Eddie and Ranger pulled on rubber gloves, crammed the stiff back into the truck, and closed the door on him.
I got into the front of the Porsche with Ranger, and Lula got into the back. We drove to Stark Street in silence. Ranger parked in front of the chop shop. A black Rangeman Ford Explorer idled in the driveway. Lula’s red Firebird was parked next to the Explorer. A Rangeman guy who looked like the Hulk with the exception of being green got out of the Explorer and walked over to us.
“The Firebird was just dropped off,” he said to Ranger, handing him the car keys. “It seems to be undamaged. There’s a purse in the backseat.”
“Any sign of Larry Virgil?” Ranger asked.
“No. I guess he left the car here and took off.”
Ranger handed the keys over to Lula.
“I got my baby back,” Lula said, taking the keys, exiting the Porsche. “Anything I can ever do for you just let me know,” she said to Ranger. She looked the Hulk over. “You too, big, black, and badass. Anything you need you just ask Lula.”
TWO
RANGER DROVE AWAY, leaving his man grinning at Lula.
“She’ll take him apart and won’t put him back together again,” Ranger said. “Is your car at the office?”
“No. Lula picked me up at home.”
“Babe,” Ranger said.
“Babe” covers a lot of ground for Ranger, depending upon inflection. Tonight it was said softly with an undertone of desire, as if he might take me home and stay awhile. It gave me an instant rush, and heat curled through a bunch of internal organs. I did my best to squash the heat and ignore the rush, but in the process of ignoring the rush I inadvertently gave up a sigh.
“What?” Ranger asked.
“Morelli.”
Morelli and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I was five years old. Lately when we’re off again Ranger swoops in. At first glance it might appear that I’m lacking in moral character by bouncing around between men like this, but it’s only two men. I mean it’s not like I’m dating a football team. And let’s be honest about this. These guys are both twelve on a scale of one to ten. And I might only be an eight on a good day. So how lucky am I? A couple weeks ago, in a moment of euphoria, Morelli and I agreed to being engaged to be engaged. It was a good moment, but I think it’s a little like planning on winning the lottery or contemplating losing five pounds. I mean, what are the chances of it actually happening?
“Unfortunate,” Ranger said, “but the night wasn’t a complete loss. I got to see a dead guy dressed up like a Bogart Bar. What were you doing with the freezer truck?”
“Lula and I were staking out Larry Virgil, and he drove up in the semi. One thing led to another. Blah, blah, blah. And Lula crashed the truck into Eddie Gazarra’s squad car.”
“And the deceased?”
“We opened the door to look inside, and the guy fell out.”
“As it turns out,” Ranger said, “I’ve been hired by Harry Bogart. He wants increased security in his factory. For years he’s been engaged in an ice cream war with Mo Morris. In the past it’s been confined to competitive pricing, ripping off recipes, ads that pushed the boundaries of slander, and occasionally a shouting match at a family function.”
“They’re related?”
“Cousins.”
“And I guess they don’t like each other.”
“Not even a little. Lately bad things have been happening to Harry Bogart. Salmonella in the double chocolate. A bomb hoax that shut down production for an entire day. One of the freezers was down for the night, and literally a ton of ice cream melted. Bogart is sure it’s Mo Morris out to ruin him, but he can’t prove anything.”
“So he’s hired you.”
“His factory is old-school. No security cameras. No instant alerts when equipment goes down. Locks that can be opened with a nail file. I guess he’s never needed more. It’s not like he’s doing nuclear research.”
“You’re fixing all that.”
“Yes, but it takes time. It’s a big job. He needs new wiring. He has to approve the system design. I’d like to give him a couple men on foot patrol until we get everything up and running, but he refuses. He says ice cream is happiness and comfort, and his customers would turn to birthday cake and mac and cheese if they thought his ice cream was under siege.”
“He sounds like a nice man.”
“He’s ruthless and miserly. So far I haven’t seen evidence of nice.”
“He makes good ice cream.”
Ranger nodded. “So I’ve been told.”
“Do you think the dead guy could be Harry Bogart?”
“No. Wrong body type. Bogart is a big man.”
“Eats a lot of ice cream?”
“Eats a lot of everything.” Ranger turned into my parking lot. “I need someone to go inside the two ice cream factories and look around. Do you have time to moonlight for me?”
“What would I do?”
“I’d put you on the line to start. Most of the line workers are women, so you would blend in. All you’d have to do is keep your ears open and look around. I’m told everyone gets to take a pint of ice cream home with them at the end of the shift in Mo Morris’s plant.”
“Hard to pass that up.”
Ranger stopped in front of my apartment building’s back door. I made a move to get out of the car, and he pulled me to him and kissed me. The kiss was light and lingering, sending a clear message of checked passion. He released me and relaxed back into his seat.
“I’ll make the arrangements for you to start work at Bogart’s plant first and be back in touch,” Ranger said.
It took me a couple beats to get myself together. “Okay then,” I said. “Be careful driving home.”
“Babe,” Ranger said.
Morelli was on my couch watching television when I walked in. His big mostly golden retriever, Bob, was on the couch with him. There was a takeout pizza box on the coffee table.
Morelli looked up at me and grinned. “Have a good night?”
“Eddie Gazarra called you, didn’t he?”
“Cupcake, everyone called me, including your mother and the Trenton Times.”
“News travels fast.”
“Not every day someone gets dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with nuts. Usually people in Trenton just get stabbed and shot.”
I squeezed between Morelli and Bob, flipped the lid up on the pizza box, and took a slice. “I thought you might have gotten the call on this one.”
“I just came off a double shift, so I was low in the rotation. Butch Zajak pulled it.”
“I can’t stop thinking about the dead man.”
“Yeah, me too. Eddie said he was dressed up like a Bogart Bar. I don’t suppose you have any.”
“No, but the freezer truck was filled with cartons of them. It was like the man in the truck was part of the Bogart Bar run.”
“All this talk about Bogart Bars is making me feel romantic,” Morelli said.
Here’s the deal with Morelli. Everything makes him feel romantic.
He wrapped an arm around me and nibbled at my neck. “I’m thinking after the pizza what I need is dessert. Like a Bogart Bar.”
“I don’t have good feelings about Bogart Bars right now.”
“Okay, how about a hot fudge sundae?”
“I guess that would be okay.”
“Do you have ice cream? Chocolate sauce?” Morelli asked.
“No.”
“Some of that whipped cream in a can?”
“No.”
“No problem. I can use my imagination.”
I was warming to the idea.
“And then you know what comes next,” Morelli said.
“What?”
“I get to be the sundae.”
Damn! I knew there’d be a catch.
THREE