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“I hated to leave Darlene like that,” Lula said when we were back on the road.
“Her sister seems nice. She’ll take care of her.”
“I guess. But it’s terrible to see someone get beat up like that.”
It was almost lunchtime when we pulled into the Mole Hole parking lot. Lula and I went inside and sat at a table that gave us a view of the inner sanctum door. No way to know who was inside.
We ordered lunch and watched the door. The two slick-haired kids who worked for Benny the Skootch went in and came out five minutes later. No sign of Stan. We got our mega-burgers and fries, and a waitress exited the kitchen and went to the door. She had three plates, plus sides, stacked on a large tray. She balanced the tray on her shoulder and knocked on the door. It opened and she went in. She came out minutes later without the food.
“He’s in there,” I said.
“You don’t know for sure,” Lula said.
“I have a feeling.”
“Oh boy.” She added extra salt and ketchup to her burger. “How are you going to get him out?”
“I guess I’m going to drag him out.”
“You and who else?”
“You. And Ranger.”
“Okay, now you’re talking.”
I called Ranger and asked for help. I told him to give me ten minutes so I could finish my lunch.
“Babe,” he said. End of conversation.
After eight minutes I pushed back from the table.
“Are you carrying?” I asked Lula.
“Do bears poop in the woods?” Lula said.
“Pass me your gun under the table.”
“Say what?”
“I need a gun, and mine is home in the cookie jar.”
“I got a Glock nine with me,” Lula said. “Do you know how to use a Glock nine?”
“You pull the trigger and it goes bang?”
“That would be your little Smith and Wesson.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t intend to use it.”
I slipped Lula’s Glock into my sweatshirt pocket and went to the bar. I ordered a Coke and watched the front door. At precisely ten minutes after I hung up with Ranger, the front door opened, and Ranger and Tank walked in.
Tank is appropriately named. He’s huge and has tough guy written all over him. He was in special ops with Ranger, and he’s the number-two guy at Rangeman. He’s the guy who watches Ranger’s back. They were in Rangeman black fatigues, wearing full gun belts. Sidearms strapped to their legs. If I didn’t know them and was seeing them for the first time, I’d flat-out have a panic attack.
Since I’d slept with one of them and knew what he was capable of doing, the adrenaline surge that would have fueled a panic attack instead produced a rush of sexual desire so strong I almost dropped Lula’s gun.
The bartender spotted them and reached for the phone, just as I thought he would. Standard operating procedure. This was how I got to meet Stan. I pulled myself together and discreetly pointed the Glock at the bartender, suggesting that he take a step back away from the phone. I caught Ranger’s eye and directed his attention to the door behind the bar. By the time Ranger and Tank reached the door, the Mole Hole had emptied out. The floor-show music was still playing, but there was no pole girl.
