Hot Six (Stephanie Plum 6)

“You're not very good at following directions.”

“You mean about not taking the cigarette smuggler job? Seemed too good to pass up.”

“You're going to be careful, right?”

“Right.”

“Our man's having problems getting out of the house. Hang in there.”

“How do you know this? Where are you?”

“Get ready. It's show time,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

Alexander Ramos was through the gate and running across the road to my car. He wrenched the passenger door open and dove in. “Go!” he shouted. “Go!”

I took off from the curb and saw two men in suits round the gate and sprint toward us. I floored the Buick, and we roared away.

Ramos didn

't look good at all. He was pale and sweating and gasping for air. “Christ,” he said, “I didn't think I was going to make it. It's a goddamn freak show in that house. Good thing I looked out the window when I did and saw your car. I was going nuts in there.”

“Do you want to go to the store?”

“No. That's the first place they'll look. I can't go to Sal's, either.”

I was getting a real bad feeling here. Like, this was one of the days Alexander didn't take his medicine.

“Take me to Asbury Park,” he said. “I know a place in Asbury Park.”

“Why were those men chasing you?”

“No one was chasing me.”

“But I saw them.”

“You didn't see anything.”

Ten minutes later he pointed with his finger. “Over there. Stop at that bar.”

The three of us went into the bar, sat at a table, and went through the same ritual as the last time. The bartender brought a bottle of ouzo to the table without being asked. Ramos slugged two back and then lit up.

“Everyone knows you,” I said.

He looked around at the scarred booths that lined one wall and the dark mahogany bar that ran the length of the other. Behind the bar was the usual array of bottles. Behind the bottles was the standard bar mirror. One stool was occupied, at the far end of the room. The man stared down, into his drink. “I've been coming here for a few years,” Ramos said. “I come here when I need to get away from the freaks.”

“The freaks?”

“My family. I raised three worthless sons who spend money faster than I can make it.”

“You're Alexander Ramos, right? I saw your picture in Newsweek a while back. I'm sorry about Homer. I read about the fire in the paper.”

He poured out another shot. “One less freak to deal with.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. It was a chilling statement for a father to make.

He took a long pull on his cigarette, closed his eyes, and savored the moment. “They think the old man don't know what's going on. Well, they're wrong. The old man knows everything. I didn't build this business by being stupid. And I didn't build it by being nice, either, so they better watch their step.”

I glanced back at the door. “Are you sure we're safe here?”