09 To the Nines (8 page)

I gave Sonji my card and a twenty. “Give me a call if you see Singh.”

Sonji disappeared behind her closed door and Lula and I trudged down the stairs. We went outside, walked around the building to the backyard, and looked up at Howie s single window.

“Could be me living here,” Lula said. “I still got some pain from what that maniac Ramirez did to me, but turned out it was a favor. He stopped me from being a ho. When I got out of the hospital I knew I had to change my life. God works in strange ways.”

Benito Ramirez was an insane boxer who loved inflicting pain. He'd beaten Lula to within an inch of her life and tied her to my fire escape. I found her body, bloody and battered. Ramirez wanted the beating to serve as a lesson for Lula and for me.

I thought getting brutalized like that was a pretty harsh wake-up call.

“So what do you think?” Lula asked. “You think Singh could be hiding out up there?”

It was possible. But it was a long shot. There were a million reasons why Singh could have been looking for Howie. And for that matter, I wasn't even sure I had the right guy. There were a lot of McDonald's around. Singh could have been calling McDonald's in Hong Kong for all I knew.

I'd been keeping watch for the gray Sentra, but it hadn't surfaced. It could be in a nearby garage. Or it could be in Mexico. A rusted fire escape precariously clung to the back of the building. The ladder had been dropped and hung just a few inches from the ground. “I could go up the fire escape,” I said. “Then I could look in the window.”

“Now you're the nut. That things falling apart. No way I'm going up that rusted-out piece of junk.”

I grabbed a rail and pulled. The rail held tight. “It's in better shape than it looks,” I said. “It'll hold me.”

“Maybe. But it sure as hell won't hold me.”

Only one of us needed to go anyway. I'd be up and down in a couple minutes. And I'd be able to see if there was any indication of Singh or the dog. “You need to stay on the ground and do lookout anyway,” I told Lula.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I went hand over hand up the ladder and pulled myself onto the first level. I climbed the second ladder, steadied myself on the third-floor platform, and looked into Howie's window. Howie lived directly under the roof. There were rafters where the ceiling should be and the floor was chipped linoleum. Howie had a sofa that was lumpy and faded, but looked comfy in a dilapidated sort of way. He had a small television and a card table and two metal folding chairs. That was the extent of his furniture. A sink hung on a far wall. A half refrigerator had been placed beside the sink. There were two wood shelves over the refrigerator. Howie had stacked two plates, two bowls, and two mugs on one of the shelves. The other shelf held condiments, a couple boxes of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and a bag of chips.

When you come right down to it, this is really all anyone needs, isn't it? A television and a bag of chips.

I could see the front door and a doorway leading to another room, but the second room wasn't visible. The bedroom, obviously. I tried the window, but it was either locked or painted shut.

“Coming down,” I said to Lula. “No dog biscuits on the kitchen shelf.” I put my foot on the ladder and it disintegrated in a shower of rust flakes and chunks of broken metal. The chunks of metal crashed onto the second-floor platform and the whole thing pulled away from the building, and with more of a sigh than a screech the entire bottom half of the fire escape landed on the ground in front of Lula.

“Hunh,” Lula said.

I looked down at Lula. Too far to jump. The only way off the platform was through Howie's apartment.

“Are you coming down soon?” Lula asked. “I'm getting hungry.”

“I don't want to break his window.”

“You got any other choices?”

I dialed Ranger on my cell phone.

“I'm sort of stuck,” I told Ranger.

Ten minutes later, Ranger opened Howie's apartment door, crossed the room, unlocked and raised the window, and looked out at the mangled mess of metal on the ground. He raised his eyes to mine and the almost smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Good job, Destructo.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

He dragged me through the window, into the apartment. “It never is.”

“I wanted to see if there were any signs that Singh or the dog had been here. I don't have much to tie Howie to Singh, but once I get past Howie I have nothing.”

Ranger closed and locked the window. “I don't see any boxes of dog biscuits.”

“Poor little Boo.” The instant I said it I knew it was a mistake. I clapped my hand over my mouth and looked at Ranger.

“I could help you with these maternal urges,” Ranger said.

“Get me pregnant?”

“I was going to suggest a visit to the animal shelter.” He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled me close. “But I could get you pregnant if that's what you really want.”

“Nice of you to want to help,” I said, “but I think I'll pass on both offers.”

“Good decision.” He released my shirt. “Let's take a look at the rest of the apartment.”

We moved from the living room to the bedroom and found more clutter, but no evidence of Singh or Boo. Howie had placed a double mattress on the floor and covered it with an inexpensive quilt. There were two cardboard boxes filled with neatly folded pants and shirts and underwear. The poor man's dresser. No closet in the room. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. It was the only light source. A laptop computer with a cracked screen was on the floor near the only outlet.

I looked around. “No bathroom.”

“There's a common bathroom on the second floor.”

Yikes. Howie shares a bathroom with the scabby ho and her crackhead friends. I tried to remember if he used gloves when he handled my food.

“Spartan,” I said to Ranger.

“Adequate,” Ranger said. He looked down at the mattress.

“I don't think Howie's been sharing his apartment with anyone lately.”

I was feeling a little panicky about being alone in a room with a mattress and Ranger, so I scooted out of the room and out of Howie's apartment. Ranger followed and closed and locked Howie's door. We descended the stairs in silence.

Ranger was smiling when we got to the front foyer. Not the half smile, either. This was a full-on smile.

I narrowed my eyes at the smile. “What?”

“It's always fun to see you get worried about a mattress.”

Lula hustled over. “So what's going on?” Lula asked. “You find anything up there? Any dog hairs in the bedroom?”

“Nothing. It was clean,” I told her.

Lula turned her attention to Ranger. “I didn't hear you breaking any doors down.”

“It wasn't necessary to break the door down.”

“How'd you do it then? You use a pick? You use some electronic gizmo? I wish I could open doors like you.”

“I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you,” Ranger said.

It was an old line, but it was worrisome when Ranger said it.

“Hunh,” Lula said.

“Tell me about Boo and Singh,” I said to Ranger. “Who saw them. Where were they?”

“A kid working the drive-through window at Cluck in a Bucket saw him. He remembered Singh and the dog because the dog was barking and jumping around. He said Singh got a bucket of chicken and two strawberry shakes and the dog ate two pieces of chicken before Singh got the window rolled up to drive off.”

“Guess he was hungry.”

“Speaking of hungry,” Lula said. “We haven't had lunch yet.”

“We just had a cheeseburger,” I told her.

“We shared it. That don't count. If you share, it's a snack.”

“I want to go back to talk to Howie at one o'clock. Can you wait until then?”

“I guess. What are we going to do in the meantime?”

“I want to wander around the neighborhood. Maybe snoop in a few garages.”

Lula looked up and down the street. “You're going to snoop in this neighborhood? You got a gun on you?”

Ranger reached behind him, under his shirt, and pulled out a .38. He pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and he shoved the .38 under my waistband and draped my shirt over the gun. The gun was warm with his body heat and his fingers had been even warmer sliding across my belly.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

He curled his hand around my neck and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Be careful.” And he was gone. Off to make the world a better place in his shiny new black Porsche.

“He had his hand in your pants and he kissed you,” Lula said. “I'm wetting myself.”

“It wasn't like that. He gave me a gun.”

“Girl, he gave you more than a gun. I tell you, he ever put his hand in my pants I'll stop breathing and faint dead away. He is so hot.” Lula did some fanning motions with her hand. “I'm getting flashes. I think I'm sweating. Look at me. Am I sweating?”

“It's ninety degrees out,” I said. “Everyone's sweating.”

“It's not ninety,” Lula said. “I just saw the temperature on the bank building. It's only seventy-eight.”

“Feels like ninety.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Lula said.

An alley ran behind the houses. Cars were parked in the alley and garages opened to the alley. Lula and I walked to the end of the block and then cut down the alley, peering into filthy garage windows, cracking garage doors to look inside. Most of the garages were used for storage. A few were empty. None contained a gray Nissan. We walked three more blocks and three more alleys. No dog. No car. No Singh.

IT WAS 1:15 when I parked in the McDonalds lot. Lula went inside to order and I walked to the outdoor seating area where Howie was eating lunch.

Howie was hunched over his tray, concentrating on his burger, attempting invisibility.

“Hey,” I said, sitting across from him. “Nice day.”

He nodded his head without making eye contact. “Yes.”

TOTHENINES

“Tell me about Samuel.”

“There is nothing to tell you,” he said.

“He called you at work last week.”

“You are mistaken.” He had his fists balled and his head down. He gestured for emphasis and knocked his empty soda cup over. We both reached for the cup. Howie caught it first and set it straight. “You must stop bothering me now,” he said. “Please.”

“Samuel is missing,” I said to Howie. “I'm trying to find him.”

For the first time, Howie picked his head up and looked at me. “Missing?”

“He disappeared the day after he called you.”

For a fleeting moment Howie looked relieved. “I know nothing,” he repeated, dropping his eyes again.

“What's the deal?” I asked Howie. “Did you owe him money? Did you go out with his girlfriend?”

“No. None of those things. I truly do not know him.” Howie's eyes darted from one side of the lot to the other. “I must go inside now. I do not like associating with the customers. Americans are a crazy people. Only the games are good. The American games are righteous.”

I looked around. I didn't see any crazy people . . . but then, I'm from Jersey. I'm used to crazy.

“Why do you think Americans are crazy?”

“They are very demanding. Not enough fries in the box. The fries are not hot enough. The sandwich is wrapped wrong. I cannot control these things. I do not wrap the sandwiches. And they are very loud when they tell you about the wrappings. All day people are shouting at me. 'Go faster. Go faster. Give me this. Give me that.' Wanting an Egg McMuffin at eleven o'clock when it is a rule you cannot have an Egg McMuffin past ten-thirty.”

“I hate that rule.”

Howie gathered his wrappers onto his tray. “And another thing. Americans ask too many questions. How many grams of fat are in a cheeseburger? Are the onions real? What do I know? The onions come in a bag. Do I look like the onion man to you?”

He stood at his seat and took his tray in two hands. “You should leave me alone now. I am done talking to you. If you continue to stalk me, I will report you to the authorities.”

“I'm not stalking you. This isn't stalking. This is asking a couple questions.”

There was a momentary lull in the ambient traffic noise. I heard something go pop pop. Howie's eyes got wide, his mouth opened, the tray slid from his hands and crashed to the concrete patio. Howie's knees buckled and he collapsed without uttering a word.

A woman screamed behind me and I was on my feet, thinking, He's been shot, help him, take cover, do something! My mind was racing, but my body wasn't responding. I was paralyzed by the unfathomable horror of the moment, staring down at Howie's unblinking eyes, mesmerized by the small hole in the middle of his forehead, by the pool of blood that widened under him. Just a moment ago I was talking to him and now he was dead. It didn't seem possible.

People were scrambling and shouting around me. I didn't see anyone with a gun. No one in the lot had a gun in his hand. I didn't see anyone armed on the road or in the building. Howie seemed to be the only victim.

Lula ran to me with a big bag of food in one hand and a large chocolate shake in her other hand. “Holy crap,” she said, eyes bugged out, looking down at Howie. “Holy moly. Holy Jesus and Joseph. Holy cow.”

I eased away from the body, not wanting to crowd Howie, needing some distance from the shooting. I wanted to make time stand still, to back up ten minutes and change the course of events. I wanted to blink and have Howie still be alive.

Sirens screamed on the highway behind us and Lula furiously sucked on the shake. “I can't get anything up this freakin' straw,” she shrieked. "Why do they give you a straw if you can't suck anything up it? Why don't they give you a goddamn spoon? Why do they make these things so freakin' thick anyways? Shakes aren't supposed to be solid. This here's like trying to suck up a fish sandwich.

“And don't think I'm hysterical, either,” Lula said. “I don't get hysterical. You ever see me hysterical before? This here's transference. I read about it in a magazine. It's when you get upset about one thing only you're really upset about something else. And it's different from hysterical. And even if I was hysterical, which I'm not, I'd have a perfect right. This guy got shot dead in front of you. If you'd have moved an inch to the left you probably would have lost an ear. And he's dead. Look at him. He's dead! I hate dead.”