* * * * *
I UNPACKED my groceries, replaced the wig with a Rangers hat, traded the skirt in for a pair of shorts and resigned the retro slut shoes to a back corner of my closet. I shared a Pop-?Tart with Rex and cracked a beer open for myself. I called Dillon to tell him about my door, and then I went out the bedroom window to my fire escape to think. The air was still and sultry, the horizon dusky.
The parking lot was filled with cars. The seniors were all home at this time of day. If they went out to eat it was for the early bird special at the diner, and even if they went to the park to sit for a half hour they were home by six. If they were eating in it was at five o'clock so as not to interfere with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
Most cases I get from Vinnie are routine. Usually I go to the people who put up the bond and explain to them that they'll lose their house if the skip isn't found. Ninety percent of the time they know where the skip is and help me catch him. Ninety percent of the time I have a handle on the sort of person I'm dealing with. This case didn't fall into the ninety percent. And even worse, this case was weird. A friend had lost a finger, and a mother had been scalped. Maxine's treasure hunt seemed playful by comparison. And then there was the message on my door. “I hate you.” Who would do such a thing? The list was long.
A pickup pulled away from the curb half a block away, exposing a black Jeep Cherokee which had been parked behind the pickup. Joyce.
I allowed myself the luxury of a sigh and drained the beer bottle. You had to respect Joyce's tenacity, if nothing else. I raised my bottle in a salute to her, but there was no response.
The problem with being a bounty hunter is it's all on-?the-?job training. Ranger is helpful, but Ranger isn't always around. So most of the time when something new comes up I end up doing it wrong before I figure out how to do it right. Joyce, for instance. Clearly, I don't know how to get rid of Joyce.
I crawled back through the window, got another bottle of beer and another Pop-?Tart, stuffed the portable phone under my arm and went back to the fire escape. I ate the Pop-?Tart and washed it down with beer and all the while I watched the black Cherokee. When I finished the second bottle of beer I called Ranger.
“Talk,” Ranger said.
“I have a problem.”
“So what's your point?”
I explained the situation to Ranger, including the tire and the park episode. There was a silence where I sensed he was smiling, and finally he said, “Sit tight, and I'll see what I can do.”
Half an hour later, Ranger's $98,000 BMW rolled to a stop in my parking lot. Ranger got out of the car and stood for a moment staring at me on my fire escape. He was wearing an olive-?drab Tshirt that looked like it had been painted on him, GI Joe camouflage pants and shades. Just a normal Jersey guy.
I gave him a thumbs-?up.
Ranger smiled and turned and walked across the lot and across the street to the black Cherokee. He walked to the passenger-?side door, opened the door and got in the car. Just like that. If it had been me in the car, the door would have been locked, and no one looking like Ranger would get in. But this is me, and that was Joyce.
Five minutes later, Ranger exited the car and returned to my lot. I dove through my window, rushed out the door, down the stairs and skidded to a stop in front of Ranger.
“Well?”
“How bad do you want to get rid of her? You want me to shoot her? Break a bone?”
“No!”
Ranger shrugged. “Then she's gonna stick.”
There was the sound of a car engine catching and headlights flashed on across the street. We both turned to watch Joyce pull away and disappear around the corner.
“She'll be back,” Ranger said. “But not tonight.”
“How'd you get her to leave?”
“Told her I was gonna spend the next twelve hours ruining you for all other men, and so she might as well go home.”
I could feel the heat rush to my face.
Ranger gave me the wolf smile. “I lied about it being tonight,” he said.
* * * * *
AT LEAST Joyce was gone for a while, and I didn't have to worry about her following me to the 7-Eleven. I trudged upstairs to my apartment, made myself a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich on worthless white bread and channel surfed until it was time to go see Helen Badijian.
Most of the time I enjoyed my aloneness, relishing the selfish luxury of unshared space and ritual. Only my hand held the television remote, and there was no compromise on toilet paper brand or climate control. And even more, there was a tentative, hopeful feeling that I might be an adult. And that the worst of childhood was safely behind me. You see, I said to the world, I have my own apartment. That's good, right?
Tonight my satisfaction with the solitary life was tempered by a bizarre message still scrawled on my door. Tonight my aloneness felt lonely, and maybe even a little frightening. Tonight I made sure my windows were closed and locked when I left my apartment.