11 Eleven On Top (2 page)

I fished my cell phone out of my purse and called Morelli. “Someone's taking potshots at cars on the corner of Olden and State,” I told him. “You might want to send someone over to check things out.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'd be better if I had that second doughnut.” Okay, so this was my best try at bravado. My hands were white-knuckled gripping the wheel and my foot was shaking on the gas pedal. I sucked in some air and told myself I was just a little excited. Not panicked. Not terrified. Just a little excited. All I had to do was calm down and take a couple more deep breaths and I'd be fine.

Ten minutes later, I pulled the Saturn into the button factory parking lot. The entire factory was housed in a mammoth three-story redbrick building. The bricks were dark with age, the old-fashioned double-hung windows were grimy, and the landscaping was lunar. Dickens would have loved it. I wasn't so sure it was my thing. But then, my thing wasn't clearly defined anymore.

I got out and walked to the rear of the car, hoping I'd been wrong about the gunshot. I felt another dump of adrenaline when I saw the damage. I'd taken three hits. Two rounds were embedded in the back panel and one had destroyed a rear light.

No one had followed me into the lot, and I didn't see any cars lingering on the road. Wrong place, wrong time, I told myself. And I would have believed it entirely if it hadn't been for my lousy previous job and the two notes. As it was, I had to back-burner some paranoia so as not to be in a terror-induced cold sweat while trying to talk some guy into hiring me.

I crossed the lot to the large glass double doors leading to the offices, and I sashayed through the doors into the lobby. The lobby was small with a chipped tile floor and seasick green walls. Somewhere, not far off, I could hear machines stamping out buttons. Phones rang in another part of the building. I approached the reception desk and asked for Karen Slobodsky.

“Sorry,” the woman said. “You're two hours too late. She just quit. Stormed out of here like hurricane Slobodsky, yelling something about sexual harassment.”

“So there's a job opening?” I asked, thinking my day was finally turning lucky.

“Sure looks that way. I'll buzz her boss, Jimmy Alizzi.”

Ten minutes later, I was in Alizzi's office, sitting across from him. He was at his desk and his slight frame was dwarfed by his massive furniture. He looked to be in his late thirties to early forties. He had slicked-back black hair and an accent and skin tone that had me thinking Indian.

“I will tell you now that I am not Indian,” Alizzi said. “Everyone thinks I am Indian, but that is a false assumption. I come from a very small island country off the coast of India.”

“Sri Lanka?”

“No, no, no,” he said, wagging his bony finger at me. “Not Sri Lanka. My country is even smaller. We are a very proud people, so you must be careful not to make ethnic slurs.”

“Sure. You want to tell me the name of this country?”

“Latorran.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You see, already you are treading in very dangerous waters.”

I squelched a grimace.

“So, you were a bounty hunter,” he said, skimming over my resume, eyebrows raised. “That is a quite exciting job. Why would you want to quit such a job?”

“I'm looking for something that has more potential for advancement.”

“Oh dear, that would be my job you would eventually be seeking.”

“Yes, well I'm sure it would take years, and then who knows... you might be president of the company by then.”

“You are an outrageous flatterer,” he said. “I like that. And what would you do if I were to ask you for sexual favors? Would you threaten to sue me?”

"No. I guess I'd ignore you. Unless you got physical.

Then I'd have to kick you in a place that hurt a lot and you probably wouldn't be able to father any children."

“That sounds fair,” he said. "It happens that I have an immediate position to fill, so you're hired. You can start tomorrow, promptly at eight o'clock.

Do not be late."

Wonderful. I have a real job in a nice clean office where no one will shoot at me. I should be happy, yes? This was what I wanted, wasn't it? Then why do I feel so depressed?

I dragged myself down the stairs to the lobby and out to the parking lot. I found my car and the depression deepened. I hated my car. Not that it was a bad car. It just wasn't the right car. Not to mention, it would be great to have a car that didn't have three bullet holes in it.

Maybe I needed another doughnut.

A half hour later, I was back in my apartment. I'd stopped in at Tasty Pastry and left with a day-old birthday cake. The cake said Happy Birthday Larry.

I don't know how Larry celebrated his birthday, but apparently it was without cake. Larry's loss was my gain. If you want to get happy, birthday cake is the way to go. This was a yellow cake with thick, disgusting white frosting made with lard and artificial butter and artificial vanilla and a truckload of sugar. It was decorated with big gunky roses made out of pink and yellow and purple frosting. It was three layers thick with lemon cream between the layers. And it was designed to serve eight people, so it was just the right size.

I dropped my clothes on the floor and dug into the cake. I gave a chunk of cake to Rex, and I worked on the rest. I ate all the pieces with the big pink roses. I was starting to feel nauseous, but I pressed on. I ate all the pieces with the big yellow roses. I had a purple rose and a couple roseless pieces left. I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat any more cake. I staggered into my bedroom. I needed a nap.

I dropped a T-shirt over my head and pulled on a pair of Scooby-Doo boxers with an elastic waist. God, don't you love clothes with elastic? I had one knee on the bed when I saw the note pinned to my pillowcase, be afraid, be very AFRAID. NEXT TIME I'll AIM HIGHER.

I thought I'd be more afraid if I hadn't just eaten five pieces of birthday cake. As it was, I was mostly afraid of throwing up. I looked under the bed, behind the shower curtain, and in all the closets. No knuckle-dragging monsters anywhere. I slid the bolt home on the front door and shuffled back to the bedroom.

Now, here's the thing. This isn't the first time someone's broken into my apartment. In fact, people regularly break in. Ranger slides in like smoke. Morelli has a key. And various bad guys and psychos have managed to breach the three locks I keep on the door. Some have even left threatening messages. So I wasn't as freaked out as I might have been prior to my career in bounty huntering. My immediate feelings ran more toward numb despair. I wanted all the scary things to go away. I was tired of scary. I'd quit my scary job, and now I wanted the scary people out of my life. I didn't want to be kidnapped ever again.

I didn't want to be held at knifepoint or gunpoint. I didn't want to be threatened, stalked, or run off the road by a homicidal maniac.

I crawled under the covers and pulled the quilt over my head. I was almost asleep when the quilt was yanked back. I let out a shriek and stared up at Ranger.

“What the heck are you doing?” I yelled at him, grabbing at the quilt.

“Visiting, Babe.”

“Did you ever think about ringing a doorbell?”

Ranger smiled down at me. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

“I didn't know you were interested in fun.”

He sat on the side of the bed and the smile widened. “You smell good enough to eat,” Ranger said. “You smell like a party.”

“It's birthday cake breath. And are we looking at another double entendre?”

“Yeah,” Ranger said, “but it's not going anywhere. I have to get back to work. Tank's waiting for me with the motor running. I just wanted to find out if you're serious about quitting.”

“I got a job at the button factory. I start tomorrow.”

He reached across and removed the note from the pillowcase next to me. “New boyfriend?”

“Someone broke in while I was out. And I guess he shot at me this afternoon.”

Ranger stood. “You should discourage people from doing that. Do you need help?”

“Not yet.”

“Babe,” Ranger said. And he left.

I listened carefully, but I didn't hear the front door open or close. I got up and tiptoed through the apartment. No Ranger. All the locks were locked and the bolt was in place.

I suppose he could have gone out the living room window, but he would have had to climb down the side of the building like Spider-Man.

The phone rang, and I waited to see the number pop up on my caller ID. It was Lula. “Yo,” I said.

“Yo, your ass. You got some nerve sticking me with this job.”

“You volunteered.”

“I must've had sunstroke. A person have to be nuts to want this job.”

“Something go wrong?”

“Hell, yes. Everything's wrong. I could use some assistance here. I'm trying to snag Willie Martin, and he's not cooperating.”

“How uncooperative is he?”

“He hauled his nasty ass out of his apartment and left me handcuffed to his big stupid bed.”

“That's pretty uncooperative.”

“Yeah, and it gets worse. I sort of don't have any clothes on.”

“Omigod! Did he attack you?”

“It's a little more complicated than that. He was in the shower when I busted in. You ever see Willie Martin naked? He is fine. He used to play pro ball until he made a mess of his knee and had to turn to boosting cars.”

“Un hunh.”

"Well, one thing led to another and here I am chained to his hunk-of-junk bed. Hell, it's not like I get it regular, you know. I'm real picky about my men.

And besides, anybody would've jumped those bones. He's got muscles on muscles and a butt you want to sink your teeth into."

The mental image had me considering turning vegetarian.

Willie Martin lived in a third-floor loft in a graffiti-riddled warehouse that contained a ground-floor chop shop. It was located on the seven-hundred block of Stark Street, an area of urban decay that rivaled Iraqi bomb sites.

I parked behind Lula's red Firebird and transferred my five-shot Smith & Wesson from my purse to my jacket pocket. I'm not much of a gun person and almost never carry one, but I was sufficiently creeped out by the shooting and the notes that I didn't want to venture onto Stark Street unarmed. I locked the car, bypassed the rickety open-cage service elevator on the ground floor, and trudged up two flights of stairs. The stairwell opened to a small grimy foyer and a door with a size-nine high-heeled boot print on it. I guess Willie hadn't answered on the first knock and Lula got impatient.

I tried the doorknob, and the door swung open. Thank God for small favors because I'd never had any success at kicking in a door. I tentatively stuck my head in and called “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself,” Lula said. "And don't say no more. I'm not in a good mood. Just unlock these piece-of-crap handcuffs and stand back because I need fries.

I need a whole shitload of fries. I'm having a fast-food emergency."

Lula was across the room, wrapped in a sheet, one hand cuffed to the iron headboard of the bed, the other hand holding the sheet together.

I pulled the universal handcuff key out of my pocket and looked around the room. “Where are your clothes?”

“He took them. Do you believe that? Said he was going to teach me a lesson not to go after him. I tell you, you can't trust a man. They get what they want and then next thing they got their tighty whities in their pocket and they're out the door. I don't know what he was so upset about, anyway. I was just doing my job. He said, 'Was that good for you?' And I said, 'Oh yeah baby, it was real good.' And then I tried to cuff him. Hell, truth is it wasn't all that good and besides, I'm a professional bounty hunter now. Bring 'em back dead or alive, with or without their pants, right? I had an obligation to cuff him.”

“Yeah, well next time put your clothes on before you try to cuff a guy.”

Lula unlocked the cuffs and tied a knot in the sheet to hold it closed. “That's good advice. I'm gonna remember that. That's the kind of advice I need to be a first-class bounty hunter. At least he forgot to take my purse. I'd be really annoyed if he'd taken my purse.” She went to a chest on the far wall, pulled out one of Willie's T-shirts and a pair of gym shorts, and put them on. Then she scooped the rest of the clothes out of the chest, carried them to the window, and threw them out.

“Okay,” Lula said, “I'm starting to feel better now. Thanks for coming here to help me. And good news, it looks like no one's stolen your car. I saw it still sitting at the curb.” Lula went to the closet and scooped up more clothes. Suits, shoes, and jackets. All went out the window. “I'm on a roll now,” she said, looking around the loft. “What else we got that can go out the window? You think we can fit his big-ass TV out the window? Hey, how about some kitchen appliances? Go get me his toaster.” She crossed the room, grabbed a table lamp, and brought it to the window. “Hey!” she yelled, head out the window, eyes focused on the street. “Get away from that car. Willie, is that you? What the hell are you doing?”

I ran to the window and looked out. Willie Martin was whaling away at my car with a sledgehammer.

“I'll show you to throw my clothes outta the window,” he said, taking a swing at the right rear quarter panel.

“You dumb premature ejaculator,” Lula shouted at him. “You dumb-ass moron! That's not my car.”

“Oh. Oops,” Willie said. “Which one's your car?”

Lula hauled a Glock out of her purse, squeezed off two rounds in Willie's direction, and Willie left the scene. One of the rounds pinged off my car roof.

And the other round made a small hole in my windshield.

“Must be something wrong with the sight on this gun,” Lula said to me. “Sorry about that.”

I trudged down the stairs and stood on the sidewalk examining my car. Deep scratch in roof from misplaced bullet. Hole in windshield plus embedded bullet in passenger seat. Bashed-in right rear quarter panel and right passenger-side door from sledgehammer. Previous damage from creepy gun attack by insane stalker. And someone had spray painted eat me on the driver's side door.

“Your car's a mess,” Lula said. “I don't know what it is with you and cars.”