Ramirez shook his head. “I don't know Joe Morelli. I only know he shot Ziggy.” He looked around at the rest of the men. “Any of you seen that guy Morelli?”
No one responded.
“I've been told there was a witness to the shooting and that the witness has disappeared,” I said. “Do you have any idea who that witness might be?”
Again, no response.
I pushed on. “How about Carmen Sanchez? Do you know Carmen? Did Ziggy ever speak of her?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Ramirez said.
We were standing close to the big old-fashioned windows in the front of the room, and for no reason other than instinct, I shifted my attention to the building across the street. Again, the shadowy figure in the same third-floor window. A man, I thought. I couldn't tell if he was black or white. Not that it mattered.
Ramirez stroked my jacket sleeve. “Would you like a Coke? We got a Coke machine here. I could buy you a soda.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I have a busy morning, and I really should be moving along. If you spot Morelli, I'd appreciate a call.”
“Most girls think it's a treat for the champ to buy them a soda.”
Not this girl, I thought. This girl thought the champ was possibly missing a few marbles. And this girl didn't like the climate of the gym.
“I'd really love to stay and have a soda,” I said, “but I have an early lunch date.” With a box of Fig Newtons.
“It's not good to go rushing around. You should stay and relax a little. Your date won't mind.”
I shifted my weight, trying to inch away while I enhanced the lie. “Actually, it's a business luncheon with Sergeant Gazarra.”
“I don't believe you,”
Ramirez said. His smile had turned tight, and the civility had slipped from his voice. “I think you're lying about lunch.”
I felt tendrils of panic curl into my stomach, and I cautioned myself not to overreact. Ramirez was playing with me. Showing off in front of his friends. Probably stung because I hadn't succumbed to his charms. Now he had to save face.
I made a display of looking at my watch. “Sorry you feel that way, but I'm supposed to meet Gazarra in ten minutes. He's not going to be pleased if I'm late.”
I took a step backward, and Ramirez grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, his fingers digging in with enough force to make me hunch involuntarily.
“You're not going anywhere, Stephanie Plum,” he whispered. “The champ isn't done with you yet.”
The silence in the gym was oppressive. No one moved. No one voiced an objection. I looked at each of the men and received only blank stares back. No one's going to help me, I thought, feeling the first licks of real fear.
I lowered my voice to match Ramirez's soft pitch. “I came here as a member of the law enforcement community. I came looking for information to help me with the recovery of Joe Morelli, and I gave you no reason to misinterpret my intentions. I'm conducting myself as a professional, and I expect you to respect that.”
Ramirez dragged me closer. “Something you got to understand about the champ,” he said. “First off, you don't tell the champ about respect. And second, you got to know the champ always gets what he wants.” He gave me a shake. “You know what the champ wants right now? The champ wants you to be nice to him, baby. Real nice. Gotta make up for refusing him. Show him some respect.” His gaze shifted to my breasts. “Maybe show him some fear. You afraid of me, bitch?”
Any woman with an IQ over twelve would be afraid of Benito Ramirez.
He giggled and all the little hairs on my arm stood straight out.
“You're scared now,” he said in his whispery voice. “I can smell it. Pussy fear. Bet it making your pants wet. Maybe I should put my hand in your pants and find out.”
I had a gun in my bag, and I'd use it if I had to, but not until all else had failed. Ten minutes of instruction hadn't made me a crack shot. That's okay, I told myself. I didn't want to kill anyone. I just wanted to back everyone up enough to get the hell out. I slid my hand over the leather bag until I felt the gun, hard and unyielding under my palm.
Reach in, get the gun, I thought. Take aim at Ramirez and look serious. Could I pull the trigger? I honestly didn't know. I had my doubts. I hoped I wouldn't have to take it that far.
“Let go of my neck,” I said. “This is the last time I'm telling you.”
“Nobody tell the champ what to do,” he roared, his composure gone, his face twisted and ugly. For a split second the door swung open, and I caught a glimpse of the inner man—a glimpse of insanity, and of hellfires burning and hatred so strong it whipped my breath away.