“Are you kidding me? You don't know Minionfire? Minionfire's only the world's most popular, most powerful, totally awesome, badass difficult game. Don't tell me you've never heard of the Nation of Minionfire?”
“In my neighborhood, we only got the nation of Bloods, Crips, and Islam. Maybe a few Baptists, but they don't hardly count anymore,” Lula said.
Zook took his laptop out of his backpack. “I can hook up here, right?”
“Don't you have homework?” Connie asked him.
“I did my homework in detention. I gotta check on Moondog. He's a griefer, and he's massing the wood elves.”
That caught Lula's attention. “Are these wood elves the same as Santa's elves?”
“Wood elves are evil, and they can only be stopped by a third-level Blybold Wizard like Zook.”
“You don't look like no Blybold Wizard,” Lula said. “You look like a kid that's drilled too many holes in hisself. You keep doing that, and stuff's gonna start leaking out.”
Zook's hand unconsciously went to his ear with the six piercings. “Chicks dig it.”
“Yeah,” Lula said, “they probably all want to borrow your earrings.”
“Getting back to the problem at hand,” I
said, “I need to park Mario, or Zook, or whoever the heck he is. Ranger wants to talk to me about working a job for him.”
“Oh boy,” Lula said.
“A real job,” I told her.
“Sure,” Lula said. “I knew that. What kind of job?”
“I don't know.”
“Oh boy,” Lula said.
Carlos M anoso is my age, but his life experience is worlds away. He's of Cuban heritage and has family in Newark and Miami. He's dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and his hair is dark brown and currently cut too short for a pony-tail but long enough to fall across his forehead when he's sleeping or otherwise occupied in bed. He's got a lot of muscle in all the right places and a killer smile that is rarely seen. His street name is Ranger, a leftover from his time in Special Forces.
When I started working for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds, Ranger was doing mostly bounty hunter work and was my mentor. He's now co-owner of a security company with branches in Boston, Atlanta, and Miami. He wears only black, he smells like Bulgari Green shower gel, he's extremely private, and he eats healthy food.
I'd be tempted to say he isn't a lot of fun, but he has his moments. And on those rare occasions when we've been intimate... WOW.
Rangeman Security is on a side street in center city Trenton. It's housed in an inconspicuous seven-story brick building, the name visible only on a small plaque above the door buzzer. The seventh floor is Ranger's private apartment.
Two more floors are dedicated to housing Rangeman employees, one floor is occupied by the property manager and his wife, Ella, the fifth floor is control central, and the remaining two floors are conference rooms, first-floor reception, and private offices. There are two levels below ground and I've never gotten the personal tour, but I imagine dungeons and armories and Ranger's personal tailor toiling away.
I key-fobbed my way into the underground garage and parked next to Ranger's black Porsche Turbo. I took the elevator to the fifth floor, waved hello to the guys at the monitoring stations, and walked across the room to Ranger's office. The door was open, and Ranger was at his desk, talking on a headset.
His eyes went to me, he wrapped up his conversation and removed the headset.
“Babe,” he said.
Babe covered a lot of ground with Ranger. It could be good, bad, amused, or filled with desire. Today it was hello.
I sat in the chair across from his desk. “What's up?”
“I need a date,” Ranger said.
“Is date synonymous with sex?”
“No. It's synonymous with business, but I could throw some sex in as a bonus if you're interested.”