“Do you ever see her?”
“When I'm in the area.”
Who was this man? He owned office buildings in Boston. And he was the father of a nine-?year-?old. I was having a hard time merging this new knowledge into my mental Ranger-?the-?gunrunner/bounty-?hunter file.
“Tell me about the bomb,” Ranger said. “I get the feeling I'm not up to speed on your life.”
I told him my theory.
He was still slouched back, but the line of his mouth had tightened. “Bombs aren't good, Babe. They're real messy. Give you a real bad hair day.”
“You have any ideas?”
“Yeah, you ever think about taking a vacation?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I can't afford a vacation.”
“I'll give you an advance on services performed.”
I felt my face flush. “About those services—”
He lowered his voice. “I don't pay for the kind of service you're worried about.”
Yeeesh.
I dug into my pasta. “I wouldn't go anyway. I'm not giving up on Uncle Fred. And where would I leave Rex? And Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I couldn't miss Halloween.”
Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I love the crisp air and the pumpkins and spooky decorations. I never cared about the candy I collected when I was a kid. I got psyched over the dress-?up part. Maybe this says something about my personality, but put me behind a mask, and I'm a happy person. Not one of those ugly, sweaty rubber things that fit over your whole head. I like the kind that just fits around the eyes and makes you look like the Lone Ranger. And face paint is very cool, too.
“Of course, I don't go out trick-?or-?treating anymore,” I said, stabbing a piece of sausage. “I go over to my parents' house now and give out candy. Grandma Mazur and I always get dressed up for when the kids come around. Last year I was Zorro, and Grandma was Lily Muns
ter. I think this year she's going to be a Spice Girl.”
“I could see you as Zorro,” Ranger said.
Zorro is actually one of my favorite people. Zorro is the shit.
I had tiramisù for dessert because Ranger was paying, and because Rossini's made orgasmic tiramisù. Ranger skipped dessert, of course, not wanting to pollute his body with sugar, not desiring an extra ripple in his washboard stomach. I scarfed up the last smidgens of cake and custard and reached under the tablecloth to discreetly pop the top snap on my jeans.
I'm not a fanatic about weight. Truth is, I don't even own a scale. I judge my weight by the way my jeans fit. And unpleasant as it is to admit, these jeans weren't fitting at all. I needed a better diet. And I needed an exercise program. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, no more taking the elevator to the second floor, no more doughnuts for breakfast.
I studied Ranger as he drove me home, details seen in the flash of oncoming headlights and overhead streetlights. He wore no rings. A watch on his left wrist. Wide nylon band. No studs in his ears today. He had a network of fine lines around his eyes. The lines were from sun, not age. My best guess was that Ranger was somewhere between twenty-?five and thirty-?five. No one knew for sure. And no one knew much of his background. He moved easily through the underbelly of Trenton, speaking the language, walking the walk of the projects and minority neighborhoods. There'd been no trace of that Ranger tonight. Tonight he'd sounded more Wall Street than Stark Street.
The ride back to my building was quiet. Ranger pulled into my lot, and I did a quick scan for creepy people. Finding none, I had my door open before the car came to a complete stop. No sense lingering in the dark, alone with Ranger, tempting fate. I'd made enough of an ass of myself last time when I was half snockered.
“You in a hurry?” Ranger said, looking amused.
“Things to do.”
I moved to get out of the car, and he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. “You're going to be careful,” he said.
“Y-?y-?yes.”
“And you're going to carry your gun.”
“Yes.”
“Loaded.”