One for the Money (Stephanie Plum 1)

As I saw it, I had two choices. I could run for the front door or dive down the fire escape. That was assuming my feet would move. I decided chances were greater that Ramirez was in the apartment than on the fire escape, so I went to the window. On a sharp intake of breath I ripped the curtains open and stared at the latch. It was secure. A circle of glass had been removed from the top window, allowing Whoever to slip an arm through and open the lock. The cool night air whistled softly through the neatly cut circle.

Professional, I thought. Maybe not Ramirez. Maybe just your garden variety second-story man. Maybe he'd gotten discouraged by my poverty, decided to move on to fatter pickings, and locked up after himself. I looked through the opening at the fire escape. It was empty and felt benign.

Call the police and report the break-in, I told myself. The phone was at bedside. I punched it on and nothing happened. Shit. Someone must have disconnected it in the kitchen. A little voice in my head whispered to get out of the apartment. Use the fire escape, it said. Move fast.

I turned back to the window and fumbled with the latch. I heard movement behind me, felt the intruder's presence. In the window's reflection I could see him standing in the open bedroom door, framed by the weak light from the hall.

He called my name, and I felt my hair stand on end like the cartoon version of an electrocuted cat.

“Close the curtains,” he said, “and turn around nice and slow so I can see you.”

I did as I was told, squinting in the dark in blind confusion, recognizing the voice but not understanding the purpose. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Good question.” He flipped the light switch. It was Jimmy Alpha, and he was holding a gun. “I ask myself that question all the time,” he said. “How did it come to this? I'm a decent man, you know? I try to do what's right.”

“Doing what's right is good,” I told him.

“What happened to all your furniture?”

“I had some hard times.”

He nodded. “Then you know what it's like.” He grinned. “That why you started working for Vinnie?”

“Yeah.”

“Vinnie and me, we're sort of alike. We do what we have to do to hang in there. I guess You're like that too.”

I didn't like being lumped in with Vinnie, but I wasn't about to argue with a guy who was holding a gun. “I guess I am.”

“You follow the fights?”

“No.”

He sighed. “A manager like me, waits a whole lifetime for a decent fighter to come along. Most managers die without ever getting one.”

“But you got one. You have Ramirez.”

“I took Bonito in when he was just a kid. Fourteen years old. I knew right away he was gonna be different from the others. There was something about him. Drive. Power. Talent.”

Insanity, I thought. Don't forget insanity.

“Taught him everything he knows about boxing. Gave him all my time. Made sure he ate right. Bought him clothes when he had no money. Let him sleep in the office when his mother was crazy on crack.”

“And now he's champ,” I said.

His smile was tight. “It's my dream. All my life I've worked for this.”

I was beginning to see the direction of the conversation. “And he's out of control,” I said.

Jimmy sagged against the doorjamb. “Yeah. He's out of control. He's gonna ruin everything . . . all the good times, all the money. I can't tell him anything, anymore. He don't listen.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Ahh,” Alpha sighed. "That's the big question. And the answer to the question is diversify. I diversify, I make a shitload of money, excuse my language, and I get out.

“You know what it means to diversify? It means I take the money I make on Ramirez, and I invest it in other businesses. A chicken franchise, a laundromat, maybe even a butcher shop. Maybe I can get a butcher shop real cheap because the guy who owns it can't make good on some bad bets he took.”

“Sal.”