Ranger pulled up in the Mercedes, and idled at the door. I gave Mr. Morganthal a tweak on the cheek and sashayed out, swinging my hips, wetting my lips. I poured myself into the Mercedes and crossed my legs.
Ranger looked at me and smiled. “I told you to get his attention . . . not start a riot. Maybe you should button one more button.”
I batted my eyelashes at him, in fake-?flirt, which actually wasn't totally fake. “You don't like it?” I said. Hah! Take that, Morelli. Who needs you!
Ranger reached over and flipped the next two buttons open, exposing me to mid-?belly. “That's the way I like it,” he said, the smile still in place.
Shit! I quickly rebuttoned the buttons. “Wise guy,” I said. Okay, so he called my bluff. No reason to panic. Just file it away for future reference. Not ready for Ranger!
Mr. Morganthal came out and shook his finger at us.
“I think I just sullied your reputation,” Ranger said, putting the car in gear.
“Probably more like you helped me live up to expectations.”
We cruised across town and parked half a block from the bar on the opposite side of the street.
Ranger took a photo from behind the sun visor. “This is Ryan Perin. He's a regular here. Comes every day after work. Has two drinks. Goes home. Never parks his car more than half a block away on the street. He knows the dealer's trying to get it back, and he's nervous. Comes out to check on it every few minutes. Your job is to make sure he keeps his eyes on you—not the car. Keep him in the building.”
“Why are you taking it here?”
“When he's home the car's in a locked garage, and the regular repo people can't get at it. When he's at work he parks it in a garage with an attendant who takes his Christmas bonus seriously.” Ranger made a gun sign with his hand, finger and thumb extended. “For that matter, Perin carries too and isn't slow on the draw. That's why we need to finesse the car. Nobody wants bloodshed.”
“What does this guy do for a living?”
“Lawyer. Sending all his money up his nose these days.”
A dark green Jaguar rolled past us. There were no spaces open on the street. Just as he got to the end of the block a car pulled out, and the jag slid in place.
“Wow,” I said, “that was lucky.”
“No,” Ranger said. “That was Tank. We have cars parked all along this street, so Perin has to park down there.”
Perin angled out of the car, beeped the alarm on, and headed for Mike's.
I looked at Ranger. “Will the alarm be a problem?”
“None at all.”
Perin disappeared into the building.
“Okay,” Ranger said. “Go get 'em, Slick. I'll give you a five-?minute lead, and then I'll call the truck in.” He gave me a buzzer. “If something goes wrong, hit the panic button. I'll come get you when the car's cleared the street.”
Perin was dressed in a blue pinstripe. He was in his early forties, with thinning sandy blond hair and an athletic build gone soft. I stepped just to the side of the door and waited while my eyes adjusted to the change in light. There were mostly men in the room, but there were a few
women, too. The women were in clusters. The men tended to be alone, eyes turned to the TV. Perin was easy to spot. He was at the far end of the polished mahogany bar. The bartender set a drink in front of him. Something clear on the rocks.
There were chairs open on either side of Perin, but I didn't want to sit down and start a conversation. I didn't want him to feel singled out. If he was nervous the direct approach might be too obvious. So I walked toward him, rummaging in my bag, looking absorbed in finding whatever. And just as I reached his stool I faked a stumble. Not enough to go down to the ground, but enough to knock into him, clutching at his sleeve for support.
“Omigod,” I said. “I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I wasn't watching where I was going and . . .” I looked down. “It's these shoes! I'm just not a high-?heel person.”
“What kind of a person are you?” Perin asked.
I gave him the million-?dollar smile. “I think maybe I'm a barefoot person.” I slid onto the stool next to him and signaled the bartender. “Boy, I really need a drink. It's been one of those days.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “What do you do?”
“I'm a lingerie buyer.” Used to be, anyway, before I started bounty-?huntering.