Notorious Nineteen(3)

I leaned against the building. “It was a bad choice of cars.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know that. All’s he saw was two women sitting in a car like a couple dummies. He probably figured if we was stupid enough to be sitting in the car, we was stupid enough to give it over to him.”

“He was wrong.”

“Not by much,” Lula said.

Fifteen minutes later Ranger eased his black Porsche Cayenne to a stop in front of Lula and me. I got into the front passenger seat, and Lula got into the back.

Ranger glanced at the charred cadaver of twisted metal and smoldering tires that used to be my car. “Yours?” he asked me.

“Yep,” I said.

“Do I need to know how this happened?”

“Nope.”

Ranger idled in front of the bonds office and Lula got out. I moved to follow Lula, and Ranger wrapped his hand around my wrist. “Stay. I want to talk to you.”

I’m not currently in a physical relationship with Ranger. Ranger has clear priorities and matrimony isn’t high on the list. In fact, it isn’t on the list at all. Until recently marriage hasn’t been high on my priorities list either, but my mother feels otherwise, and as much as I hate to admit it my mother is wearing me down.

“I need a date,” Ranger said.

My voice ratcheted up an octave. “You want me to get you a date?”

“No. I want you to be my date. I have to attend a black tie event, and I need someone watching my back.”

“Me?” I wasn’t exactly The Terminator.

“People would talk if I brought Tank.”

Tank is appropriately named. He’s Ranger’s shadow and second in command at Rangeman. And Ranger was right. Tank would make a controversial date.

“When is this?” I asked Ranger.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow? I can’t just drop everything and do this tomorrow. You should have asked me sooner. I’m seeing Morelli. It’s Friday date night. We’re going to the movies and then . . .”

“I can give you a better and then,” Ranger said.

I went breathless for a beat at the thought of Ranger’s and then. Morelli was an amazing lover, but Ranger was magic. I pulled myself together and narrowed my eyes at Ranger, hoping I looked determined.

“You and I are done doing and then with each other,” I said. “There is absolutely no more and then. Morelli and I have an understanding.”

“Which is?”

“It’s vague.”

“Babe.”

“I’m serious this time. I might be ready to have a committed adult relationship.”

Joe Morelli is a Trenton cop working plainclothes, crimes against persons. I’ve known him forever and our relationship has progressed from downright hostile, to deliciously hot, to maybe we could actually live with each other without complete mayhem. He’s six feet of hard muscle and Italian libido. His hair is black and wavy. His eyes are brown and assessing. His style is casual. He wears jeans, untucked shirts, and a Glock 19, and he has a big shaggy dog named Bob.

“I’ll pay you,” Ranger said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll hire you for the night. You can be my bodyguard.”

At the risk of sounding mercenary, this got my attention. I was a month behind on my rent, and I wasn’t having great luck with the fugitive apprehension stuff. Vinnie had mostly low bond skips this month, and I was barely making pizza money, much less rent money. And I was pretty sure I could muster enough self-control to keep from ripping Ranger’s clothes off.

“What exactly would bodyguarding entail?” I asked him.

“The usual. You take a bullet for me if necessary, and you manage the small talk.”

“You can’t manage your own small talk?”

“Making polite conversation isn’t at the top of my skill set.”

“I’ve noticed.” Okay, so this doesn’t sound so bad, plus I’d get dinner, right? “What time will you pick me up?”

“Six o’clock. This event is in Atlantic City. Dinner is at eight.”





TWO

I LEFT RANGER and joined Lula in the bonds office. The building was brand-new and light-years better than the old office. It had been built on the same footprint as the old office but the walls were freshly painted, the tile on the floor was unscuffed, the furniture was inexpensive but comfortable and free from food and coffee stains.

Lula had claimed her usual spot on the faux leather couch, and Connie, the office manager, was at her desk. Connie is a couple years older than me, a much better shot, and better connected. Connie’s family is old school Italian mob and far more professional than Trenton’s gangsta morons when it comes to crime-related skills such as whacking, hijacking, and money laundering. Connie looks a lot like Betty Boop with big hair and a mustache. Today she was wearing a short black pencil skirt, a wide black patent-leather belt, and a tight red sweater with a low scoop neck that showed a lot of her Betty Boopness.