Hard Eight Read Free

Vinnie write the bond?”
    “No. It’s some other company. I wrote it down.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s True Blue Bonds, and the man’s name is Les Sebring.”
    My cousin Vinnie owns Vincent Plum Bail Bonds and runs his business out of a small storefront office on Hamilton Avenue. A while back when I’d been desperate for a job, I’d sort of blackmailed Vinnie into taking me on. The Trenton economy has since improved, and I’m not sure why I’m still working for Vinnie, except that the office is across from a bakery.
    Sebring has offices downtown, and his operation makes Vinnie’s look like chump change. I’ve never met Sebring but I’ve heard stories. He’s supposed to be extremely professional. And he’s rumored to have legs second only to Tina Turner’s.
    I gave Mabel an awkward hug, told her I’d look into things for her, and I left.
    My mother and my grandmother were waiting for me. They were at my parents’ front door with the door cracked an inch, their noses pressed to the glass.
    “
Pssst,
” my grandmother said. “Hurry up over here. We’re dying.”
    “I can’t tell you,” I said.
    Both women sucked in air. This went against the code of the Burg. In the Burg, blood was
always
thicker than water. Professional ethics didn’t count for much when held up to a juicy piece of gossip among family members.
    “Okay,” I said, ducking inside. “I might as well tell you. You’ll find out anyway.” We rationalize a lot in the Burg, too. “When Evelyn got divorced she had to take out something called a child custody bond. Mabel put her house up as collateral. Now Evelyn and Annie are off somewhere, and Mabel is getting pressured by the bond company.”
    “Oh my goodness,” my mother said. “I had no idea.”
    “Mabel is worried about Evelyn and Annie. Evelyn sent her a note and said she and Annie were going away for a while, but Mabel hasn’t heard from them since.”
    “If I was Mabel I’d be worried about her
house
,” Grandma said. “Sounds to me like she could be living in a cardboard box under the railroad bridge.”
    “I told her I’d help her, but this isn’t really my thing. I’m not a private investigator.”
    “Maybe you could get your friend Ranger to help her,” Grandma said. “That might be better anyway, on account of he’s hot. I wouldn’t mind having him hang around the neighborhood.”
    Ranger is more associate than friend, although I guess friendship is mixed in there somehow, too. Plus a scary sexual attraction. A few months ago we made a deal that has haunted me. Another one of those jumping-off-the-garage-roof things, except this deal involved my bedroom. Ranger is Cuban-American with skin the color of a mocha latte, heavy on the mocha, and a body that can best be described as
yum
. He’s got a big-time stock portfolio, anendless, inexplicable supply of expensive black cars, and skills that make Rambo look like an amateur. I’m pretty sure he only kills bad guys, and I think he might be able to fly like Superman, although the flying part has never been confirmed. Ranger works in bond enforcement, among other things. And Ranger always gets his man.
    My black Honda CR-V was parked curbside. Grandma walked me to the car. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she said. “I always thought I’d make a good detective, on account of I’m so nosy.”
    “Maybe you could ask around the neighborhood.”
    “You bet. And I could go to Stiva’s tomorrow. Charlie Shleckner is laid out. I hear Stiva did a real good job on him.”
    New York has Lincoln Center. Florida has Disney World. The Burg has Stiva’s Funeral Home. Not only is Stiva’s the premier entertainment facility for the Burg, it’s also the nerve center of the news network. If you can’t get the dirt on someone at Stiva’s, then there isn’t any dirt to get.
     
    It was still early when I left Mabel’s, so I drove past