"Think of it as Trey." Fifi smirked.
I watched Gus Grabowski in the next lane. He popped off a few rounds, putting a tight grouping right in the center of his target's chest.
Watching the force that was expelled with each shot gave me pause. "I don't know that I dislike him enough to shoot him." Yes, he's a Brooklyn bad boy but he's oh so handsome and sweet . . . when he wasn't using me as a punching bag.
"Then how about your ex-husband, ol' Mister—"
"Don't you dare even say his name." Storm clouds hovered over my head. I bet I was attracting lightning.
Fifi threw her head back and laughed. "Okay, we won't invoke his name. But you need to understand the importance of keeping your eyes on the prize."
Fifi continued to act the part of a mother hen and stuck right beside, guiding me in gun safety and shooting techniques. After the first hour and about a hundred cartridges, I graduated to be a pretty fair shot. Deaf, perhaps, but a pretty good shot.
Fifi tapped me on the shoulder. "Take a break. I need to run to the little girls' room. Be right back." She hurried off.
I glanced down the row and then to my right. Stavros stepped out of his lane and nodded at me as he held his finger to the button to retrieve his target.
Angelica Scarpetti strolled over. With her bun tight up under her hat and the jean jacket and pants she had changed into from her locker, you would have thought she was a man, if not for her ample, old-Italian-lady chest. "Hey, watch what I can do."
Quick as a flash she slid her fanny pack from back to front, unzipped the pouch, slid her .45 Long Colt from its pocket holster, and peppered Stavros's approaching target.
Stavros jumped out of the way. "You old bat! You scared the daylights outta me!" The target reached the end of the track and stopped. "Look what you did to my target."
Fifi swung open the glass door and stormed in. "Hey! I've told you about those kind of shenanigans, Angie! That's not safe!" She scowled with a look that could turn weaker women to stone.
Angie grinned. "Yeah, and we were running with scissors when we were kids and still lived to tell about it." She waved Fifi off. "I've been shooting guns since before you were even a glimmer in your mama's eye." She put her weapon away. "I'm practicing my new quick draw." Angie had practically decapitated the paper man.
Poke me with a fork, I'm done.
I turned to Fifi. "I could use a slice of Red Velvet."
17
WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES. YESTERDAY, I WOKE WITH VISIONS OF getting my hair done and ended the day blowing away paper targets with a bunch of old people that I had a new respect for. Before my eyes, they had transformed from doddering misfits into Rambo and the Rambettes. It pained me to even think about it, but then again everything pained me at the moment.
Gabi had done my head up nice and tight. And then, having that hat jammed down on it before the braids had a chance to relax overnight had given me a huge headache. Some of that I could attribute to the cacophony at the shooting range. A good eleven hours later, and my ears were still ringing. I almost missed the alarm at eight because I accidentally flicked the switch from music to alarm and the mechanical sound matched the tinnitus.
I padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower to let the hot water steam up the room. My head felt so tight that it hurt when I yawned. I grabbed up the Advil and a chug of water to wash down the pill and glanced in the mirror. I raised my eyebrows. Stabbing lasers of torture radiated from my forehead to the back of my skull. I had to admit the two-toned braids sure looked good, though. Now I knew why Bebe hired the Mick Jagger wannabe. His work was righteous. I looked smokin' good. I grinned. Pain ran up my face. A good hot shower would help.
I slid into the steamy stream and pulled the glass door shut. Hot water slid down over my head, soothing the sore nerve endings at the roots of my hair. I stood still and let the shower massager head pulsate its way into my aching brain.
Ten minutes later, I began to feel human again. The pain in my head subsided a bit. I was wrapped up in my fuzzy, terry cloth robe, which was great for drying off without effort, and strolled across the hall to my walk-in closet.
I opted for linen drawstring pants again, pale green and the matching gauzy shirt with a subtle geometric print and loose sleeves. It promised to be another 90-degree day, and few things irritated me more than tailor-fit clothes sweat-stuck to my body. My choice was a perfect outfit for comfort and for hiding the fact that I still couldn't get my jeans to button by about two inches. Sigh. I needed to lay off the Red Velvet cake.
I slipped into a pair of corded espadrilles. My stomach was growling. Ill-fitting jeans or not, I needed breakfast. I marched downstairs and pulled open the fridge for ingredients. I whipped up a two-egg omelet with sharp Cheddar cheese. Hey, I used an Egg Beaters egg for one of the eggs, so I was conserving cholesterol while staying low carb. Okay, so I was dying for cake. I microwaved three strips of bacon while the omelet was cooking, and seated myself at the counter to eat.
I stared at the coffeemaker. I still couldn't bring myself to use it alone in the morning. I looked down at my watch as I scarfed up the last of the bacon and eggs. Verlene was meeting me in about ten minutes.
I sat at my desk, sipping on my second tall cup of hazelnut and thinking I should call my lawyer about Templeton. I still couldn't bring myself to use his first name.
Verlene barged into the bookstore. The ex would have to wait.
"I'm sorry that I'm late, honey lamb, but I had to go to Costco first thing." Verlene plopped her purse onto the counter and leaned against it.
Gulp. Please, Lord, don't make me be a food taster again so soon. I'll be good today. . . . I promise.
"I needed more chain locks for my doors." She looked proud of herself.
But I bit down on my tongue. Yes . . . I really bit my tongue. That was about the only physical exercise that kept my trap shut. I just rolled my eyes.
I motioned to Fifi that I was leaving, grabbed Verlene by the arm, and hustled her out the front door.
"Where are we going?" Verlene scurried to keep up with my long stride. Even with short legs, annoyance lengthened my determined stride to that of someone six feet tall.
"We're going to the beauty salon. One of them no-account working girls is the source of your theft. I'm sure of it." Thinking of those thugs scaring Verlene infuriated me all over again.
Verlene's sandals slapped against her heels as she tried to keep up. "But they all seemed so nice to me."
"Those kind of people are only nice when they want something you possess."
Her arms pumped air as she huffed behind me. "What are those kind of people?"
"Users. Life-sucking leeches who will disrespect you as fast as they can speak." Okay, so at the moment I was thinking of Trey, probably not the greatest talking point. "You let me do the business when we get in there. We're looking for someone who acts guilty."
"What will guilty look like?" Verlene panted, looking ready to drop. It's a good thing the door was in front of us.
"I'll know it when I see it." I pushed through the front door of the beauty shop ready for bear.
Ellie Pembrook's head angled up from her book. "Hey, Sloane. Your do looks righteous. What's shakin'?"
I ignored the hair compliment. Both hands fisted on my hips. "My aunt Verlene was assaulted last night in her own home and her property was stolen."
Verlene touched my arm. "Honey, it wasn't that big a deal. I wasn't—"
"Yes you were! They robbed you at gunpoint." I snatched my arm from her grasp, and watched the faces around me for any indication of guilt.
"Verlene, I'm sorry," said Ellie. She looked genuinely concerned. "What did they steal?"
Verlene opened her mouth. I cut her off.
"The hoodlums jacked a valuable book." No face displayed instant guilt, which really messed with me. I expected it to be much easier to spot the miscreant.
"Valuable? How valuable?" Ellie put down her book.
"Very valuable. But only a bookstore would be able to pay that kind of money for it." Hopefully I was baiting a trap.
Marley Howard didn't acknowledge our presence, but Janelle Wilson looked up from her cell phone, smiled weakly, and shut the cover on the phone.
Marley glared at me, as though I had singled her out. She stood up. "Are you talking to me?" She jabbed a finger toward her chest.
"If the shoe fits . . ." I planted both feet.
Even in her five-inch spike heels, she reached my air space in less than three seconds flat. Standing nose to nose, I could smell the lingering scents of her indiscretions. She hadn't taken a shower yet this morning.
"Why you be gettin' all up in my grill about this old lady?" Her breath smelled like an ashtray.
I refused to give this kid the satisfaction of even blinking. But suddenly, a prickle ran up my nose. I turned my face into my arm and sneezed. So much for looking tough. I put back on my game face.
"Let me give you an instant replay. I walked in the door and announced that my aunt was robbed. Exactly what part of that was directed at you?" I stared her down till she flinched. My hands were still planted on my hips.
Her expression remained defiant. My shock and awe was having the desired effect. She glanced around. Suddenly, it must have dawned on her that everyone was staring at her with their mouths open. Her face softened a touch. Gotcha Marley, m'girl!
"You just need to pump the brakes on all that negativity you bringin' up in here." She pointed a freshly lacquered nail in my direction.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Janelle Wilson had pulled her cell back out and began to text.
I shrugged and feigned innocence. "I just made a statement. You're the one who became all defensive about it. Besides, if you want to talk about anybody bringin' somethin' up in here, you need to back off your stank self. Funky fresh is not a cologne."
She lunged.
I backed out of her short reach in those heels.
The door burst open and two twenty-something thugs sauntered in. Both wore wife-beater T-shirts and homeboy low-slung jeans that showed the top of their boxers.
One, wearing a heavy, linked gold chain, slipped his arm around Marley's shoulder and whispered into her ear. She settled down. The one wearing a sideways ball cap with a blue panther on it faced off with me.
"Ain't you Trey Alexander's old lady?"
My shoulders straightened at the insult. "I'm not anybody's old lady."
He snickered as he looked me up and down, and rubbed his chin with three fingers.
Why, you disrespectful . . . Okay, that let me know that Marley is in on this too, because these two definitely knew what they were walking into.
Hold the phone! Duh, I just got whacked with my own clue stick! Even though Trey is a little hot with me right now . . . uhm let's say a lot hot . . . he would never allow anyone to harm or rob my aunt. These are not Fort Greene peeps. This is Trey's territory, and these two homeys aren't his.
"What are you doing over here? You're from Bed-Stuy." I figured I'd bait them to see if they're from Bedford-Stuyvesant. It's a straight shot from here if you travel up Fulton Street.
Mr. Mouth piped up. "You don't know—"
The homeboy hugging on Marley, shoved Mr. Mouth, and pointed his finger. "Keep your trap shut. Let's bounce." Gold chain jerked his head in the direction of the door, grabbed Janelle by the arm, and hauled her out of the shop. Marley reluctantly followed along, whining that she hadn't gotten her hair done yet, while the other two picked up their purses and scurried out behind.
I turned to Ellie. "Where are those girls living?"
Ellie avoided my gaze, replanting her nose into the novel she was holding.
"Ellie?"
"Don't get me involved with them, Sloane. Please. Those chicks followed Tiny Tina here from Bed-Stuy when Bebe hired her." She raised her head with a pained expression on her face. "All I can tell you is, those dudes are dangerous. They all got guns, and most of those little hoodlums aren't even old enough to drink."
"That's what I was hoping for. They're young and dumb. They'll slip up." I prayed that I had planted the right clue and that the girls were too self-absorbed to know that I owned the local bookstore.
18
VERLENE FOLLOWED BEHIND ME. "SLOANE, I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT you called the clue."
"I let them know that the book was no good to them unless they sold it to a bookstore."
"I see," said Verlene. She touched my arm as we approached Beckham's. "But I still don't get it. What good did it do to tell them where they could sell it?"
God love the woman. She's my relative, but I hope I don't get that clueless when I reach her age.
"Remember your friend said they would alert all the bookstores with a BOLO."
Verlene pulled back her chin. "My friend? You mean Griffen Justice." She laughed. "He's the partner of my friend, Derby Weller. You know, you could do worse in men. Griffen is a nice guy."
"Ugh." Saints, give me strength. "I'm not in the market for a date. I have one. I can't believe how easily you get sidetracked. Your book, concentrate on getting your book back." I pushed open the door. Fifi was ringing up a purchase.
I sauntered behind the counter and sat at the desk, a big grin plastered on my face. I felt pretty proud. I had planted a course of action, one that would be their downfall if they followed through on it.
The customer took her bag and left. Fifi looked at Verlene leaning on the counter, then she turned and looked at me. "Okay. Why do you two look like the cats that swallowed the canary?"
"Because I just baited the hoodlums who stole Verlene's book to take it to a bookstore to cash in on its value." I leaned back and put my hands behind my head.
Fifi cut her eyes at me. In her best Desi Arnaz voice, she crowed, "Lucy-y-yy."
I snorted with laugher. "Well, chickypoo, you're the only redhead up in here, so I must be Ethel!"
"Sloane Amanda Templeton . . ." Fifi put on her adult face.
Good grief! She sounded like my mom. ". . .didn't Griffen Justice tell you to stay out of police business?" Fifi turned to Verlene who shrugged, raised upturned palms, and grimaced. I knew that look. She was staying right out of this.
I sat forward. "Hey, I didn't go looking for them. They found me at the beauty salon."
Fifi lowered her gaze. "Sloane!"
"Okay! So I went to the salon, but . . ." Gulp. I ran out of excuses.
Fifi reached under the counter for her purse. "Then I guess we should be prepared." She pulled out her .38 and slid it into her pocket. "Where's your gun?"
I opened my eyes wide. "Gun? What are you doing?"
"When you mow the grass, the snakes show up. If they come in here with the book, and you call them on it, what do you think those little hoods will do? Just leave it and say 'Sorry, just kidding'? No, they're gonna pop a cap in your backside, sugah. Where's your gun?"
"Uh, in the drawer . . . I think." So maybe I hadn't thought this plan all the way through. Her assessment slapped me back to reality. I pulled my gun from the drawer and showed her.
"Stick it in your pocket, and keep it there until this robbery is solved." Fifi pointed a finger. "You started this, but I hope I get to finish it."
"But I don't want to walk around with a gun—"
"Stick it in your pocket!"
I huffed a sigh and stuck the cold metal into my linen pants.
"I guess I'll leave you two to play Deputy Dawg. I'm going home where there are no guns." Verlene waved over her head and sailed out the door.
I glanced at Fifi . She glared at me. How did I get myself into these things?
I glanced up at the clock. It was almost noon. I reached for a couple more Advil and washed them down with my favorite carbonated black cherry–flavored water. I rested my chin in my upturned hand. Did I have fun last night? No. "I don't like guns." There. I said it out loud.
"But it's something that may save your life." Fifi turned from the
stack of books she was pricing at the counter and nodded in the direction of the door.
I looked up in time to see Trey entering. Fifi snatched up the books and walked away. She couldn't stand to be in the same universe as Trey, let alone the same breathing space.
"Sloane, I want to talk to you." His presence took up most of the doorway. At one time I had viewed his large muscular presence as commanding, virile, and breathtaking . . . in a good way. Now the only emotion he elicited from me equated to fear and loathing.
I tensed. Trey had that high-as-a-kite, evil look on his face.
Fifi stepped back behind the counter. "Well, she doesn't want to talk to you. Get out."
Her intervention surprised me.
Trey moved toward the counter and curled his top lip, exposing his teeth. "You need to mind your own business, you frizzy-headed white—"
"Is there a problem here?" Andreas Comino entered the store and removed his sunglasses.
This was the first time I had seen the two men in close proximity of each other. Andreas actually towered over Trey by a good three inches. My heart fluttered. I was safe.
I smiled sweetly at Andreas. "No. He was just leaving." I glared at Trey. "Weren't you?"
With his back to Andreas, Trey bared his top teeth. "I'll see you later," he hissed at me through his clenched teeth. He turned and brushed by Andreas, leaving nothing behind except the musky smell of his aftershave.
I wanted to jump in Andreas's arms but it would give him a better understanding of the Trey situation and he might go hunting for the jerk. I wanted to avoid more trouble at all costs. The drama needed to end.
Andreas sauntered around the counter and slid his arm around my waist, pulling me toward him. "Are you all right, woman?"
I melted into his grasp, careful to keep his hand away from the gun in my pocket. "Of course, I'm fine." I raised my head to look at him and he planted a kiss on my forehead. Thank you, Jesus. "Now that you're here."
"Oh gag me. You two are too much." Fifi vacated the counter area with a wave of her bangled arm.
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 12
