whole other matter. This was very scary.
I yelped when a window opened and closed above me. Mrs. Delgado letting her cat out for the night, I told myself. Get a grip. I needed to get my mind off Ramirez, so I busied myself finding hockables. There wasn’t much left. A Walkman, an iron, pearl earrings from my wedding, a kitchen clock that looked like a chicken, a framed Ansel Adams poster, and two bean-pot table lamps. I hoped it was enough to pay my phone bill and get myself reconnected. I didn’t want a repeat performance of being trapped in my apartment, not able to call for help.
I returned Rex to his cage, brushed my teeth, changed into a nightshirt, and crawled into bed with every light in the apartment blazing away.
THE FIRST THING I DID ON WAKING the following morning was to check my peephole. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a fast shower and dressed. Rex was sound asleep in his soup can after a tough night of running on his wheel. I gave him fresh water and filled his cup with the dreaded hamster nuggets. A cup of coffee would have tasted great. Unfortunately, there was no coffee in the house.
I went to my living room window and scoped out the parking lot for Ramirez, and returned to the door and doubled-checked the peephole. I slid the bolt and opened my door with the chain in place. I put my nose to the crack and sniffed. I didn’t smell boxer, so I closed the door, unhooked the chain, and reopened the door. I looked out with my gun drawn. The hall was empty. I locked my door and crept down the hall. The elevator binged, the door droned open, and I almost shot old Mrs. Moyer. I apologized profusely, told her the gun wasn’t real, and slunk off to the stairs, lugging the first load of junk out to the car.
By the time Emilio opened his pawnshop, I was in caffeine withdrawal. I haggled over the earrings, but my heart wasn’t in it, and in the end I knew I’d gotten gypped. Not that I especially cared. I had what I needed. Money for a minor weapon, and the phone company, and enough change left over for a blueberry muffin and large coffee.
I took five minutes out to luxuriate over my breakfast, and then I hustled to the phone office. I stopped at a light and got hooted at by two guys in a pickup. From the hand gestures they were making I supposed they liked my paint job. I couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the engine noise. Thank God for small favors.
I noticed a haze building around me and realized I was smoking. Not the benign white exhaust of condensation on a cold day. This smoke was thick and black, and in the absence of a tailpipe was billowing out from my underbelly. I gave the dash a hard shot with my fist to see if any of the gauges would work, and sure enough, the red oil light blinked on. I pulled into a gas station on the next corner, bought a can of 10-W-30, dumped it in the car, and checked the dipstick. It was still low, so I added a second can.
Next stop, the phone company. Settling my account and arranging for service to be resumed were only slightly less complicated than getting a green card. Finally, I explained that my blind, senile grandmother was living with me between heart attacks and having a phone would possibly make the difference between life and death. I don’t think the woman behind the counter believed me, but I think I got a few entertainment points, and I was promised someone would throw a switch later in the day. Good deal. If Ramirez came back, I’d be able to dial the cops. As a backup, I intended to get a quart of defense spray. I wasn’t much good with a gun, but I was bitchin‘ with an aerosol can.
By the time I got to the gun store, the oil light was flickering again. I didn’t see any smoke, so I concluded the gauge must be stuck. And who cared anyway, I wasn’t squandering more money on oil. This car was just going to have to make do. When I collected my $10,000 bounty money I’d buy it all the oil it wanted—then I’d push it off a bridge.
I’d always imagined gun store owners to be big and burly and to wear baseball caps that advertised motorcycle companies. I’d always imagined them with names like Bubba and Billy Bob. This gun store was run by a woman named Sunny. She was in her forties with skin tanned the color and texture of a good cigar, hair that had been bleached to canary yellow frizz, and a two-pack-a-day voice. She was wearing rhinestone earrings, skintight jeans, and she had little palm trees painted on her fingernails.
“Nice work,” I said, alluding to her nails.
“Maura, at The Hair Palace, does them. She’s a genius with nails, and she’ll bikini wax you till you’re bald as a billiard ball.”
“I’ll have to remember.”
“Just ask for Maura. Tell her Sunny sent you. And what can I do for you today? Out of bullets already?”
“I need some defense spray.”
“What kind of spray do you use?”
“There’s more than one kind?”
“Goodness, yes. We carry a full line of self-defense sprays.” She reached into the case next to her and pulled out several shrink-wrapped packages. “This is the original Mace. Then we have Peppergard, the environmentally safe alternative now used by many police departments. And, last but certainly not least, is Sure Guard, a genuine chemical weapon. This can drop a three-hundred-pound man in six seconds. Works on neurotransmitters. This stuff touches your skin and you’re out cold. Doesn’t matter if you’re drunk or on drugs. One spray and it’s all over.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“You better believe it.”
“Is it fatal? Does it leave permanent damage?”
“The only permanent damage to your victim is going to be the memory of a downright humiliating experience. Of course there’ll be some initial paralysis, and when that wears off there’s usually a lot of throwing up and a monster headache.”
“I don’t know. What if I accidentally spray myself?”
She grimaced. “Darlin‘, you should avoid spraying yourself.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all. It’s as simple as putting your finger on the button. For goodness sakes, you’re a professional now.” She patted my hand. “Take the Sure Guard. You can’t go wrong.”
I didn’t feel like a professional. I felt like an idiot. I’d criticized foreign governments for using chemical warfare, and here I was buying nerve gas from a woman who waxed off all her pubic hair.
