"Now?"
"No! In the morning. I want to go running, and I'm looking for a partner."
"You're not looking for a partner," Ranger said. "You're looking for an enforcer. You hate to run. You must be worried about getting into that black dress. What did you eat just now? Piece of cake? Candy bar?"
"Everything," I said. "I just ate everything."
"You need some self-control, Babe."
Boy, that was the truth. "Are you going to run with me, or what?"
"Only if you're serious about getting into shape."
"I am."
"You're a terrible liar," Ranger said. "But since I don't want to have some fat chick working for me, I'll be there at six."
"I'm not a chick," I yelled. But he'd already hung up.
Damn.
* * * * *
I SET THE alarm for five-thirty, but was awake at five and dressed by five-fifteen. I wasn't all that enthusiastic about running anymore. And I didn't especially care about being on time as a courtesy to Ranger. My fear was that I'd oversleep, and when Ranger broke into my apartment to wake me up, I'd drag him into bed with me.
And then what would I tell Joe? We sort of had an agreement. Except neither of us knew exactly what the agreement meant. In fact, now that I thought about it, maybe we didn't have an agreement at all. Actually, it was more like we were in agreement negotiations.
Besides, I wasn't going to do anything with Ranger because getting involved with Ranger would be the equivalent to sky diving without a parachute. I was temporarily oversexed, but I wasn't any more stupid than usual.
I had a ham sandwich and the rest of the pie for breakfast. I did some stretches. I tweezed my eyebrows. I changed from shorts to sweats. And at six o'clock I was in the lobby, watching Ranger pull into the lot.
"Man," he said, "you must be serious about running. I didn't expect you to actually be up at this hour. Last time we ran I had to drag you out of bed."
I was wearing sweats, and I was freezing my butt off, wondering where the hell the sun was. Ranger was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, and he didn't look cold at all. He did a couple hamstring stretches, a couple neck rolls, and began jogging in place.
"You ready?" Ranger asked.
A mile later I pulled up and bent at the waist, trying to suck in some air. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my hair was plastered to my head. "Hold it a minute," I said. "I have to throw up. Boy, I'm really out of shape." And maybe I shouldn't have had the ham and pie.
"You aren't going to throw up," Ranger said. "Keep going."
"I can't keep going."
"Do another quarter mile."
I shoved off behind him. "Boy, I'm really out of shape," I said again. Guess running once every three months wasn't enough for maximum fitness.
"Two more minutes," Ranger said. "You can make it."
"I really think I'm going to throw up."
"You're not going to throw up," Ranger said. "One more minute."
The sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I wanted to wipe it away, but I couldn't lift my arm that high. "We there yet?"
"Yes. Mile and a quarter," Ranger said. "See, I knew you could do it."
I was unable to speak, so I nodded my head.
Ranger was jogging in place. "Want to keep moving," he said. "You ready to go?"
I bent over and threw up.
"That's not gonna save you," Ranger said.
I gave him a stiff middle finger.
"Shit," Ranger said, looking down at the mess I'd made on the ground. "What's that pink stuff?"
"Ham sandwich."
"Maybe you want to just shoot yourself in the head."
"I like ham."
He jogged a few feet in front of me. "Come on. We'll do another mile."
"I just threw up!"
"Yeah, so?"
"So I'm not running anymore."
"No pain, no gain, Babe."
"I don't like pain," I said. "I'm going home. And I'm walking." He pushed off. "I'll catch you on the way back."
Look on the bright side, I thought. At least I didn't have to worry about breakfast going straight to my thighs. And throwing up is so attractive that chances were real good I wouldn't have to worry about Ranger having a libido attack over me anytime in the near future.
I was walking one block from Hamilton, in a neighborhood of small single-family houses. Traffic was picking up on Hamilton, but one block over, where I walked, activity was centered in kitchens. Lights were on, coffee was brewing, cereal bowls were being set out. It was Saturday, but Trenton wasn't sleeping in. Kids had to be chauffeured to football and soccer. Laundry had to go to the cleaner. Cars needed washing. And the farmer's market was calling . . . fresh vegetables, eggs, baked goods, and sausages.
The sun was weak in a murky sky, and the air felt cold against my sweat-soaked clothes. I was three blocks from my apartment building, planning my day. Canvass the area around the strip mall, showing Uncle Fred's photo. Get home in time to pour myself into the little black dress. All the while keeping an eye out for Bunchy.
I heard a runner coming up behind me. Ranger, I thought, steeling myself not to get coerced into racing him home.
"Hello, Stephanie," the runner said.
My walking faltered. The runner was Ramirez. He was dressed in sweats and running shoes, but he wasn't sweating. And he wasn't breathing heavy. He was smiling, dancing around me on the balls of his feet, alternately shadowboxing and jogging in place.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"The champ wants to be your friend. The champ can show you things. He can take you places you've never been."
I was torn between wanting Ranger to show up and save me, and not wanting Ranger to see Ramirez at all. I suspected Ranger's solution to my stalking problem might be death. There was a good possibility that Ranger killed people on a regular basis. Only bad guys, of course, so who was I to criticize? Still, I didn't want him killing someone on my behalf. Not even if it was Ramirez. Although, if Ramirez died in his sleep or was accidentally run over by a truck, it wouldn't bother me too much.
"I'm not going anywhere with you, ever," I said. "And if you continue to harass me I'll take steps to make sure it stops."
"It's your destiny to go with the champ," Ramirez said. "You can't escape it. Your friend Lula went with me. Ask her how she liked it, Stephanie. Ask Lula what it's like to be with the champ."
I got a mental picture of Lula left naked and bloodied on my fire escape. Good thing I'd already thrown up because if there was anything in my stomach I'd be ralphing now.
I strode off, walking away from him. You don't debate with a madman. He pitty-patted after me for half a block, and then he laughed softly and called good-bye, and he was gone, jogging off toward Hamilton.
Ranger didn't reach me until I was at my parking lot. His skin was slick with sweat, and his breathing was labored. He'd been running hard, and he looked like he'd enjoyed it.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "Your face is white. I thought you'd have recovered by now."
"Think you're right about ham," I said.
"You want to try this again tomorrow?"
"I don't think I'm cut out to be this healthy."
"You still looking for work?"
I mentally cracked my knuckles. I needed money, but Ranger's jobs weren't turning out so good. "What is it this time?"
Ranger unlocked his car, reached inside, and retrieved a large yellow envelope. "I have a high-bond FTA floating around Trenton. I have someone watching his girlfriend's house and someone watching his apartment. The guy's mother lives in the Burg. I don't think it's worthwhile to put someone on the mother's house twenty-four hours, but you know a lot of people in the Burg, and I thought you might be able to find an informant." He handed the envelope over. "The guy's name is Alphonse Ruzick."
I knew the Ruzicks. They lived on the other side of the Burg, two doors down from Carmine's Bakery, across from the Catholic school. Sandy Polan lived on that block. I'd gone to school with Sandy. She was married to Robert Scarfo now, so I guess she was Sandy Scarfo, but I still thought of her as being Sandy Polan. She had three kids, and the last one looked a lot more like the next-door neighbor than like Robert Scarfo. I peeked inside the envelope. Photo of Alphonse Ruzick, apprehension authorization, bond agreement, and personal information sheet.