Ranger angled from behind the wheel, walked to the rear of the Range Rover, and opened the door. He gave everyone a flak vest, and then he gave everyone a black windbreaker that had SECURITY printed in large white letters on the back.
I strapped my vest on and watched while everyone else buckled on black nylon web utility belts and holstered guns.
“Let me take a wild guess here,” Ranger said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “You forgot to bring your gun.”
“Interior decorators don't use guns.”
“They do in this neighborhood.”
The men were lined up in front of me.
“Gentlemen,” Ranger said, “this is Ms. Plum.”
/> The indeterminate-?origin guy put his hand out. “Lester Santos.”
The next man in line did the same. “Bobby Brown.”
The last man was Tank. It was easy to see how he'd come by the name.
“I better not get into trouble for this,” I said to Ranger. “I'm going to be really bummed if I get arrested. I hate getting arrested.”
Santos grinned. “Man, you don't like to get shot. You don't like to get arrested. You don't know how to have fun at all.”
Ranger shrugged into his jacket and set off, crossing the street with the band of merry men closing ranks behind him.
We entered the building and climbed two flights of stairs. Ranger went to 3C and listened at the door. The rest of us flattened against the wall. No one spoke. Ranger and Santos stood, guns in hand. Brown and Tank held flashlights.
I braced myself, expecting Ranger to kick the door down, but instead, he took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The door started to open but caught on a security chain. Ranger took two steps back and threw himself at the door, catching the door at chain height with his shoulder. The door popped open, and Ranger was in first. Then everyone was in except me. Lights flashed on. Ranger shouted, “Security!” and everything was chaos. Half-?naked people were scrambling off floor mattresses. Women were shrieking. Men were swearing.
Ranger's team went room by room, cuffing people, lining them up against the living room wall. Six people in all.
One of the men was berserk, waving his arms to avoid getting cuffed. “You can't do this, you fuckers,” he was yelling. “This is my apartment. This is private property. Somebody call the fucking police.” He pulled a knife from his pants pocket and flicked it open.
Tank grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and threw him out the window.
Everyone went still, staring dumbstruck at the shattered glass. My mouth was open and my heart had gone dead in my chest.
Ranger didn't look all that disturbed. “Have to replace that window,” he said.
I heard a groan and some scraping sounds. I crossed the room to the window and looked out. The guy with the knife was spreadeagle on the fire escape, making feeble attempts to right himself.
I clapped a hand to my heart, relieved to find it had started beating again. “He's on the fire escape! God, for a minute there I thought you dumped him three stories.”
Tank looked out the window with me. “You're right. He's on the fire escape. Sonovagun.”
It was a small apartment. One small bedroom, one small bath, small kitchen, small living room. Kitchen counters were littered with fast-?food wrappers and bags, empty soda cans, food-?encrusted plates, and cheap, dented pots. The Formica was scarred with burn marks from cigarettes and crack cookers. Used syringes, half-?eaten bagels, filthy dish towels, and unidentifiable garbage clogged the sink. Two stained and torn mattresses had been pushed against the wall in the living room. No lamps, no tables, no chairs, no sign that civilized man occupied the apartment. Just filth and clutter. The same refuse that banked against gutters outside filled the rooms of 3C. The air was stale with the odors of urine and pot and unwashed bodies and something nastier.
Santos and Brown herded the bedraggled occupants into the hall and down the stairs.
“What happens to them now?” I asked Ranger.
“Bobby'll drive them over to the meth clinic and drop them off. They're on their own from there.”
“No arrests?”
“We don't do arrests. Not unless someone's FTA.”
Tank returned from the car with a cardboard box filled with interior decorating supplies, which in this case consisted of disposable gloves, trash bags, and a coffee can for syringes.