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“What’s the plan?” I asked Ranger.
“This bakery is owned by Benny the Skootch’s cousin, Emelio. It’s mostly used to launder money, and it has no security beyond a locked door. There’s a tunnel exit in the basement. We can use it to get into the Mole Hole back room. Less complicated than going through the front or back door of the Mole Hole after hours.”
“Have you ever been in the tunnel?” I asked Ranger. “There are rats in the tunnel.”
“And?”
“Rats! Big rats! Lots of them.”
“Babe,” Ranger said.
Depending on the tone, babe could have many different meanings with Ranger. This babe was said with the slight hint of a smile. I amused him.
“Maybe not so many rats,” Ramone said. “I understand there was a fire down there.”
Ranger moved to the bakery’s back door, inserted a slim pick, and the lock clicked open.
“Stay close behind me when we’re in the tunnel,” Ranger said. “Ramone will watch your back.”
We walked through a small storeroom filled with racks of white bakery bags and unassembled white bakery boxes, large jars of food coloring, multicolored sprinkles, granulated sugar, powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar. The storeroom led to a room with a couple of refrigerators and a workbench.
“Where do they bake things?” I asked.
“In Carteret,” Ranger said. “It all gets trucked in and they do some decorating here.”
“That’s disappointing,” I said. “I always imagined Carlotta dusted in flour, baking bread and cupcakes before the sun came up.”
“It gets worse,” Ranger said, opening a door and shining his light on a flight of stairs that led to the basement. “There’s no Carlotta. There’s just Emelio and a couple minimum-wage cannoli fille
rs.”
I followed Ranger down the stairs to a crude cellar that housed an ancient-looking water heater and furnace. Ranger opened another door, and we stepped into an offshoot of the Mole Hole tunnel.
I looked at the roughly carved dirt that was supported by wood beams and occasionally rebar, and I gave an involuntary shudder.
“This is safe, right?” I asked Ranger.
“Probably on a level with driving the Jersey Turnpike,” Ranger said.
Ranger had the big Maglite beam focused a good distance ahead of us. I had my little pocket light shining on the ground in front of my feet. I could hear Ramone close behind me. So far, no rats, bats, giant spiders, or insane arsonists.
We reached a T-intersection, and Ranger turned to the left.
“You’ve been in this tunnel system before,” I said to Ranger.
“Years ago, when I was working as an agent for Vinnie, I tracked a couple skips down here.”
I flashed my light on a support beam and saw that it had been superficially charred. This was the part of the tunnel Lou Salgusta had set on fire. Ranger made another turn, we passed under the overhead light and stood in the concrete passageway that led to the trapdoor.
“We need to kill the lights,” Ranger said. “Ramone has infrared goggles, and I have a penlight.”
He went up the ladder, found the hidden spring-latch that had eluded Lula and me, and quietly opened the trapdoor. I followed. Ramone came last, wearing the goggles.
“Someone made Swiss cheese out of this trapdoor,” Ramone said.
“That would be me,” I told him. “I couldn’t find the latch.”
Ranger wrapped his hand around my wrist, and I got a rush. His hand was warm, and I could feel him close beside me in the total darkness. I was basically blind in the absence of light, but Ranger had vision like a cat. He’d grasped my wrist, so he could guide me across the room to the safe. I heard Ramone move past us and stop.
