The Ruzicks' house was three blocks away. I wanted to go over and keep my eye on things, but I didn't want to walk out on Joe. No problem, I told myself. Just go find him. He's in the men's room. Only he wasn't in the men's room. No one was in the men's room. I asked a few people if they knew where I could find Joe. Nope. No one knew where I could find Joe. Still no call from Ranger.
The steam was coming out my ears now. If this kept up I'd start whistling like a teakettle. Wouldn't that be embarrassing?
Okay, I'll leave him a note, I decided. I had a pen but no paper, so I wrote on a napkin. “Be right back,” I wrote. “I have to check on an FTA for Ranger.” I propped the napkin up against Joe's drink and left.
I power-?walked the three blocks and pulled up across from the Ruzick house. Sure enough, Alphonse was there, big as life, watching television. I could see him crystal clear through the living room window. No one had ever accused Alphonse of being smart. You might say that about me too, because I'd remembered to take my purse, but I'd left my sweater and cell phone at Angio's. And now that I was standing still, I was freezing. No problem, I told myself. Go to Angio's, get your stuff, and come back.
It would have been a good plan, except at that moment Alphonse stood, scratched his belly, hiked up his pants, and walked out of the room. Damn. Now what?
I was across the street from the Ruzicks', crouched between two parked cars. I had good line of sight to the living room and front of the house, but all else was lost to me. I was contemplating this problem when I heard the back door open and close. Shit. He was leaving. He'd probably parked his car in the alley behind the house.
I ran across the street and hugged the shadows on the side of the house. Sure enough, I could see the hulking outline of Alphonse Ruzick making his way to the alley, carrying a bag. He was charged with armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He was forty-?six, and he weighed in at 230 pounds, with the bulk of his weight in his gut. He had a little pinhead and a brain to match. And he was getting away. Damn Ranger. Where the hell was he?
Alphonse was halfway down the yard when I yelled. I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have cuffs. I didn't have anything, but I yelled, anyway. It was all I could think to do.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Bail Enforcement Agent! Drop to the ground.”
Alphonse didn't even turn to look. He just took off, cutting across yards, rather than going for the alley. He ran for all he was worth, handicapped by his lard butt and beer gut, hanging on to the bag in his right hand. Dogs barked, porch lights flashed, and back doors were thrown open all down the block.
“Call the police,” I yelled, chasing after Alphonse, my skirt up around my neck. “Fire, fire. Help. Help.”
We reached the end of the block, and I was within an arm's length when he whirled around and hit me with the bag. The impact burst the bag and knocked me off my feet. I was flat on my back, covered in garbage. Alphonse hadn't been leaving at all. He'd been taking the garbage out for his mother.
I scrambled to my feet and charged after Alphonse. He'd rounded the block and was running back to his mother's. He had half a house length on me when he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, pointed at a Ford Explorer parked at the curb, and I heard the alarm system chirp off.
“Stop!” I yelled. “You're under arrest! Stop or I'll shoot!”
It was a stupid thing to say because I didn't have a gun. And even if I had a gun I certainly wouldn't shoot him. Alphonse looked over his shoulder to check me out, and it was enough to uncoordinate the forward momentum of his blubber. The result was that he started to stumble, and I inadvertently plowed into his gelatinous body.
We both went down to the sidewalk, where I hung on for dear life. Alphonse was trying to get to his feet, and I was trying to keep him on the ground. I could hear sirens in the distance and people yelling and running toward us. And I was thinking I just had to wrestle around with him long enough for help to get to me. He was on his knees, and I had a fistful of his shirt in my hand, and he batted me away like I was a bug.
“Dumb cunt,” he said, getting to his feet. “You haven't got a gun.”
I get called lots of names. That's not one of my favorites. I latched onto his cuff and pulled his feet out from under him. He seemed suspended in air for a fraction of a second, and then he crash-?landed with a loud whump that shook the ground and hit about 6.7 on the Richter scale.
“I'm gonna kill you,” he said, sweating and panting, rolling on top of me, hands to my neck. “I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.”
I squirmed under him and sunk my teeth into his shoulder.
“Yow!” he yelled. “Sonovabitch. What are you, a goddamn vampire?”
We rolled around for what seemed like hours, locked onto each other. Him trying to kill me, and me just hanging on like a tick on a dog's back, oblivious to my surroundings and the state of my skirt, afraid if I let go he'd beat me to death. I was exhausted, and I was thinking I was about at the end of the line when I was hit with a splash of ice-?cold water.
We both instantly unlocked and flopped onto our backs, sputtering.
“What?” I said. “What?” I blinked my eyes and saw there were lots of people around us. Morelli and Ranger, a couple uniformed cops, and some people from the neighborhood. Plus Mrs. Ruzick was there, holding a big empty pot.
“Works every time,” Mrs. Ruzick said. “Except usually I hose down cats. This neighborhood has too many cats.”
Ranger grinned down at me. “Good bust, Tiger.”
I got to my feet and took stock of myself. No broken bones. No bullet holes. No knife wounds. Ruined manicure. Soaking wet hair and dress. What looked like vegetable soup clinging to my skirt.
Morelli and Ranger were staring at my breasts and smiling at the wet dress that was plastered to my skin.
“So I have nipples,” I snapped. “Get over it.”
Morelli gave me his jacket. “What's with the vegetable soup on your skirt?”