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Ranger strolled in and took a turkey club. “Did you get the name of the maintenance guy?”
“Mike. He’ll be there until three o’clock today.”
“Do you want to ride with me?”
“I can’t. I need to check on my fire damage and see if Lula needs help with the cook-off.”
“How are you doing with FTAs?”
“I have one open. I saved the worst for last. Cameron Manfred. Armed robbery. Connie has him living in the projects. Works for Barbara Trucking.”
“I can go out with you tonight,” Ranger said.
I PULLED THE Cayenne into the parking lot to my building and looked up at my windows. One window was broken. Looked like it was boarded over from the inside. All were ringed with black soot. Grimy water stains streaked down the yellow brick exterior. Water still pooled in the parking lot. What looked like the remains of my couch sat black and sodden alongside the Dumpster. Sometimes it was good not to have a lot of expensive stuff. Less to feel bad about when it got fire-bombed.
I took the stairs and stepped into the second-floor hall. Dillon had a couple giant fans working at drying the carpet. The door to my apartment was open, and Dillon was inside.
Dillon was around my age, and he’d been the building super for as long as I could remember. He lived in the bowels of the building in a free but tomblike efficiency. He was a nice guy who’d do anything for a six-pack of beer, and he was always mellow, in part from the small cannabis farm in his bathroom. He was a little sloppy in a hip super-casual kind of way, and he tended to show some butt-crack when he came up to fix your plumbing, but you didn’t actually mind because his butt-crack was kind of cute.
“I hope it’s okay I’m in your apartment,” Dillon said. “I wanted to get some of the waterlogged stuff out, and I have an insurance agent due any minute.”
“Fine by me,” I said. “I appreciate the help with the furniture.”
“It was a lot worse last time you were firebombed,” Dillon said. “Most of the damage this time is from water and smoke. It didn’t touch your bedroom at all. And it didn’t get to your bathroom.”
I blew out a sigh.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry it didn’t get to your bathroom. I thought about spreading some gasoline around and lighting a match in there, but I was afraid I’d blow myself up. On the bright side, I’m sure this isn’t the last time you’ll ever get firebombed, so maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”
“There’s a cheery thought.”
“Yeah, I’m a glass is half full kind of guy.”
“Speaking of glasses. I could use a beer.”
“I put some in your fridge. I figured you’d need a cold one.”
I cracked open a beer and slogged through my apartment. The curtains were history. The couch I already knew about. The rugs were sort of melted and waterlogged. No biggie on the rugs. They weren’t wonderful to begin with, and the building would replace them. My dining room table and chairs were grimy but probably would clean up okay. Everything in my bedroom smelled like smoke. Dillon had another fan working in there.
“How long before I can move in?” I asked him.
“I’ve got professional cleaners coming in later today. The carpet’s been ordered. I’ll bring a couple of my buddies in, and we’ll do the painting. If all the moons line up right, I’d say a week.”
Oh boy. Another week with Ranger. And once he solved his break-in problem, he’d stop working nights, and he’d go to bed early . . . with me. My first thought was YUM! My second thought was Help!
I stuffed Lula’s clothes into a plastic garbage bag, carted it out to the Cayenne, and drove it to the office. Connie was out when I arrived, and Lula was at Connie’s desk, answering phones.
“Vincent Plum Bail Bonds,” she said. “What do you want?” There was a pause, and Lula said, “Un-hunh, unhunh, un-hunh.” Another pause. “What did you say your name was? Did I hear Louanne Harmon? Because I’m not bailin’ out no Louanne Harmon. I suppose there’s some good Louanne Harmons out there, but the one I know is a skank ’ho. The Louanne Harmon I know told my customers I was overchargin’ for my services when I was workin’ my corner. Is this that same Louanne Harmon?” Another pause. “Well, you can kiss my ass,” Lula said. And she hung up.
Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “What was that?”
“Wrong number,” Lula said. “They wanted the DMV.”
“Where’s Connie?” I asked.
“She went to write bond for your Mr. Kaplan, and she didn’t come back yet.”
“Any word from Joyce?”
