Джанет Иванович - Fortune and Glory

“Do you think they’re coming out anytime soon?”

“Babe,” Ranger said.

“Just sayin’.”

Ranger called the Escalade plate and location in to his control room and requested that someone place a tracking device on the SUV. He turned the ignition key on the Porsche and put it in gear.

“Let’s check back on the Ewing house.”

No pickup in the driveway of the Ewing house. Shades were still down. No sign of activity. No street traffic. We were parked one house away, in front of a white colonial with black shutters.

“Let’s take a closer look,” Ranger said.

We went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. Ranger knocked. No answer. He picked the lock, and we were in. He closed and locked the door behind us.

“Bail bond enforcement!” he shouted. “Anyone here?”

Nothing.

We went room by room, looking for information that might lead us to Shine. The furnishings were basic and beige. It didn’t feel like a house that had ever been a home. Possibly a safe house for the mob. Or maybe a rental property. There was very little in the fridge. Half-and-half for coffee. A loaf of white bread. Some provolone cheese slices and deli ham. Mustard. Leftover pizza. A six-pack of beer. Two tubs of ice cream in the freezer, coffee and chocolate.

There were four bedrooms. Two with bathrooms en suite. The other two were small and shared a bathroom. Suitcases and duffel bags were mostly unpacked and open on the floor. Beds were unmade in three rooms. The third room had a perfectly made bed.

“Military,” Ranger said.

“It looks like they’ve only been here a couple days.”

“My source told me they flew in on Monday. It wasn’t clear if they were making a permanent move. The suits have families and houses in Miami. The other two guys are free agents. One of them is Shine’s nephew.”

We returned to the car and I buckled in. “Now what?”

“Now we wait to see where the suits take us,” Ranger said.

“Do you think they wear suits all the time?”

“No. I think they didn’t take a lot of clothes with them.”

“My old friends Chick and Ed. Do they have last names?”

“Ed Gruman and Chick Rizer,” Ranger said. “The nephew is Kenny Farmer. I don’t have a name for the fourth.” He pulled away from the curb. “Do you have any other leads you’d like to run down?”

“No. But I could use some backup bringing in an FTA. Last time I tried to apprehend him he stuck a syringe in Potts’s leg. He lives on Stiller Street.”

Ranger drove down Stiller Street and parked behind Trotter’s van. I gave him the paperwork and he paged through it.

“This reads like bad fiction,” Ranger said. “Who would be dumb enough to let this guy inject them?”

“Enough women to keep him in vodka and tequila.”

He gave the paperwork back to me and we went to the door. Trotter’s mother answered. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers and an orange-and-purple flowered tent dress that came to her knees. She had a cigarette stuck to her overinflated lower lip.

“We’re here to see Rodney,” I said.

“He’s in the kitchen,” she said, “but he’s busy. He might not have time to be real social.”

Ranger and I stepped around her, and I wove my way through the cluttered living room and dining room. Trotter was at the kitchen table, mixing up God-knows-what. There were measuring spoons and cups on the table, a large unlabeled canister of white powder, a large jug of canola oil, several smaller canisters, and a large mixing bowl with some glop in it.

“Hey, Trotter,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“What do I have to do to get rid of you?” Trotter said. “Shoot you? Stab you? Inject you with formaldehyde?”

“You’re in violation of your bond agreement,” Ranger said. “You need to come with us.”

“Where’d you get the all-in-black pretty boy?” Trotter asked me. “He looks like he’s auditioning for a television show.”

Trotter scooped some glop up in a measuring cup and threw it at me. I didn’t move fast enough, and I got tagged in the chest. I looked down in horror and another glob of the stuff hit me in the head.

“Stop it,” I said. “What the heck is this stuff?”

“It’s my special enhancement formula,” Trotter said. “Flour, water, oil, cream of tartar.”

“That’s Play-Doh,” I said.

“My proportions are different, and I added the oil,” Trotter said. “My enhancement formula takes longer to set up, and it goes in smooth as silk. Problem is sometimes it hardens like concrete. You don’t want to let it sit in your hair too long.”

I put my hand to the top of my head. The gunk was already starting to solidify.

“Here’s some more,” he said, hurling another cupful of glop that caught me in the forehead and oozed down my nose.

“What the fuck!” I yelled at Trotter.

In my peripheral vision I saw Ranger move toward Trotter. “Stand back,” I said to Ranger. “He’s mine. He’s going down.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” Trotter said.

He barely got the words out of his mouth when I charged across the room, snatched him by the front of his shirt, and head-butted him. I gave him a shove. He wobbled backward and sat down hard. I called him a dumb-ass, dumped the remaining glop on him and hit him in the head with the bowl. His eyes went out of focus, and I clapped cuffs on him while he was still fuzzy-brained.

Ranger went full-on grin. “Babe.”

“I have a headache,” I said. “I never head-butted anyone before.”

“Best display of female rage that I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe ever. I liked the part where you hit him with the bowl.”

“Hair is important in Jersey. You don’t dump glop in a Jersey girl’s hair.”

“No doubt,” Ranger said. “You have me convinced.”

He yanked Trotter to his feet and dragged him toward the front door.

“We’re leaving!” I yelled to Mrs. Trotter. “Rodney is coming with us.”

“Okay,” she answered from somewhere in the house. “Have a nice day.”

We got to the sidewalk. Ranger stowed Trotter in the backseat of the Porsche and opened the passenger-side door for me.

“I’m going to make a mess of your car,” I said.

“Not a problem.”

Ranger pulled up to the back of the police station and marched Trotter inside while I waited in the car. Ten minutes later, Ranger slid behind the wheel and handed me my body receipt.

“Do you want to come back to Rangeman and have me scrub you down?” he asked. “Or would you rather I take you home?”

“Home.”

I needed to regroup. And there was a good chance that I wouldn’t be able to get all of the enhancement gunk out of my hair and I would have to visit Salon Philip at the mall. Philip was a genius at cut and color. Hopefully he was also a genius at gunk removal.

Ranger left the police lot and joined the flow of morning traffic. “I talked to Rodriguez while I was in the police station,” Ranger said. “He followed every offshoot and found three exits. The Mole Hole, the Margo, and the bakery. The fourth exit was cemented closed. Probably happened when Bobby Ragucci sold his property. Rodriguez said there’s nothing down there but dirt and rats, but there might have been another tunnel near the Margo. There was a lot of debris and possibly a cave-in at one point. Beyond that there’s no secret hideaway where there might be a safe.”

“Grandma’s going to be disappointed.”

“Why is this treasure so important to her?”

“She has a bucket list.”

Ranger stopped for a light and looked at me. “How about you? What’s in your bucket list?”

I was stumped. I didn’t have a bucket list. My bucket was empty. “I haven’t gotten around to making a bucket list,” I said. “Do you think that’s a personal failure?”