modern-day standards it wasn’t a terrific apartment. It didn’t come with a pool membership or have tennis courts attached. The elevator was unreliable. The bathroom was vintage Partridge family with mustard yellow amenities and French Provincial trim on the vanity. The kitchen appliances were a notch below generic.
The good part about the apartment was that it had been built with sturdy stuff. Sound didn’t carry from apartment to apartment. The rooms were large and sunny. Ceilings were high. I lived on the second floor, and my windows overlooked the small private parking lot. The building predated the balcony boom, but I was lucky enough to have an old-fashioned black metal fire escape skirt my bedroom window. Perfect for drying pantyhose, quarantining houseplants with aphids, and just big enough for sitting out on sultry summer nights.
Most important of all, the ugly brick building wasn’t part of a sprawling complex of other ugly brick buildings. It sat all by itself on a busy street of small businesses, and it bordered a neighborhood of modest frame houses. Very much like living in the burg… but better. My mother had a hard time stretching the umbilical this far, and the bakery was only one block away.
I parked in the lot and slunk into the back entrance. Since Morelli wasn’t around, I didn’t have to be brave, so I bitched and complained and limped all the way to my apartment. I showered, did the first-aid thing, and dressed in T-shirt and shorts. My knees were missing the top layer of skin and were bruised, already turning shades of magenta and midnight blue. My elbows were in pretty much the same condition. I felt like a kid who’d fallen off her bike. I could hear myself singing out “I can do it; I can do it,” and then next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground, looking the fool, with two scraped knees.
I flopped onto my bed, spread-eagle on my back. This was my thinking position when things appeared to be futile. It had obvious advantages: I could nap while I waited for something brilliant to pop into my mind. I lay there for what seemed like a long time. Nothing brilliant had popped into my mind, and I was too agitated to sleep.
I couldn’t stop reliving my experience with Ramirez. I’d never before been attacked by a man. Never even come close. The afternoon’s assault had been a degrading, frightening experience, and now that the dust had settled, and calmer emotions prevailed, I felt violated and vulnerable.
I considered filing a report with the police, but immediately shelved it. Whining to Big Brother wasn’t going to win any points for me as a rough, tough bounty hunter. I couldn’t see Ranger instituting an assault charge.
I’d been lucky, I told myself. I’d gotten away with superficial injuries. Thanks to Morelli.
The latter admission dragged a groan from me. Being rescued by Morelli had been damned embarrassing. And grossly unjust. All things considered, I didn’t think I was doing all that badly. I’d been on the case for less than forty-eight hours, and I’d found my man twice. True, I hadn’t been able to bring him in, but I was in a learning process. No one expected a first-year engineering student to build the perfect bridge. I figured I deserved to be cut the same kind of slack.
I doubted the gun would ever be of any use to me. I couldn’t imagine myself shooting Morelli. Possibly in the foot. But what were my chances of hitting a small moving target? Not good at all. Clearly I needed a less lethal way of subduing my quarry. Maybe a defense spray would be more my style. Tomorrow morning I’d go back to Sunny’s Gun Shop and add to my bag of dirty tricks.
My clock radio blinked 5:50 P.M. I looked at it dully, not immediately responding to the significance of the time, then horror ripped through me. My mother was expecting me for dinner again!
I sprang out of bed and raced to the phone. The phone was dead. I hadn’t paid my bill. I grabbed the car keys from the kitchen counter and hurtled out the door.
MY MOTHER WAS STANDING on the porch steps when I parked at the curb. She was waving her arms and shouting. I couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engine, but I could read her lips. “SHUT IT OFF!” she was yelling. “SHUT IT OFF!”
“Sorry,” I yelled back. “Broken muffler.”
“You’ve got to do something. I could hear you coming four blocks away. You’ll give old Mrs. Ciak heart palpitations.” She squinted at the car. “Did you have it decorated?”
“It happened on Stark Street. Vandals.” I pushed her into the hallway before she could read the words.
“Wow, nice knees,” Grandma Mazur said, bending down to take a closer look at my ooze. “I was watching some TV show last week, think it was Oprah, and they had a bunch of women on with knees like that. Said it was rug burn. Never figured out what that meant.”
“Christ,” my father said from behind his paper. He didn’t need to say more. We all understood his plight.
“It’s not rug burn,” I told Grandma Mazur. “I fell on my roller blades.” I wasn’t worried about the lie. I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.
I glanced at the dining room table. It was set with the good lace tablecloth. Company. I counted the plates. Five. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Ma, you didn’t.”
“I didn’t what?”
The doorbell rang, and my worst fears were confirmed.
“It’s company. It’s no big deal,” my mother said, going to the door. “I guess I can invite company into my own house if I want to.”
“It’s Bernie Kuntz,” I said. “I can see him through the hall window.”
My mother stopped, hands on hips. “So, what’s wrong with Bernie Kuntz?”
“To begin with… he’s a man.”
“Okay, you had a bad experience. That don’t mean you should give up. Look at your sister Valerie. She’s happily married for twelve years. She has two beautiful girls.”
“That’s it. I’m leaving. I’m going out the back door.”
“Pineapple upside-down cake,” my mother said. “You’ll miss dessert if you leave now. And don’t think I’ll save some for you.”
My mother didn’t mind playing dirty if she thought the cause was worthy. She knew she had me locked in with
