Chapter 9

I called Ronnie and suggested we go out for dinner. I wasn't thinking of it as a date. It was more to get her into a setting where the food might ease the disappointment of failure. She sensed something was wrong.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I can't just ask you out to dinner?"

"Bob!" she warned. That bullshit meter of hers was SO sensitive.

"OK, things didn't turn out very well ... again."

"What happened?" Her voice had that tired quality to it that is so often there in a voice that has to ask "What now?" for the fifth or sixth or seventh time.

"You said you like Mexican, right? How about we meet at El Cazador, and I'll tell you all about it over dinner."

The pain was gone, if not the sunburned look that the skin retains for days after it's been irritated with pepper spray. I forgot about that, though, and walked up to meet her with a smile on my face designed to make her believe that everything was all right.

"WHAT DID MY FUCKING MOTHER DO TO YOU NOW?!" she squealed, looking at my face. Her hand came up to touch it, but she stopped.

"It wasn't your mother," I said. "It's pepper spray. It's a long story. Let's go inside and I'll tell you there."

Ten minutes later, I had a very agitated Veronica on my hands. She was bouncing in her seat, she was so pissed.

"She said I was DEAD?! She GAVE MY SKATES TO SOME STRANGER?!"

What do you say to a woman in this situation? There's nothing you can say. You can't say, "It's going to be OK," because it's not. You can't say, "I'll think of something," because you know you've finally met your match, and somehow that fucking dragon got hold of the sword and cut St. George's head off.

"Does Vinny know anybody who would whack her?" Ronnie asked suddenly. "'Cause I'd pay to have that done right now."

I jerked, and banged my head on the back of the booth. Man, could this woman get me all worked up.

"Calm down," I said. "I'll think of something."

"You will?" She sounded so desperate that I picked my head up off the ground, figuratively speaking, and tried to rearrange it on my shoulders.

"Of course I will," I said. "This isn't over yet."

"You can't steal them from that poor little girl," she said firmly.

Aren't women's morals interesting? She was willing to have her own mother assassinated, but forbade me from stealing a pair of skates from a little girl.

My face burned suddenly as I thought about how Tiffany Moore would react if I did that. She might have a gun this time. "Of course not," I said.

"Does it still hurt?"

I blinked, confused, until I realized she was talking about my face.

"Not so much," I said. "Unless I rub the skin. That's not a good idea."

"You've gone through a lot for me." There was something ... odd ... in her voice. It was kind of like she was giving voice to something she'd been musing about, but wasn't sure that her thoughts on it were on target.

"What can I say?" I said. "I knew things like this would happen when I decided to get into this line of work."

"You are so full of shit, Bob," she sighed. "Nobody would get into your line of work if he thought he was going to get beat up, ripped off by winos, and get his face all burned up."

"Pressure makes diamonds," I said, trying to sound like it was no big deal.

"Well that's that," she sighed. "Thank you for trying."

"I know I'll think of something," I said.

"No you won't," she said firmly. "This is over. If you keep going, something bad will happen to you. It's not worth it."

It occurred to me she was giving me an out ... releasing me from my pledge to help her ... that I wouldn't have to think about Madeline Wilkenson or those skates anymore.

"Don't give up so easily," is what came out of my mouth. I blinked. My brain was addled, probably from when my head thumped on the ground after the dragon cut it off.

"I DON'T give up easily," she said. "But I like you and if you got really hurt somehow, I'd never forgive myself.

Cracked ribs wasn't "really hurt?" Hours of agony and near blindness wasn't "really hurt?" A little prick of anger gave me back my intelligence, which allowed me to concentrate on the other part of her comment, which was jumping up and down, waving its hand in the air like Arnold Horshack on "Welcome Back Kotter," going "Oooo, Oooo, Oooo!"

She liked me!

"OK," I said.

A private investigator is generally interacting with a specific segment of the population. On the upper end of the scale, that bunch might be called "challenged by life," and on the lower end of the scale might be termed "the dregs of society." So it shouldn't be any big surprise that you have a tendency to get a little jaded. You begin to expect the worst from people. Maybe it's karma or something, but when you expect the worst from people, you often get it.

But then you meet somebody who just doesn't fit into that group of people. Maybe a woman like Ronnie, though I have to tell you I think she's a pretty rare type. Or even a woman like Tiffany Moore, who could use some money, but has the kind of standards that won't let her get it just any old way. Anyway, it makes you reflect on the world in general and kind of gives you a wakeup call.

I thought about them both, for a few days. I suppose there are a lot of women who have some resemblance in appearance to Ronnie, but there are a lot more women who would come down on the less disturbing side that Tiffany was on. And yet both women had the same good sense and good morals or whatever you want to call it. Both of them had standards and those standards were important to them. And, having interacted with both of them, I thought that even though they were polar opposites in appearance, they'd probably like each other if they spent a little time chatting.

Which is what caused me, eventually, to think up plan F.

I didn't tell Ronnie about it, but only because I knew she would approve, even though neither of us could know whether it would work or not.

I went out and found as close to an exact match to the skates as I could find. Brand new, this time. I had to guess at the size, and I guessed a little large. Better to have to stuff some socks or newspaper in the toes than that they be too small. I also got elbow and knee pads, and a sharp looking helmet that matched the red and white motif I was going for.

Then I called Ronnie.

"Hey," I said. "I got an idea. Wanna go for a ride with me?"

"Where?" she asked.

"Dayton," I said.

"Bob, I can't just go off to Dayton at the drop of a hat. I have responsibilities."

I hadn't thought of that. I'd assumed she worked from home.

"Oh," I said.

"What's the new idea?" she asked.

I didn't mind telling her, 'cause it was the first one I'd come up with that didn't stray into shady territory.

"I should have thought of that!" she said, when I was finished. "That might actually work, Bob!" She sounded excited. "Let me make some arrangements and I'll call you back."