Three to Get Deadly

  “It's not that complicated. I simply take him aside, show him my identification and explain the procedure to him.”

  “You think he's gonna stand still for that? This here's a fugitive we're talking about.”

  Lula gunned the little truck and hopped over a lane. We spun slush at a few cautious drivers and skipped back into line. The heater was going full blast, and I could feel my eyebrows starting to smoke.

  “So what do you think?” I asked Lula. “Drives good, huh? And it's got a great heater.”

  Brake lights flashed in front of us, red smears beyond the beat of the wipers, and Lula silently stared ahead.

  “Lula?”

  No response.

  “Uh, those cars are stopped ahead,” I said, not wanting to offend, but suspecting Lula might be having an out-of-body experience.

  She bobbed her head. “Not that I'm afraid of no fugitive . . .”

  “CARS!” I yelled. “STOPPED CARS!”

  Lula's eyes popped open, and she stomped on the brakes. “Holy shit!”

  The Nissan skidded forty feet and careened onto the shoulder, missing a van by half an inch. We did a one-eighty and sat facing traffic.

  “Light in the back,” Lula said. “You might want to put some weight over the wheels.”

  My first choice of ballast would be a 230-pound file clerk. “Maybe I should drive.”

  “I'm okay now,” Lula said, easing back into traffic. “It's just I've never been along when you actually apprehended someone.”

  “It's like picking up laundry. You go to the dry cleaner. You show him your ticket. You take your stuff home. Only in this case, we take the stuff to the police station.”

  “I know my way around the police station,” Lula said.

  Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly

  3

  Lula and I parked at the mall entrance nearest the hot dog stand and hustled, under low gray skies, through the rain and sleet and slush. We marched straight across the mall to Macy's, with people walking into walls, mouths agape at Lula in her duster.

  “Uh-oh, look at this,” Lula said. “They got pocketbooks on sale here. I'd be fine carrying that little red one with the gold chain.”

  We paused to look at the red pocketbook and to test-drive it on Lula's shoulder.

  “Hard to tell with this big coat on,” Lula said.

  A salesperson had been hovering. “If you care to take the coat off I'd be happy to hold it for you.”

  “I sure would like to,” Lula said, “but it might not be a good idea. We're bounty hunters after a man, and I got a gun on under this coat.”

  “Bounty hunters?” the woman said on a gasp. The term synonymous with “lunatic vermin.”

  I slipped the pocketbook off Lula's shoulder and put it back on the counter. I grabbed Lula by the elbow and yanked her after me. “You don't really have a gun under that coat, do you?”

  “A woman's got to protect herself.”

  I was afraid to ask what sort of gun she was carrying. Probably an assault rifle or a military-issue rocket launcher.

  “We need to get nail polish for Connie,” I told her. “Something red.”

  Lula stopped at the fragrance counter and squirted herself with a tester. “What do you think?”

  “If it doesn't wear off by the time we get back to the truck, you're taking a bus home.”

  She tried another one. “This any better?”

  “No more perfume! They're making my nose clog up.”

  “Boy, no pocketbooks, no perfume. You don't know much about shopping, do you?”

  “What do you like in nail polish?” I held two colors out for her opinion.

  “The one on the left is serious red. Looks like someone opened a vein and bottled it. Dracula'd go ape shit for that red.”

  I supposed if it was good enough for Dracula, it was good enough for Connie.

  I bought the nail enamel, and then we dallied in lipsticks, testing a few on the backs of our hands, not finding any worthy of purchase.

  We crossed the mall and took a moment to scope out the hot dog place. Thanks to the weather and the time of day, the mall was relatively empty. That was good. We'd make less of a spectacle of ourselves and Stuart. There were no customers buying hot dogs. One person worked the counter. That one person was Stuart Baggett, right down to his little plastic name tag.

  What I needed here was a pimpled skinhead. Or a big nasty ogre-type guy. I needed an arrest where the lines were clearly drawn. I didn't want another Mo fiasco. I wanted bad man against the good bounty hunter.

  What I had was Stuart Baggett, five feet, six inches tall, with freshly cut sandy blond hair and eyes like a cocker spaniel. I did a mental grimace. I was going to look like an idiot arresting this guy.

  “Remember,” I said to Lula, “I do the talking. And most of all, don't shoot him.”

  “Not unless he starts something.”

  “He isn't going to start something, and even if he does there will be no shooting!”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “No pocketbooks, no perfume, no shooting. You got an awful lot of rules, you know that?”

  I put my hands on the counter. “Stuart Baggett?”

  “Yes ma'am,” he said. “What can I get for you? Chili dog? Frank-n-kraut? Cheese dog?”

  I showed him my identification and told him I represented his bond agent.

  He blinked. “Bond agent?”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “The Italian pervert who sprung your white ass from the tank.”

  Stuart still looked confused.

  “You missed your court date,” I said to Stuart.

  His face brightened as the lightbulb suddenly snapped on. “Right! My court date. I'm sorry about that, but I had to work. My boss, Eddie Rosenberg, couldn't find anybody to sub for me.”

  “Did you inform the court of this fact and ask to have your date rescheduled?”

  His face returned to nobody home. “Should I have done that?”

  “Oh boy,” Lula said. “Stupid alert.”

  “You need to check in with the court,” I told Stuart. “I'll give you a ride downtown.”

  “I can't just walk off,” he said. “I'm the only one working today. I have to work until nine.”

  “Maybe if you called your boss he could find someone to fill in for you.”

  “Tomorrow's my day off,” Stuart said. “I could go tomorrow.”

  On the surface that sounded like a reasonable idea. My bounty hunting experience, limited as it was, told me otherwise. When tomorrow arrived Stuart would have pressing plans that didn't include a trip to the pokey.

  “It would be best if we took care of this today,” I said.

  “It would be irresponsible,” Stuart said, starting to look panicky. “I can't do it now.”

  Lula grunted. “It isn't like you're doing big business here. We're in the middle of a slush storm, Stuart. Get real.”

  “Does she work for my bond agent too?” Stuart asked.

  “You bet your ass I do,” Lula said.

  I looked out at the mall, and then I looked at Stuart and his hot dog concession. “She's right, Stuart,” I said. “This mall is empty.”

  “Yeah, but look, I've got all these hot dogs on the grill.”

  I scrounged in the bottom of my pocketbook and came up with a twenty. “Here's enough money to cover them. Throw the hot dogs in the trash and close up.”

  “I don't know,” Stuart said. “They're really good hot dogs. It doesn't seem right to throw them away.”

  I did some mental screaming. “Okay, then wrap them up. We'll take them with us.”

  “I want two chili dogs,” Lula said. “And then I want two with sauerkraut and mustard. And do you have any of them curly fries?”

  Stuart looked at me. “How about you? How do you want the rest of the hot dogs?”

  “Plain.”

  “Hunk-uh,” Lula said. “You better get some chili dogs for Connie. She's gonna be real disappointed she sees my chili
dogs, and she's left with some plain-ass dog.”

  “Okay, okay! Two more chili dogs,” I told Stuart, “and then just put the rest in a bag.”

  “How about soda?” Lula asked. “I can't eat all these hot dogs without soda.”

  I ordered three medium fries and three large root beers, and forked over another twenty.

  Stuart called his boss and lied his heart out about how he was sick and throwing up all over the place, and that he'd sold all his hot dogs, and no one was in the mall anyway on account of the weather and he was going home.

  We pulled the front grate, locked up the concession and left with our bags of food and soda.

  The parking lot had some remnants of slush, but the sleet had turned to driving rain. We wedged Stuart and the bags between us and rode in silence back to Trenton. From time to time I checked Stuart's expression. His face was pale, and I suspected he hadn't tried very hard to make his trial date. He looked like a person who'd given his best shot to denial and had lost. I guess being short and cute didn't help all that much when it was time to grow up.

  If he hadn't shot up police cars he probably wouldn't even have needed bail. And if he'd played by the rules he probably would have gotten away with probation and fine. New Jersey was up to its armpits in criminals. It didn't have a lot of room in the prison system for amateurs like Stuart.

  Lula took a turnoff into center city, stopped for a light and the Nissan stalled out. She started it up again; it ran rough for a few seconds and went into another stall.

  “Maybe you're not doing the clutch right,” I suggested.

  “I guess I know how to do a clutch,” Lula said. “Looks to me like you got a lemon car.”

  “Let me try it,” I said, opening my door, running to the driver's side.

  Lula stood at roadside and watched. “This car is busted,” she said. “You know what I'm telling you?”

  I started it up. The car bucked forward a few feet and died.

  “Maybe we should look under the hood,” Lula said. “Maybe you got a cat in your engine. My neighbor, Midgie, once got a cat in his engine. Cat looked like it had been put through a food processor by the time Midgie figured out to check under the hood.”

  Stuart made a face that said, Yuk!

  “Happens all the time,” Lula said. “They get cold and they go to the warm engine. Then they fall asleep and when you go to start the car . . . cat stew.”

  I popped the hood and Lula and I checked for cats.

  “Guess that wasn't it,” Lula said. “I don't see any cat guts.”

  We slammed the hood down, and Lula got back behind the wheel. “I can do this,” she said. “All I gotta do is race the engine, so it don't stall.”

  We drove two more blocks and cringed when the light turned red ahead. Lula eased up to the last car in line. “No sweat,” she said. “Got this made.” She raced the engine. The truck idled rough and started to stall. Lula raced the engine some more and somehow the truck lurched forward and smashed into the car in front.

  “Oops,” Lula said.

  We got out to take a look. The car in front had a nasty crumple in its left rear quarter panel. The Nissan had a chunk torn out of its snoot and a deep gash in its bumper.

  The man driving the car in front of us wasn't happy. “Why don't you watch where you're going?” he yelled at Lula. “Why don't you learn how to drive?”

  “Don't you yell at me,” Lula told him. “I don't take no yelling at. And on top of that I can drive just fine. It happens that my vehicle wasn't working properly.”

  “You got insurance?” the man wanted to know.

  “Damn skippy I got insurance,” Lula said. “Not only do I have insurance, but I'm filling out a police report. And on that police report I'm telling them about your brake lights all covered with dirt and ice, which were a contributing factor.”

  I exchanged information with the man, and Lula and I turned back to the Nissan.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said, opening the driver's side door. “I don't see Stuart Baggett in here. Stuart Baggett's done the good-bye thing.”

  Cars were lined up behind us, straggling around the accident one at a time. I climbed into the truck bed to get some height and looked in all directions, up and down the road, but Stuart was nowhere to be seen. I thunked my head with the heel of my hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I hadn't even cuffed him.

  “He didn't look smart enough to run off,” Lula said.

  “Deceptively cute.”

  “Yeah, that was it. Deceptively cute.”

  “I suppose we should go to the police station and file an accident report,” I said.

  “Yeah, and we don't want to forget about the dirty taillights. Insurance companies love that shit.”

  I piled in next to Lula, and we kept our eyes open for Stuart as we drove, but Stuart was long gone.

  Lula looked nervous when we finally chugged into the lot for the municipal building that housed the courts and the police station. “I'd appreciate it if you'd run in and fill out the form,” Lula said. “Wouldn't want anybody to get the wrong idea about me being at the police station. Think they see me sitting on the bench they might take away my shoelaces.”

  I had my hand on the door handle. “You aren't going to leave me stranded again, are you?”

  “Who me?”

  It took me a half hour to complete the paperwork. When I exited the building there was no blue Nissan parked in the lot and no blue Nissan parked on the street. I wasn't surprised. I went back into the station and called the office.

  “I'm stranded again,” I said to Connie.

  I could hear wrappers rustling, and I could hear Connie swallow.

  “What is that?” I demanded. “Are you eating hot dogs? Let me talk to Lula.”

  “ 'Lo,” Lula said. “What's up?”

  “I'm wet and cold and stranded . . . that's what's up. And I'm hungry. You better not have eaten all those hot dogs.”

  “We would have waited for you, but didn't seem right to let the food set around.”

  There was a pause, and I could hear her sipping soda.

  “You want a ride?” she finally said. “I could come get you.”

  “That would be nice.”

  A half hour later we were back at the office. Lula's hooker friend Jackie was there, and she was eating a hot dog.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Lula shouted to Jackie. “You come to see me?”

  “Nope,” Jackie said. “Came to see Stephanie.”

  Connie handed me a cold hot dog. “Jackie's got man problems.”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said. “Missing man problems.”

  Lula leaned forward. “You telling me your old man took off?”

  “That's what I'm telling you,” Jackie said. “I've been standing out on that corner in the freezing cold, doing my thing, supporting that loser in fine style, and this is the thanks I get. No note. No good-bye. No nothin'. And that isn't even the worst of it. That no good jerk-off took my car.”

  Lula looked appalled. “He took the Chrysler?”

  “That's it, woman. He took the Chrysler. I still have ten payments on that car.”

  I finished my hot dog and handed the little nail polish bag to Connie. “Vinnie ever show?”

  “No. He hasn't come in yet.”

  “Bet he be doing a nooner somewhere,” Lula said. “That man got a 'tosterone problem. He's one of those do it with barnyard animals.”

  “Anyway, I came to you for help on account of you're good at finding missing shit,” Jackie said to me. “I got money. I can pay you.”

  “She's the best,” Lula said. “Stephanie here can find any shit you want. You want her to find your old man, it's a done deal.”

  “Hell, I don't give a flip about that worthless piece of trash. I want her to find my car,” Jackie said. “How am I supposed to get around without a car? I had to take a cab over here today. And how am I supposed to ply my trade in weather like this without no backseat? You think all johns got their own bac
kseat? No way. My business is hurting because of this.”

  “Have you reported the theft to the police?” I asked.

  Jackie shifted her weight, one hand on hip. “Say what?”