"And if someone wants to park here?"
"We discourage it."
Master of understatement.
Two men were in the lobby. They were dressed in black, wearing the SECURITY jackets. One came forward when we approached and unlocked the door.
Tank stepped in and looked around. "Anything happening?"
"Nothing. Been quiet all night."
"When was the last time you walked?"
"Twelve."
Tank nodded.
The men gathered their belongings—a large Thermos, a book, and a gym bag—and pushed through the lobby door. They stood for a moment on the street, taking it in, before climbing into their SUV and motoring off.
A small table and two folding chairs had been placed against the far lobby wall, enabling the security team to watch both the door and the stairs. There were two walkie-talkies on the table.
Tank locked the front door, took one of the walkie-talkies, and clipped it to his belt. "I'm going to do a walk-through. You stay here and keep your eye on things. Call me if anyone approaches the door."
I sent him a salute.
"Snappy," he said. "I like that."
I sat in the folding chair and watched the door. No one approached. I watched the stairs. Nothing going on there, either. I checked out my manicure. Not great. I looked at my watch. Two minutes had gone by—478 minutes more and I could go home.
Tank ambled down the stairs and took his seat. "Everything's cool."
"Now what?"
"Now we wait."
"For what?"
"For nothing."
Two hours later, Tank was comfortably slouched in his chair, arms crossed, eyes slitted but vigilant, watching the door. His metabolism had dropped to reptilian. No rise and fall of his chest. No shifting of position—250 pounds of security in suspended animation.
I, on the other hand, had given up trying to keep from falling off my chair and was stretched out on the floor where I could doze without killing myself.
I heard Tank's chair creak. Heard him lean forward. I opened an eye. "Time for another walk-through?"
Tank was on his feet. "Someone's at the door."
I sat up to see, and BANG! There was the loud discharge of a gun, and then the sound of glass shattering. Tank pitched back, hit the table, and crashed to the floor.
The gunman rushed into the lobby, gun still in hand. It was the man Tank had thrown through the window, the occupant of apartment 3C. His eyes were wild, his face pale. "Drop the gun," he yelled at me. "Drop the fucking gun."
I looked down, and sure enough, I was holding my gun. "You aren't going to shoot me, are you?" I asked, my voice sounding hollow in my head.
He was wearing a long raincoat. He ripped the coat open and held it wide to show a bunch of packets duct-taped to his body. "You see this? These are explosives. You don't do what I say, and I'll blow us up."
I heard a clunk and realized the gun had slipped from my fingers and fallen onto the floor.
"I need to get into my apartment," he said. "I need to get in now."
"It's locked."
"So get a key."
"I don't have a key."
"Jesus," he said, "so kick the damn door down."
"Me?"
"You see anyone else here?"
I looked down at Tank. He wasn't moving.
The raincoat guy waved his gun in the direction of the stairs. "Move."
I edged around him and took the stairs to the third floor. I stood in front of the door to 3C and tried the handle. Locked, all right.
"Kick it in," the raincoat guy said.
I gave it a kick.
"Christ! That's not a kick. Don't you know anything? Don't you watch television?"
I took a couple of steps back and hurled myself at the door. I hit sideways and bounced off. Nothing happened to the door. "That worked when Ranger did it," I said.
The raincoat guy was sweating, and the gun was shaking in his hand. He turned to the door, aimed the gun with two hands, and squeezed the trigger twice. Wood splintered, and there was the sound of metal on metal. He kicked the door at lock height, and the door crashed open. He jumped in, hit the light switch, and looked everywhere at once. "What happened to my stuff?"
"We cleaned the apartment."
He ran into the bedroom and bathroom and back to the living room. He opened all the cabinet doors in the kitchen. "You had no right," he screamed at me. "You had no right to take my stuff."
"There wasn't much."
"There was a lot! Do you know what I had here? I had good stuff. I had pure. Jesus, do you know how bad I need a hit?"
"Listen, how about if I drive you to the clinic. Get you some help."
"I don't want the clinic. I want my stash."
The occupant of apartment 3A opened her door. "What's going on?"
"Get back in your apartment and lock your door," I said. "We have a little problem here."
The door slammed shut and the lock clicked.
The raincoat guy was running around in his apartment again. "Jesus," he was saying. "Jesus. Jesus."
Another woman appeared in the hall. She was frail and stooped. Her age had to be upwards of a hundred. Her short white hair stuck up in tufts. She was dressed in a worn pink flannel nightgown and big fuzzy slippers. "I can't sleep with all this racket," she said. "I've lived in this building for forty-three years, and I've never seen such goings-on. This used to be a nice neighborhood."
The raincoated guy whipped around, pointed his gun at the woman, and fired. The bullet tore into the wall behind her.
"Bite me," the old lady said, pulling a nickel-plated 9mm from somewhere in the folds of her nightgown, aiming the gun two-handed.
"No!" I yelled. "Don't shoot. He's wired with—"
Too late. The old lady drilled the guy, the sound of my voice lost in the blast.
* * * * *
I WOKE UP strapped to a gurney. I was in the apartment-house lobby, and the lobby was filled with people, mostly cops. Morelli's face swam into focus. He was moving his mouth, but he wasn't saying anything.
"What?" I yelled. "Speak up."
He shook his head, waved his hands, and I saw him mouth, "Take her away." A paramedic rolled the gurney out of the lobby into the night air. We clattered over the sidewalk, and then I felt myself lifted into the ambulance, the flashing strobes blinding against the black sky.
"Hey, wait a minute," I said. "I'm fine. Let me up. Untie these straps."
* * * * *
IT WAS MIDMORNING when I was released from the hospital. I was dressed and pacing when Morelli strode into my room with my discharge papers.
"They're letting you go," he said. "If I had my way, I'd move you upstairs to psychiatric."
I stuck my tongue out at him because I was feeling exceptionally mature. I grabbed my bag, and we fled the room before the nurse arrived with the mandatory wheelchair.
"I have a lot of questions," I said to Morelli.
He steered me toward the elevator. "I have a few of my own. Like, what the hell happened?"
"Me first. I need to know about Tank. No one will tell me anything. Is he, um, you know—?"
"Dead? No. Unfortunately. He was wearing a flak vest. The impact of the bullet knocked him back and stunned him. He hit his head when he fell and was out for a while, but he's fine. And by the way, where were you when he was shot?"
"I was stretched out on the floor. It was past my bedtime."
Morelli grinned. "Let me get this straight. You didn't get shot because you fell asleep on the job?"
"Something like that. It sounded better the way I phrased it. What about the guy with the bomb?"
"So far they've found a shoe and a belt buckle in the vicinity of what's left of the apartment—which, by the way, isn't much—and some teeth on Stark Street."
The elevator door opened, and we both stepped in.
"You're kidding about the teeth, right?"