Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)
“What a moolack,” I said to the answering machine.
The second message was from Ranger. “Call me.”
Ranger is a man of few words. He's Cuban-?American, former Special Forces, he makes a much better friend than an enemy, and he's Vinnie's numero uno bounty hunter. I dialed Ranger's number and waited to hear breathing. Sometimes that was all you got.
“Yo,” Ranger said.
“Yo yourself.”
“I need you to help me take down a skip.”
This meant Ranger either needed a good laugh or else he needed a white female to use as a decoy. If Ranger needed serious muscle he wouldn't call me. Ranger knew people who would take on the Terminator for a pack of Camels and the promise of a fun time.
“I need to get an FTA out of a building, and I haven't got what it takes,” Ranger said.
“And just exactly what is it that you're lacking?”
“Smooth white skin barely hidden behind a short skirt and tight sweater. Two days ago Sammy the Gimp bought the farm. He's laid out at Leoni's, and my man, Kenny Martin, is in there paying his respects.”
“So why don't you just wait until he comes out?”
“He's in there with his mother and his sister and his Uncle Vito. My guess is they'll leave together, and I don't want to wade through the whole Grizolli family to get at this guy.”
No kidding. The landfill was littered with the remains of people who tried to wade through Vito Grizolli.
“Actually, I had plans for tonight,” I said. “They include living a little longer.”
“I just want you to get my man out the back door. I'll take it from there.”
I heard the disconnect, but I shouted into the phone anyway. “What are you freaking nuts?”
* * * * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I was dressed in four-?inch FMPs (short for “fuck-?me pumps,” because when you walked around in them you looked like Whorehouse Wonder Bitch). I shimmied into a low-?cut black knit dress that was bought with the intent of losing five pounds, gunked up my eyes with a lot of black mascara and beefed up my cleavage by stuffing Nerf balls into my bra.
Ranger was parked on Roebling, half a block from the funeral home. He didn't turn when I pulled to the curb, but I saw his eyes on me in the rearview mirror.
He was smiling when I slid in beside him. “Nice dress you're almost wearing. You ever think about changing professions?”
“Constantly. I'm thinking about it now.”
Ranger handed me a photo. “Kenny Martin. Age twenty-?two. Minor league loser. Charged with armed robbery.” He glanced at the black leather bag I had draped on my shoulder. “You carrying?”
“Yes.”
“Is it loaded?”
I stuck my hand in the bag and rooted around. “I'm not sure, but I think I've got a few bullets in here somewhere . . .”
“Cuffs?”
“I definitely have cuffs.”
“Defense spray?”
“Yep. Got defense spray.”
“Go get 'em, tiger.”