I ran back to the apartment, got a hat and dark glasses, and returned to the car. I slid behind the wheel, slouched low in the seat, and chugged out of the lot. This is not compatible with my aura, I told myself. My aura was not half Volkswagen Beetle.
Twenty minutes later I was on Rockwell Street, reading numbers, looking for Munson's house. When I found it the house seemed normal enough. One block from the factory. Convenient if you wanted to walk to work. Not so good if you liked scenic. It was a two story row house, very much like Mooner's house. Faced in maroon asbestos shingle.
I parked at the curb and walked the short distance to the door. It wasn't likely Munson would be home; this was Wednesday morning and he was probably in Argentina. I rang the bell and was caught off guard when the door opened and Munson stuck his head out.
“Morris Munson?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you'd be . . . at work.”
“I took a couple weeks off. I've been having some problems. Who are you, anyway?”
“I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You missed your court date, and we'd like to get you rescheduled.”
“Oh. Sure. Go ahead and reschedule me.”
“I need to take you downtown to do that.”
He looked beyond me to the wind machine. “You don't expect me to go with you in that, do you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I'd feel like an idiot. What would people think?”
“Hey listen, pal, if I can ride in it, you can ride in it.”
“You women, you're all alike,” he said. “Snap your fingers and expect a man to jump through the hoops.”
I had my hand in my shoulder bag, scrounging for my pepper spray.
“Stay here,” Munson said. “I'm gonna go get my car. It's parked
out back. I don't mind rescheduling, but I'm not riding in that dopey-looking car. I'll come around the block and then follow you into town.” Slam. He closed and locked the door.
Damn. I got into the car and turned the key in the ignition, waiting at idle for Munson, wondering if I'd ever see him again. I checked my watch. I'd give him five minutes. Then what? Storm the house? Break the door down and go in guns blazing? I looked in my shoulder bag. No gun. I forgot to bring my gun. Gee, guess that means I have to go home and leave Munson for some other day.
I looked straight ahead and saw a car turn the corner. It was Munson. What a nice surprise, I thought. You see, Stephanie, don't be so quick to judge. Sometimes people turn out just fine. I put the wind machine in gear and watched him come closer. Hold on here, he was speeding up instead of slowing down! I could see his face, pinched in concentration. The maniac was going to ram me! I threw the car into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. The Rolls jumped back. Not fast enough to avoid the collision, but fast enough to avoid getting totally smashed. My head snapped on impact. No big deal for a woman born and raised in the Burg. We grow up riding bumper cars at the Jersey shore. We know how to take a hit.
Problem was, Munson was banging into me with what looked like a retired cop car, a Crown Victoria. Bigger than the Rollswagen. He came at me again, bouncing me back about fifteen feet, and the wind machine stalled. He scrambled out of his car while I was trying to restart, and ran at me with a tire iron. “You want to see me jump through hoops,” he yelled. “I'll show you jump through hoops.”
A pattern was emerging here. Ram somebody with your car, beat them with the tire iron. I didn't want to think about what would come after the tire iron. The Rolls engine caught, and I catapulted forward, barely missing him.
He swung the tire iron and caught my back fender. “I hate you!” he yelled. “You women are all alike!”
I went from zero to fifty m.p.h. in half a block and took the corner on two wheels. I didn't look back for a quarter of a mile, and when I did there was no one behind me. I forced myself to ease up on the gas and sucked in some deep breaths. My heart was thumping in my chest, and my hands had the wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. A McDonald's popped up in front of me, and the car automatically turned into the drive-through lane. I ordered a vanilla milkshake and asked the kid in the window if they were hiring.
“Sure,” he said, “we're always hiring. You want an application?”
“Do you get held up a lot here?”
“Not a lot,” he said, passing the application through with the straw. “We get a few crazies, but usually you can buy them off with extra pickles.”
I parked in the far corner of the lot and drank my milkshake while I read the application. It might not be so bad, I thought. You probably get free french fries.
I got out and looked at the car. The Rolls-Royce grill was crumpled, and the left rear fender had a big dent in it, and the back light was smashed.
The black Lincoln cruised into the lot and parked alongside me. The window rolled down, and Mitchell smiled at the Rollswagen. “What the hell is that?”