“Don't ask.”
“Shit,” Ranger said.
My father is an equal
opportunity bigot. He wouldn't deprive a man of his rights. And he's not a hate-filled man. He simply knows in his heart that Italians are superior, that stereotypes were created by God, and if a person is worth anything at all he drives a Buick.
He was now staring at Ranger with the sort of dumbfounded confusion you'd expect of a man whose home had just been firebombed for no good reason.
Ranger was in his black mode today. Double gold studs in his ears, form-fitting long-sleeved black T pushed up to his elbows, black-banded diver's watch at his wrist, black rapper slacks tucked into black combat boots with enough gold chain around his neck to secure bail for murder one.
“Have some ham,” Grandma said to Ranger, passing him the plate. “Are you a Negro?” she asked.
Ranger didn't blink an eye. “Cuban.”
Grandma looked disappointed. “Too bad,” she said. “It would have been something to tell the girls at the beauty parlor I had dinner with a Negro.”
Ranger smiled and spooned out potatoes.
I'd decided at an early age to stop being embarrassed over my family. This is yet another advantage to living in Jersey. In Jersey everyone has the right to embarrass themselves with no reflection on anyone else. In fact, embarrassing yourself periodically is almost required.
I could see my mother going through mental gymnastics, searching for a safe subject. “Ranger is an unusual name,” she managed. “Is it a nickname?”
“It's a street name,” Ranger said. “I was a Ranger in the army.”
“I heard about them Rangers on TV,” Grandma said. “I heard they get dogs pregnant.”
My father's mouth dropped open and a piece of ham fell out.
My mother froze, her fork poised in midair.
“That's sort of a joke,” I told Grandma. “Rangers don't get dogs pregnant in real life.”
I looked to Ranger for corroboration and got another smile.
“I'm having a hard time finding Mo,” I told my mother. “You hear anything at the supermarket?”
My mother sighed. “People don't talk much about Mo. People mostly talk about you.”
Grandma mashed her peas into her potatoes. “Elsie Farnsworth said she saw Mo at the chicken place getting a bucket of extra spicy. And Mavis Rheinhart said she saw him going into Giovachinni's Market. Binney Rice said she saw Mo looking in her bedroom window the night before last. Course, two weeks ago Binney was telling everyone Donald Trump was looking in her window.”
Ranger declined the butterscotch pudding, not wanting to disrupt the consistency of his blood sugar level. I had two puddings and coffee, choosing to keep my pancreas at peak performance. Use it or lose it is my philosophy.
I helped clear the table and was seeing Ranger to the door when his cell phone chirped. The conversation was short.
“Got a skip in a bar on Stark Street,” Ranger said. “Want to ride shotgun?”
Half an hour later we had the Bronco parked in front of Ed's Place. Ed's was standard fare for Stark Street. One room with a couple chipped Formica tables in the front and a bar across the back. The air was stale and smoke-choked, smelling like beer and dirty hair and cold French fries. The tables were empty. A knot of men stood at the bar, forsaking the three bar stools. Eyes swiveled in the dark when Ranger and I walked through the door.
The bartender gave an almost imperceptible nod. His eyes cut to an alcove at one end of the bar. A dented sheet metal sign on the wall by the alcove said GENTS.
Ranger's voice was low at my ear. “Stay here and cover the door.”
Cover the door? Moi? Was he kidding? I gave a little finger wave to the men at the bar. No one waved back. I pulled the .38 five-shot out of my pocket and shoved it into the front of my Levi's. This didn't get any waves either.
Ranger disappeared into the alcove. I heard him knock on a door. He knocked again . . . louder. There was the sound of a doorknob being tried, another knock and then the unmistakable sound of a boot kicking in a door.
Ranger burst from the hallway on a run. “Went out the window into the alley.”