Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum 20)

“They tried to kill me! They were serious. How could they get released?”

“Sympathetic judge. Would you consider moving into Rangeman until we get this sorted out?”

“It’s tempting, but no.”

Rangeman was headquartered in an under-the-radar office building on a quiet side street in the center of the city. There was secure underground parking and seven secure floors aboveground. Ranger’s one-bedroom, one-bath private apartment, professionally decorated in earth tones with black accents, occupied the entire seventh floor. It was calm and cool and immaculate, thanks to the building’s housekeeper, Ella. The problem was with the bed: Ranger slept in it.

Moving into the Rangeman building would protect me from everyone but Ranger. Not that I could compare sleeping with Ranger to being dead. And not that Ranger would force himself on me. My fear was more that I’d force myself on Ranger and screw my life up in a major way.

I looked at my watch. “Damn. It’s almost seven o’clock! I’m late. I told Grandma I’d pick her up for Bingo at seven.” I thunked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “My car is still parked at the bonds office.”

“I had it picked up and brought here. It’s parked in the lot.”

The firehouse is on the fringe of the Burg. It has a large public-use room that holds Bingo games, wedding and baby showers, small wedding receptions, and pancake breakfasts that benefit a variety of causes. The floor is oak, the walls are painted a bilious green, and the lighting is fluorescent. The Bingo game setup is pretty much the same as at the Senior Center.

Grandma and I, the last to arrive, were relegated to the back of the room. This was perfect for me. I could see everyone playing. Twenty percent of the players were gonzo Bingo junkies who played Bingo every day and were also at the Senior Center. The remaining 80 percent were mostly from the Burg. A bunch of Grandma’s cronies were there, plus some of my grade school and high school friends. At least half the room had been drinking, and they were feeling no pain.

“Your hair is different,” I said to Grandma.

“Yeah. I went blond. The gray made me look too old.”

Grandma’s gray hair was just the tip of the iceberg. She was young at heart, but she had a body like a soup chicken and skin like an elephant.

“I went to the beauty salon today and got spruced up,” Grandma said. “Ever since Mildred Frick called me a slut my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I got two dates for the weekend.”

“It might not be such a good thing to have men calling you because they think you’re a slut,” I said. “They’re only going to be after one thing.”

“I hope that’s true. I don’t want to find out I went blond and bought them thongs for nothing.”

“Did you happen to hear anything about me this afternoon?”

“Just how you got thrown off the bridge and Ranger jumped in to save you.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Yeah. She ironed sheets for three hours, mumbling about how she wished you were more like your sister with all the kids and a lawyer for a husband, and how she couldn’t understand you not wanting to be a butcher. And then she had a couple nips of booze while she was making supper, and some red wine when we sat down to eat, and she was pretty much in a nice stupor by the time I left.”

My mother always irons when she’s upset. If you walk into the house and see the ironing board up, it’s usually a good idea to turn tail and leave. I guess that’s cowardly, but Grandma and I are almost always the cause for the stress, and we’ve learned it’s best to give my mother some space when she’s freaked.

Grandma and I each had three Bingo cards. Every time a number was called I’d bang my splint onto the Formica table-top, trying to use my dauber.

“How long do you gotta wear that thing?” Grandma asked.

“A couple weeks.”

“Maybe you want me to take over your cards so you don’t break any more of your finger bone.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

There were three men playing Bingo. All three had been at the Senior Center. Two were a gay couple who were probably in their seventies. It was hard to judge their exact age because they were Botoxed, exfoliated, and moisturized, and had skin like a baby’s bottom.

Gordon Krutch was the third man. He was also in his seventies, but without the benefits of gaydom his face looked like a road map of Newark: lots of intersecting streets, plus a bunch of potholes, and skin the color and texture of concrete.

Grandma caught Gordon’s eye and waved at him. Gordon waved back and blew Grandma a kiss.

“Isn’t he something?” Grandma said to me. “We’re going to the movies tomorrow. He still drives and everything. He’s a real catch. He’s kept himself in shape. He takes the fitness class for old people at the Senior Center.”

I suppose it’s relative, but Gordon didn’t look to me like he was in great shape. He was about fifty pounds overweight, and he broke into a sweat from the exertion of walking. Plus there was the near-death pallor.