIVE
I DROPPED INTO the office a little after five. Connie was shuffling papers around and Lula was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Lula? I thought we were supposed to eat barbecue tonight?”
“Turns out, Lula only has a hot plate in her apartment, and she couldn’t get the ribs to fit on it, so she had to find someplace else to cook.”
“She could have used my kitchen.”
“Yeah, she considered that, but we didn’t have a key. And we thought you might not have a lot of equipment.”
“I have a pot and a fry pan. Is she at your house?”
“Are you insane? No way would I let her into my kitchen. I won’t even let her work the office coffeemaker.”
“So where is she?”
“She’s at your parents’ house. She’s been there all afternoon, cooking with your grandmother.”
Oh boy. My father is Italian descent and my mother is Hungarian. From the day I was born to this moment, I can’t remember ever seeing anything remotely resembling barbecue sauce in my parents’ house. My parents don’t even have a grill. My mom fries hot dogs and what would pass for a hamburger.
“I guess I’ll head over there and see how it’s going,” I said to Connie. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Not even a little.”
MY PARENTS AND my Grandma Mazur live in a narrow two-story house that shares a common wall with another narrow two-story house. The three-hundred-year-old woman living in the attached house painted her half lime green because the paint was on sale. My parents’ half is painted mustard yellow and brown. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. Neither house is going to make Architectural Digest, but they feel right for the neighborhood and they look like home.
I parked at the curb, behind Lula’s Firebird, and I let myself into the house. Ordinarily, my grandmother or mother would be waiting for me at the door, driven there by some mystical maternal instinct that alerts them to my approach. Today they were occupied in the kitchen.
