Three To Get Deadly

“You aren’t going to expect me to drink another one of those smoothies, are you?”

Ranger gave me the once-over. “Wouldn’t hurt. You look like Smokey the Bear in that nightgown.”

“I do not look like Smokey the Bear! All right, so I haven’t shaved my legs in a couple days…that does not make me look like Smokey the Bear. And I certainly am not as fat as Smokey the Bear.”

Ranger did more of the smile thing.

I stomped off into the bedroom and slammed the door. I stuffed myself into long johns and sweats, laced up my running shoes and marched back to the foyer where Ranger stood, arms crossed.

“Don’t expect me to do this every day,” I said to Ranger, teeth clenched. “I’m just doing this to humor you.”

An hour later I dragged myself into my apartment and collapsed onto the couch. I thought about the gun on my night table and wondered if it was loaded. And then I thought about using it on Ranger. And then I thought about using it on myself. One more early-morning run and I’d be dead anyway. May as well get it over with now.

“I’m ready for a job at the sanitary products factory,” I told Rex, who was hiding in his soup can. “You don’t have to be in shape to cram tampons into a box. I could probably blow up to three hundred pounds and still do a good job at the sanitary products plant.” I wrenched the shoes off my feet and peeled wet socks away. “Why am I knocking myself out over this? I’m teamed up with a madman, and we’re both fixated on finding an old guy who sells ice cream.”

Rex backed out of his can and looked at me, whiskers whirring.

“Exactly,” I said to Rex. “It’s dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

I gave a grunt and got to my feet. I padded into the kitchen and started coffee brewing. At least Ranger hadn’t come back with me to supervise breakfast.

“He had to go home on account of the accident,” I said to Rex. “Honest to God, I didn’t mean to trip him. And I certainly hadn’t wanted him to tear the knee out of his sweatsuit when he went down. And of course I’d felt very bad about the pulled groin.”

Rex gave me one of those looks that said, Yeah, right.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a reindeer—the flying kind. I spent a couple years galloping around looking for lichen and fantasizing about boy reindeer. Then one day I saw Peter Pan and my reindeer phase was over. I didn’t understand the allure of not growing up, because every little girl in the burg couldn’t wait to grow up and get boobs and go steady. I did understand that a flying Peter Pan was better than a flying reindeer. Mary Lou had seen Peter Pan too, but Mary Lou’s ambition was to be Wendy, so Mary Lou and I made a good pair. On most any day we could be seen holding hands, running through the neighborhood singing, “I can fly! I can fly!” If we’d been older this probably would have started rumors.

The Peter Pan stage was actually pretty short-lived because a few months into Peter Pan I discovered Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman couldn’t fly, but she had big, fat bulging boobs crammed into a sexy Wondersuit. Barbie was firmly entrenched as role model in the burg, but Wonder Woman gave her a good run for her money. Not only did Wonder Woman spill over her Wondercups but she also kicked serious ass. If I had to name the single most influential person in my life it would have to be Wonder Woman.

All during my teens and early twenties I wanted to be a rock star. The fact that I can’t play a musical instrument or carry a tune did nothing to diminish the fantasy. During my more realistic moments I wanted to be a rock star’s girlfriend.

For a very short time, while I was working as a lingerie buyer for E. E. Martin, my aspirations ran toward corporate America. My fantasies were of an elegantly dressed woman, barking orders at toadying men while her limo waited at curbside. The reality of E. E. Martin was that I worked in Newark and considered it a good day if no one peed on my shoe in the train station.

I was currently having problems coming up with a good fantasy. I had reverted back to wanting to be Wonder Woman, but it was a cruel fact of life that I was going to have a hard time filling Wonder Woman’s Wonder- bra.

I popped a frozen waffle into the toaster and ate it cookie style when it was done. I drank two cups of coffee and walked my sore muscles into the bathroom to take a shower.

I stood under the steaming water for a long time, reviewing my mental list of things to do. I needed to call about my pickup. I needed to do laundry and pay some bills. I had to return Mary Lou’s sweatshirt. And last but not least, I had to find Uncle Mo.

First thing I called about the pickup.

“It’s your carburetor,” the service manager of the blue team told me. “We could put a new one in or we could try to rebuild the one you’ve got. It’d be a lot cheaper to rebuild. Of course there’s no guarantee with a rebuild.”

“What do you mean it’s my carburetor? I just got points and plugs.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It needed them too.”

“And now you’re sure it needs a carburetor.”

“Yeah. Ninety-five percent sure. Sometimes you get problems like this, and you’ve got faulty EGR valve operation. Sometimes you’ve got faulty PCV valve airflow or faulty choke vacuum diaphragm. Could be a defective fuel pump…but I don’t think that’s it. I think you need a new carburetor.”

“Fine. Good. Wonderful. Give me a carburetor. How long will it take?”

“Not long. We’ll call you.”

Next on my list was to stop off at the office and see if anything new had turned up. And while I was there, maybe just for the heck of it I’d run a credit history on Stanley Larkin, the Montgomery Street tenant Ranger and I had questioned.

I threw on a bunch of warm clothes, hustled downstairs, chipped the latest layer of ice off the Buick and rumbled on down to the office.