Fearless Fourteen - Janet Evanovich [4]
“Oh boy,” Lula said.
“A real job,” I told her.
“Sure,” Lula said. “I knew that. What kind of job?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh boy,” Lula said.
CARLOS MANOSO IS my age, but his life experience is worlds away. He’s of Cuban heritage and has family in Newark and Miami. He’s dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and his hair is dark brown and currently cut too short for a ponytail but long enough to fall across his forehead when he’s sleeping or otherwise occupied in bed. He’s got a lot of muscle in all the right places and a killer smile that is rarely seen. His street name is Ranger, a leftover from his time in Special Forces.
When I started working for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds, Ranger was doing mostly bounty hunter work and was my mentor. He’s now co-owner of a security company with branches in Boston, Atlanta, and Miami. He wears only black, he smells like Bulgari Green shower gel, he’s extremely private, and he eats healthy food. I’d be tempted to say he isn’t a lot of fun, but he has his moments. And on those rare occasions when we’ve been intimate . . . WOW.
Rangeman Security is on a side street in center city Trenton. It’s housed in an inconspicuous seven-story brick building, the name visible only on a small plaque above the door buzzer. The seventh floor is Ranger’s private apartment. Two more floors are dedicated to housing Rangeman employees, one floor is occupied by the property manager and his wife, Ella, the fifth floor is control central, and the remaining two floors are conference rooms, first-floor reception, and private offices. There are two levels below ground and I’ve never gotten the personal tour, but I imagine dungeons and armories and Ranger’s personal tailor toiling away.
I key-fobbed my way into the underground garage and parked next to Ranger’s black Porsche Turbo. I took the elevator to the fifth floor, waved hello to the guys at the monitoring stations, and walked across the room to Ranger’s office. The door was open, and Ranger was at his desk, talking on a headset. His eyes went to me, he wrapped up his conversation and removed the headset.
“Babe,” he said.
Babe covered a lot of ground with Ranger. It could be good, bad, amused, or filled with desire. Today it was hello.
I sat in the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”
“I need a date,” Ranger said.
“Is date synonymous with sex?”
“No. It’s synonymous with business, but I could throw some sex in as a bonus if you’re interested.”
This got a smile from me. I wasn’t interested for a bunch of complicated reasons, not the least of which was Joe Morelli. Still, it was nice to know the offer was on the table. “What’s the business?”
“I’ve been asked to provide security for Brenda.”
“The Brenda? The singer?”
“Yes. She’ll be in town for three days doing a concert, some media, and a charity fund-raiser. I’m supposed to keep her dry and drug-free and out of harm’s way. If I assign one of my men to her, she’ll eat him alive and spit him out in front of the press. So I’m taking the watch, and I need someone riding shotgun.”
“What about Tank?”
Tank is Ranger’s next in command, and he’s the guy Ranger trusts to watch his back. Tank’s called Tank because that’s what he is. He’s seven feet of muscle packed into a six-foot, four-inch, no-neck body. Tank is also Lula’s current boyfriend.
“Brenda’s management team has requested security be invisible at public functions, and it’s hard to hide Tank,” Ranger said. “Tank and Hal will work shifts standing guard at Brenda’s hotel. When she’s at large, we’ll take over. She can pass us off as traveling companions, and you can go into the ladies’ room with her and make sure she doesn’t test-drive mushrooms.”
“Doesn’t she have her own bodyguard?”
“He slipped and broke his ankle getting off the plane last night. They’ve shipped him back to California.”
“I’m surprised you’re taking this on.”
“I’m doing it as a favor for Lew Pepper, the concert promoter.” Ranger passed a sheet of paper to me. “This is Brenda’s public appearance schedule. We need to be at her hotel a half hour ahead. And we’re on call.