I dropped the file into my big black shoulder bag and zipped my jacket. Lula buttoned herself into an anklelength dark brown oiled canvas duster and settled a matching brown leather cowboy hat on her head.
“Do I look like a bounty hunter or what?” she said.
I just hoped poor Stuart Baggett didn't fall over dead at the sight of her.
The door opened and Ranger stepped in from the rain.
Ranger had been my mentor when I'd started in the business and was one very bad bounty hunter. In this case, bad meaning ultracool. He'd been one of those army guys who went around disguised as the night, eating tree bark and beetles, scaring the bejeezus out of emerging third-world insurgents. He was a civilian now, of sorts, sometimes working for Vinnie as an apprehension agent. He supposedly lived in the 'hood among his Cuban relatives, and he knew things I'd never, ever know.
He wore his black hair slicked back into a ponytail, dressed in black and khaki, had a washboard belly, cast-iron biceps and the reflexes of a rattler.
His mouth twitched into a smile at the sight of Lula in her Wild West garb. He acknowledged my presence with eye contact and an almost imperceptible nod, which was the Ranger equivalent to a double-cheek kiss.
“Congratulations,” I said to him. “I heard you captured Jesus Rodrigues.” Jesus Rodrigues skipped out on a $500,000 bond and was howling-dog crazy. Ranger always got the biggies. Fine by me. I don't have a death wish.
“Had some luck,” Ranger said, pulling a police body receipt from his jacket pocket—the body receipt certifying that Ranger had delivered a wanted body to the authorities.
He brushed past us on his way to Connie's desk, and I thought Lula would keel over on the spot. She clapped a hand to her heart and staggered out the door after me.
“Gives me a fit every time he comes in,” she confided. “You get close to that man, and it's like being close to a lightning strike. Like all the little hairs are standing on end all over your body.”
“Sounds like you've been watching X-Files.”
“Hmm,” Lula said, eyeing the key chain. “Maybe we should take my car again. That Buick you drive don't say 'Law Enforcement,' you know what I'm saying? It ain't no Starsky and Hutch car. What you need is to work on your image. You need one of these bad-ass coats. You need a car with real wheels. You need to be a blonde. I'm telling you honey, blond is where it's at.”
“I have a truck,” I said, gesturing to the Nissan. “Bought it this morning.” After signing the papers I'd gotten my father to drive back with me, so he could take the Buick home, and I could go with my new pickup. You're making a mistake, he said. Japs don't know how to make cars for Americans. This truck isn't half the car the Buick is.
And that was exactly why I preferred the truck . . . it was half the car the Buick was.
“Isn't this cute as a bug,” Lula said. “A baby truck!” She looked in the window. “I don't suppose you'd let me drive. I always wanted to drive one of these itty-bitty trucks.”
“Well, sure,” I said, handing her the keys. “I guess that'd be okay.”
Lula cranked the engine over and pulled away from the curb. The rain had turned sleety and shavings of ice slapped against the windshield. Chunks of slush stuck to the wipers and tracked across the arc of cleared glass.
I looked at the snapshot attached to the bond papers and memorized the face. Didn't want to nab the wrong person. I rooted through my pocketbook and did a fast paraphernalia inventory. I was carrying defense spray, which was a big no-no in a crowded mall. And I carried a stun gun, which on close examination turned out to need a new battery. My two pairs of cuffs were in w
orking order, and I had an almost full can of hair spray. Okay, probably I wasn't the world's best-equipped bounty hunter. But then what did I really need to bring in an old guy with a nose that looked like a penis and a loser hot dog vendor?
“We gotta be professional about this,” Lula said, aiming us toward Route 1. “We need a plan.”
“How about we get the nail polish first, then we get the guy?”
“Yeah, but how are we going to do this? We can't just stand in line, and when it's our turn we say, 'Two chili dogs to go, and you're under arrest.' ”
“It's not that complicated. I simply take him aside, show him my identification and explain the procedure to him.”
“You think he's gonna stand still for that? This here's a fugitive we're talking about.”
Lula gunned the little truck and hopped over a lane. We spun slush at a few cautious drivers and skipped back into line. The heater was going full blast, and I could feel my eyebrows starting to smoke.
“So what do you think?” I asked Lula. “Drives good, huh? And it's got a great heater.”
Brake lights flashed in front of us, red smears beyond the beat of the wipers, and Lula silently stared ahead.
“Lula?”
No response.