High Five

10

"THIS IS TEMPTATION," Ranger said, leaning against a new midnight-black Porsche Boxster.

"Could you be more specific about the temptation? Like, what kind of temptation were you thinking about?"

"Temptation to broaden your horizons."

I had a lot of unease over Ranger's definition of "broad horizons." I suspected his horizons were a teensy bit closer to hell than I might want to travel. For starters, there was the car and the slight possibility that it wasn't entirely legitimate.

"Where do you get these cars?" I asked him. "You seem to have a never-ending supply of new, expensive black cars."

"I have a source."

"This Porsche isn't stolen, is it?"

"Do you care?"

"Of course I care!"

"Then it isn't stolen," Ranger said.

I shook my head. "It's a really cool car. And I appreciate your offer, but I can't afford a car like this."

"You don't know the price yet," Ranger said.

"Is it more than five dollars?"

"The car isn't for sale. It's a company car. You get the car if you continue to work with me. You're ruining my image in that Buick. Everyone who works with me drives black."

"Well, hell," I said, "I wouldn't want to ruin your image."

Ranger just kept looking at me.

"Is this charity?" I asked him.

"Guess again."

"I'm not selling my soul, am I?"

"I'm not in the soul-buying business," Ranger said. "The car's an investment. Part of the working relationship."

"So what do I have to do in this working relationship?"

Ranger uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the car. "Jobs come up. Don't accept any that make you uncomfortable."

"You aren't doing this just to amuse yourself, are you? To see what I'd be willing to do for an expensive car?"

"That would be somewhere in the middle of the list," Ranger said. He looked at his watch. "I have a meeting. Drive the car. Think it over."

He had his Mercedes parked next to the Porsche. He slid behind the wheel and drove away without looking back.

I almost collapsed on the spot. I put a hand to the Porsche to steady myself, and then immediately yanked my hand away, afraid I'd left prints. Dang!

I ran inside and looked around for Randy Briggs. His laptop was on the coffee table, but his jacket was gone. I toyed with the idea of packing all his things into the two suitcases, moving them into the hall, and locking my door, but gave it up as futile.

I cracked open a beer and called Mary Lou. "Help!" I said.

"What help?"

"He gave me a car. And he touched me twice!" I looked at my neck in the hall mirror to see if I was branded where his hand had rested.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Ranger!"

"Omigod. He gave you a car?"

"He said it was an investment in our working relationship. What does that mean?"

"What kind of car is it?"

"A new Porsche."

"That's at least oral sex."

"Be serious!" I said.

"Okay, the truth is . . . it's beyond oral sex. It could be, you know, butt stuff."

"I'll return the car."

"Stephanie, this is a Porsche!"

"And I think he's flirting with me, but I'm not sure."

"What does he do?"

"He's gotten sort of physical."

"How physical?"

"Touchy."

"Omigod, what did he touch?"

"My neck."

"Is that all?"

"My hair."

"Hmmm," Mary Lou said. "Was it sexy touching?"

"It felt sexy to me."

"And he gave you a Porsche," Mary Lou said. "A Porsche!"

"It isn't like it's a gift. It's a company car."

"Yeah, right. When do I get to ride in it? You want to go to the mall tonight?"

"I don't know if I should be driving it for personal stuff." In fact, I didn't know if I should be driving it at all until I made sure about the butt thing.

"You really think this is a company car?" Mary Lou asked.

"So far as I can see, everyone who works for Ranger drives a new black car."

"A Porsche?"

"Usually an SUV, but maybe a Porsche happened to fall off the back of the truck yesterday." I could hear screaming in the background. "What's happening?"

"The kids are having a conflicting opinion. I suppose I should go mediate."

Mary Lou had started taking parenting classes because she couldn't get the two-year-old to stop eating the dog's food. Now she said things like "the kids are having a conflicting opinion" instead of "the kids are trying to kill each other." I think it sounds much more civilized, but when you come right down to it . . . the kids were trying to kill each other.

I hung up and took the check Fred had written to RGC out of my shoulder bag and studied it. Nothing unusual that I could see. A plain old check.

The phone rang, and I put the check back in my bag.

"Are you alone?" Bunchy asked.

"Yes, I'm alone."

"Something going on between you and that Ranger guy?"

"Yes." I just didn't know what it was.

"We didn't get much chance to talk," Bunchy said. "I was wondering what you were gonna do next."

"Look, why don't you just tell me what it is you want me to do."

"Hey, I'm following you around, remember?"

"Okay, I'll play the game. I thought I'd go back to the bank tomorrow and talk to a friend of mine. What do you think of that?"

"Good idea."

It was close to five. Joe would most likely be home now, watching the news on television, fixing himself something to eat, getting ready for Monday Night Football. If I invited myself to his house for Monday Night Football, I could show him the check and see what he thinks. And I could ask him to check into Laura Lipinski. If things went well, maybe I could also make up for opportunities missed on Saturday night.

I dialed his number.

"Hey," I said. "I thought maybe you wanted company for Monday Night Football."

"You don't like football."

"I sort of like football. I like when they all jump on each other. That's pretty interesting. So do you want me to come over?"

"Sorry. I have to work tonight."

"All night?"

There was a moment of silence while Morelli processed the hidden message. "You want me bad," he said.

"I was just being friendly."

"Will you still be feeling friendly tomorrow? I don't think I'll be working tomorrow."

"Order a pizza."

After I hung up I looked guiltily at the hamster cage. "Hey, I'm just being friendly," I said to Rex. "I'm not going to sleep with him."

Rex still didn't come out of his can, but I could see the pine shavings moving. I think he was laughing.

The phone rang around nine.

"I have a job for you tomorrow," Ranger said. "Are you interested?"

"Maybe."

"It's of high moral quality."

"And the legal quality?"

"Could be worse. I need a decoy. I have a deadbeat who needs to be separated from his Jaguar."

"Are you stealing it or repossessing it?"

"Repossessing. All you have to do is sit in a bar and talk to this guy while we load his car onto a flatbed."

"That sounds okay."

"I'll pick you up at six. Wear something that'll hold his attention."

"What bar is this?"

"Mike's Place on Center."

Thirty minutes later, Briggs came home. "So what do you do on Monday nights?" he asked. "You watch football?"

I went to bed at eleven, and two hours later I was still thrashing around, unable to sleep. I had Larry Lipinski's missing wife, Laura, on my mind. The back of her head, severed at the neck, stuffed in a garbage bag. Her husband dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Hacked up his wife. Shot his coworker. I really didn't know if it was Laura Lipinski. What were the chances? Probably not good. Then who was in that bag? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was Laura Lipinski.

I looked at the clock for the hundredth time.

Laura Lipinski wasn't the only thing keeping me awake. I was having a hormone attack. Damn Morelli. Whispering all those things in my ear. Looking sexy in his Italian suit. Surely Morelli would be home by now. I could call him, I thought, and tell him I was coming to visit. After all, it was his fault I was in this hellish state.

But what if I call, and he isn't home, and I get recorded on his caller ID? Major embarrassment. Best not to call. Think of something else, I ordered myself.

Ranger flashed into my mind. No! Not Ranger!

"Damn." I kicked the covers off and went out to the kitchen to get some orange juice. Only there wasn't any orange juice. There wasn't any kind of juice, because I never went food shopping. There were still some leftovers from my mother, but no juice.

I really needed juice. And a Snickers bar. If I had juice and a Snickers bar, I probably could forget about sex. In fact, I didn't even need the juice anymore. Just the Snickers bar.

I stuffed myself into a pair of old gray sweats, shoved my feet into unlaced boots, and pulled a jacket over my plaid flannel nightshirt. I grabbed my purse and my keys, and because I was trying not to be stupid, I also grabbed my gun.

"I don't know what the hell you're going after," Briggs said from the couch, "but bring one back for me, too."

I clomped off, out of my apartment, down the hall, into the elevator.

When I got to the lot, as fate would have it, I realized I'd taken the Porsche key. Hah! Who am I to dispute fate? Guess I just had to drive the Porsche.

I started out for the 7-Eleven, but I was there in no time at all, and it seemed a shame not to at least work the kinks out of the car. Especially since I hadn't yet found any kinks. I continued on down Hamilton, turned into the Burg, wound around some, left the Burg, and sonovagun, before I knew it, I was in front of Morelli's townhouse. His truck was parked at the curb, and the house was dark. I idled in front of the house for a minute, thinking about Morelli, wishing I was comfy in bed with him. Well, what the hell, I thought, maybe I should ring his doorbell and tell him I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by. No harm in that. Just being friendly. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Eek. Should have done something with my hair. And my legs might need shaving now that I thought about it. Rats.

Okay, maybe it's not such a good idea to visit Morelli right now. Maybe I should go home first and shave and scrounge up some sexy underwear. Or maybe I should just wait until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, give or take a couple. I wasn't sure I could hold out for twenty-four hours. He was right. I wanted him bad.

Get a grip! I told myself. We're talking about a simple sex act here. This isn't a medical emergency like having a heart attack. This can wait twenty-four hours.

I took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours. I was feeling better. I was in control. I was a rational woman. I put the Porsche into gear and cruised down the street.

Piece of cake. I can last it.

I got to the corner and noticed lights in my rearview mirror.

Not many people out in this neighborhood, at this hour, on a work night. I turned the corner, parked, cut my lights, and watched the car stop in front of Morelli's house. After a couple minutes Morelli got out and walked to his door, and the car began to roll down the street toward me.

I gripped the wheel tight, so the Porsche wouldn't be tempted to go into reverse and zoom back to Morelli's. Less than twentyfour hours, I repeated, and my legs would be smooth as silk and my hair would be clean. But wait a minute! Morelli has a shower and a razor. This is all baloney. There's no need to wait.

I shifted into reverse just as the other car came into the intersection. I caught a glimpse of the driver and felt my heart go dead in my chest. It was Terry Gilman.

Say what? Terry Gilman!

There was an explosion of red behind my eyeballs. Shit. I was such a sap. I hadn't suspected. I'd thought he'd changed. I'd believed he was different from the other Morellis. Here I was worrying over leg hair, when Morelli was out doing God knows what with Terry Gilman. Unh! Major mental smack in the head.

I squinted at the car as it cleared the intersection and motored on. Terry was oblivious to my presence. Probably planning out the rest of her night. Probably going off to whack someone's grandmother.

Well, who cares about Morelli, anyway. Not me. I could care less. There was only one thing I cared about. Chocolate.

I put my foot to the pedal and careened away from the curb. Clear the streets. Stephanie's got a Porsche and needs a Snickers bar.

I reached the 7-Eleven in record time, blasted through the store, and left with a full bag. Hey, Morelli, orgasm this.

I entered my lot at warp speed, screeched to a stop, stomped up the stairs, down the hall, and kicked my door open. "Shit!"

Rex stopped running on his wheel and looked at me.

"You heard me," I said. "Shit, shit, shit."

Briggs sat up. "What the hell's going on? I'm trying to get some sleep here."

"Don't push your luck. Don't speak to me."

He squinted at me. "What are you wearing? Is that some new form of birth control?"

I grabbed the hamster cage and bag of candy, carted everything off to my bedroom, and slammed my door shut. I ate the 100 Grand bar first, and then the Kit Kat, and then the Snickers. I was starting to feel sick, but I ate the Baby Ruth and the Almond Joy and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

"Okay, I'm feeling much better now," I said to Rex.

Then I burst into tears.

When I was done crying I told Rex it was only hormones reacting with a prediabetic surge of insulin from eating all those candy bars . . . so he shouldn't worry. I went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Crying is fucking exhausting.

I awoke the next morning with my eyes crusty and puffed from crying and my spirit lower than slug slime. I lay there for about ten minutes wallowing in my misery, thinking of ways to kill myself, deciding on smoking. But then I didn't have any cigarettes, and I wasn't in a mood to traipse back to the 7-Eleven. Anyway, I was working with Ranger now, so probably I could just let nature take its course.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom where I stared at myself in the mirror. "Get a grip, Stephanie," I said. "You have a Porsche and a SEALS hat, and you're broadening your horizons."

I was afraid after all those candy bars I was also broadening my ass, and I should get some exercise. I was still dressed in my sweats, so I wriggled into a sports bra and laced up my running shoes.

Briggs was already at work at his computer when I came out of my bedroom. "Look who's here . . . Mary Sunshine," he said. "Christ, you look like shit."

"This is nothing," I told him. "Wait until you see what I look like when I'm done running."

I returned drenched in sweat and feeling very pleased with myself. Stephanie Plum, woman in charge. Screw Morelli. Screw Terry Gilman. Screw the world.

I had a chicken sandwich for breakfast and took a shower. Just to be mean I put the beer on the top shelf in the refrigerator, told Briggs to have a rotten day, and zoomed off in my Porsche to the Grand Union. Dual-purpose trip. Talk to Leona and Allen and shop for real food. I parked about a half mile away from the store so no one would park next to me and ding my door. I got out and looked at the Porsche. It was perfect. It was a totally kick-ass car. When you had a car like this you didn't mind so much that your boyfriend was boinking a skank.

I did the shopping first, and by the time I was done and had the groceries tucked away in the trunk, the bank was open. Business was slow first thing on a Tuesday morning. No one in the lobby. There were two tellers counting out money. Probably practicing. I didn't see Leona.

Allen Shempsky was in the lobby drinking coffee, talking to a bank guard. He saw me and waved. "How's the Uncle Fred hunt going?" he asked.

"Not that good. I was looking for Leona."

"It's her day off. Maybe I can be of help."

I rooted around in my bag, located the check, and handed it over to Allen. "Anything you can tell me about this?"

He examined it front and back. "It's a canceled check."

"Anything weird about it?"

He looked at it some more. "Not that I can see. What's so special about this check?"

"I don't know. Fred was having billing problems with RGC. He was supposed to bring this check to the office the day he disappeared. I guess he didn't want to take the original, so he left it home on his desk."

"Sorry I can't be more helpful," Shempsky said. "If you want to leave it with me I can ask around. Sometimes different people pick up different things."

I dropped the check back into my bag. "Think I'll hang on to it. I have a feeling people have died because of this check."

"That's serious," Shempsky said.

I walked back to the car feeling spooky and not knowing why. Nothing alarming had happened at the bank. And no one was parked or standing by the Porsche. I checked the lot. No Bunchy. No Ramirez that I could see. Still, there was that uncomfortable feeling. Something forgotten, maybe. Or someone watching. I unlocked the car and looked back at the bank. It was Shempsky I'd sensed. He was standing to the side of the bank building, smoking a cigarette, watching me. Oh man, now I was getting the creeps from Shempsky. I blew out a breath. My imagination was in overdrive. The man was just sneaking a smoke, for Pete's sake.

The only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-pressed to name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.

He'd married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from RiderCollege. He had two young children and a house in HamiltonTownship. I'd never driven past his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.

Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.

"What's with the Porsche?" he wanted to know, coming over.

"It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy."

"Do you know how much a car like this costs?"

"A lot?"

"Maybe more than you want to pay," Bunchy said.

"I hope that's not the case."

He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. "You go to the bank like you said?"

"Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new."

"What did you talk to him about?"

"The weather. Politics. Managed health care." I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.

"Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?"

"I don't trust you."

"I wouldn't trust him, either," Briggs said from the living room. "He looks like he's got a social disease."

"Who's that?" Bunchy wanted to know.

"That's Randy," I said.

"Want to see him disappear?"

I looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. "Some other time," I said to Bunchy.

Bunchy unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. "You've got some strange friends."

And they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. "I'll make you lunch if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred," I said.

"No can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway."

I made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.

Halfway through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany. "Holy cow," I said. "You're working with Morelli."

"I don't work with anyone," Bunchy said. "I work alone."

"That's a load of pig pucky."

This wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was a new all-time low for Morelli.

Bunchy sighed and pushed his dish away. "Does this mean I'm not getting dessert?"

I gave him one of the leftover candy bars. "I'm depressed."

"Now what?"

"Morelli is scum."

He looked down at the candy bar. "I told you I work alone."

"Yeah, and you told me you were a bookie."

He glanced up. "You don't know for sure that I'm not."

The phone rang, and I snatched it up before the machine could take over.

"Hey, Cupcake," Morelli said. "What do you want on your pizza tonight?"

"I want nothing. There is no pizza. There is no you, no me, no us, no pizza. And don't ever call me again, you scummy, slimy fungus-ridden dog turd, piece of fly crud." And I slammed the phone down.

Bunchy was laughing. "Let me guess," he said. "That was Morelli."

"And you!" I yelled, pointing my finger, teeth clenched. "You are no better."

"I gotta go," Bunchy said, still doing his Mr. Chuckles impersonation.

"So, have you always had a problem with men?" Briggs asked. "Or is this something recent?"

* * * * *

I WAS IN the lobby, waiting for Ranger at six o'clock. I was all showered and perfumed and hair freshly done up to look sexily unkempt. Mike's Place is a sports bar frequented by businessmen. At six o'clock it would be filled with suits catching ESPN and having a drink to unwind before going home, so I chose to look suity, too. I was wearing my Wonderbra, which worked wonders, a white silk shirt unbuttoned clear to the front clasp on the magical bra, and a black silk suit with the skirt rolled at the waist to show a lot of leg. I covered the mess at the waist with a wide fake leopard skin belt, and I stuffed my stocking-clad feet into four-inch fuck-me pumps.

Mr. Morganthal shuffled out of the elevator and winked at me. "Hey, hootchie-mamma," he said. "Want a hot date?" He was ninety-two and lived on the third floor, next to Mrs. Delgado.

"You're too late," I told him. "I've already made plans."

"That's just as well. You'd probably kill me," Mr. Morganthal said.

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.

His eyes dropped to my cleavage. "No shit?"

I hoped they loaded that car on fast. This guy had a head start on the drinky poos, and was going to be on me like white on rice. I could feel it coming.

"My name's Ryan Perin," he said, extending his hand.

"Stephanie."

He kept hold of my hand. "Stephanie the lingerie buyer. That's very sexy."

Yuk. I hate holding hands with strange men. Damn Ranger and his horizons. "Well, you know . . . it's a job."

"I bet you have a lot of great lingerie."

"Sure. I have everything. You name it, I've got it."

The bartender looked at me expectantly.

"I'll have one of those," I said, pointing to Perin's drink. "And could you hurry?"

"So tell me about your lingerie," Perin said. "You have any garter belts?"

"Oh, yeah. I wear garter belts all the time-red, black, purple."

"How about thong panties?"

"Yeah, thong panties." Every time I feel like flossing my ass.

The alarm went off on his watch.

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's a reminder to check on my car."

Damn! Don't panic. Don't panic. "What's wrong with your car?"

"This isn't such a great neighborhood at this time of night. I had a radio ripped off last week. So once in a while I just look out and make sure no one's messing with anything."

"Don't you have an alarm system?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you don't have to worry."

"I guess you're right. Still . . ." He looked toward the door. "Maybe I should check just to be safe."

"You're not one of those obsessive-compulsive types, are you?" I asked. "I don't like those types. They're always so uptight. They never want to try anything new like, um . . . group sex."

That got his attention back.

Some spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. "You like group sex?"

"Well, I don't like to do it with too many men, but I have a couple girlfriends . . ." My drink came. I knocked it back and went into a coughing fit. When I stopped coughing, my eyeballs got hot and watery. "What is this?"

"Bombay Sapphire."

"I'm not much of a drinker."

Perin slid a hand up my leg to just inside my skirt hem. "Tell me more about the group sex."

Stick a fork in me, I thought. Because I'm done. If Ranger didn't get here soon I was gonna be in big trouble. I was unloading everything I had, and I didn't know where to go from here. I didn't have a whole lot of experience at this sort of thing. And what I knew about group sex was zero. Which was already more than I wanted to know. "Thursday is my group sex night," I said. "We do it every Thursday. Unless we can't find a man . . . then we just watch television."

"How about another drink?" Perin asked.

No sooner had he gotten the words out of his mouth than he was off his bar stool, flying through the air. He crash-landed on a table, the table collapsed, and Perin lay still as a stone, spread-eagled on the floor, eyes wide, mouth open, like a big, dead beached fish.

I gasped and turned and was nose-to-nose with Benito Ramirez. "You shouldn't be whoring like this, Stephanie," Ramirez said, soft-voiced and crazy-eyed. "The champ don't like when he sees you with other men. Sees them handling you. You need to save yourself for the champ." He managed a small, sick smile. "The champ's gonna do things to you, Stephanie. Things you've never had done to you before. Did you ask Lula about the things the champ can do?"

"What are you doing here?" I shrieked. I had one eye on Perin, afraid he was going to get to his feet and run for his car. And I had one eye on Ramirez, afraid he was going to draw a knife and carve me up like a Christmas turkey.

"You can't get away from the champ," Ramirez whispered. "The champ sees everything. He sees when you go out for candy bars late at night. What's the matter, Stephanie, having trouble sleeping? The champ could fix that. He knows how to make women sleep."

My stomach clenched, and I broke into an instant cold sweat. I never saw him. He'd been lying in wait for me, following my every move, watching me. And I never saw him. Probably the only reason I was alive was because Ramirez loved the cat-and-mouse game. He loved the smell of another person's fear. Loved to torture, to prolong the pain and terror.

There'd been a black hole in the time continuum when Perin had gone airborne. Everyone in the bar, with the exception of me and Ramirez, had sat frozen in dumbfounded shock. Now everyone in the bar was on their feet.

"What the hell?" the bartender yelled, coming at Ramirez.

Ramirez turned his eyes to the bartender, and the bartender backed off.

"Hey, man," the bartender said. "You gotta take your problems outside."

Perin was standing wobble-legged, glaring at Ramirez. "What are you, nuts? Are you freaking nuts?"

"The champ don't like remarks like that," Ramirez said, his eyes shrinking in his head.

A big, no-neck guy came to Perin's rescue. "Hey, leave the little guy alone," he said to Ramirez.

Ramirez turned on him. "No one tells the champ what to do."

Bam! Ramirez sucker-punched no-neck, and no-neck went down like a house of cards.

Perin pulled his gun and fired one off. The shot went wide of Ramirez, and sent everyone in the bar running for the door. Everyone but Perin and Ramirez and me. The bartender was shouting into the phone for the police to get their asses in gear. And through the open door I caught a glimpse of the flatbed moving down the street with the green Jaguar on board.

"I don't like the police," Ramirez said to the bartender. "You shouldn't have called the police." Ramirez gave me one last look with his nobody's-home eyes and went out the back door.

I hopped off the bar stool. "Nice meeting you," I said to Perin. "I have to go now."

Ranger strolled in, looked around, shook his head, and smiled at me. "You never disappoint," he said.