Okay, I thought, so that didn’t go exactly as expected. No problem. I’d just back-burner the commitment speech until Morelli’s house emptied out. In fact, now that I’d had time to think about it, I might have been rushing things. Maybe my self-improvement project should start with the new car and new job, and then I could ease into the family scene. And if I was going to be brutally honest I’d have to admit I liked kids but might not be ready for the toddler-rolling-in-dog-poop experience. And an even more painful truth was that I couldn’t wash away my Ranger lust and expect my hormones to be suddenly regulated by an engagement ring. I was going to have to get a grip on the hormones all by myself. And I would have to do it before I made the big commitment speech.
Without any effort at all on my part, my car somehow drove itself to Rangeman. I idled across the street from the neat seven-story brownstone and stared into the reflective impact-proof windows. I sat there comparing the men in my life, weighing my options, and not having a lot of luck at seeing my future. My future was murky. The crystal ball was hazy.
Ranger called on my cellphone.
“You’ve been sitting in front of the building for twenty minutes. Is there a problem?”
“Yes. It’s my future. It’s murky.”
“Solving murky futures isn’t my strong suit,” Ranger said.
“It has to do with this physical attraction I feel for you. I was thinking you might want to come over tonight, and you could help me figure some things out.”
“Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
I assumed that was a yes, but it was hard to tell with Ranger.
I pulled the new file out of my bag and paged through it. Antwan Brown. AKA “Ants.” Nineteen. Wanted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. Listed his mother as Shoshanna Brown with a New Orleans address. No father. No place of employment. No phone number. Secured his bail bond with a Rolex and a diamond ring. Stolen, no doubt. I studied his photo. The booking mugshot showed two teardrop tattoos on his cheek. That meant he’d killed two people. The full-length candid Vinnie’d taken when he wrote the bond showed a lean guy with some muscle: 5’ 7” and 180 pounds.
I checked my bag for goodies. Self-defense spray. Illegal stun gun. Cuffs. Maglite in case I had to break his knees. I was good to go.
I drove to Stark Street and counted off blocks. The address Ants had given was in the dead zone: a block of burned-out buildings inhabited by crazies and crackheads. It was unlikely he was living in anything on this block. And if he was living here he would go undisturbed because I had no intention of stopping here, much less going in.
I made a U-turn and drove back to the first block of Stark where I felt it was safe to park. I read through the entire file one more time, but I couldn’t find anything helpful. I had no starting point. No relatives. No friends. No work address. I called Morelli and could barely hear him answer over the background noise.
“Hold on,” he shouted into the phone. “I’m going outside.”
A couple beats later the noise went away. “What’s up?” Morelli asked. “Do you want to come back? You didn’t get any wings.”
“I’m working, and I need some help.”
“Anything.”
“Really? Anything?”
“Almost anything,” Morelli said.
“I’m looking for Antwan Brown, and I have nothing on him. No relatives. No friends. No address.”
“Good. Walk away from it. He’s a really bad guy. If you let him hang out long enough one of his friends will kill him, and you can collect the body.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“The thought of you going after Ants Brown gives me a cramp in my ass.”
“I’ll be careful. I just want to find him, and then I’ll get help with the apprehension.”
“He’s a Stone Dead gang member. He’ll be hanging with other Deads, and the Deads own the fifth block of Stark. Their color is purple. Their name is significant. These losers are dead inside. They’ve grown up with so much violence it’s normal to them. They’re like zombies. They feel no remorse. You do not want to go up against one of them. If you find this guy I want you to call me, and I’ll send out the SWAT team.”
NINETEEN
THE BUILDINGS ON the fifth block of Stark were covered with gang graffiti. It was Sunday, and most of the street-level businesses were closed and shuttered. A convenience store was open and a bar was open. It was a beautiful warm day, but no one was out. No stoop sitters. No strollers. A couple sullen teenagers stood smoking outside the convenience store. Neither of them looked like Ants. Maybe all the gangsta gangbangers were watching the Mets. Maybe they were all inside sharpening their knives and cleaning their guns for a fun night on the town.