“Help!” the woman yelled. “They're taking my poop! Stop! Thief!”
“I got it,” Lula said. “I got it all.” And Lula and Bob and I ran like the wind back to the office with our bucket of poop.
We collected ourselves at the back door to the office. Bob was all happy, dancing around. But Lula and I were gasping for breath.
“Boy, for a while there I was afraid she was gonna catch us,” Lula said. “She could run pretty fast for an old lady.”
“She wasn't running,” I said. “The dog was dragging her, trying to get at Bob.”
I held the paper bag open, and Lula dumped the poop into it.
“This here's gonna be fun,” Lula said. “I can't wait to see those two guys stomping on this bag of shit.”
Lula went around front with the bag and a Bic. And Bob and I went into the office through the back door. Habib and Mitchell were parked curbside, in front of the office, directly behind my Buick.
Connie and Vinnie and I peeked out the front window while Lula crept up behind the carpet car. She put the bag on the ground just past the rear bumper. We saw the lighter flame, and Lula jumped away and scuttled off around the corner.
Connie stuck her head out the door. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, you guys in the car . . . there's something burning behind you!”
Mitchell rolled the window down. “What?”
“There's something on fire behind your car!”
Mitchell and Habib got out to take a look and we all hustled through the door to join them.
“It's just some trash,” Mitchell said to Habib. “Kick it out of the way so it don't damage the car.”
“It is flaming,” Habib said. “I do not want to touch a flaming bag with my shoe.”
“This is what happens when you hire a fucking camel jockey,” Mitchell said. “You people have no work ethic.”
“This is not true. I work very hard in Pakistan. In my village in Pakistan we have a rug factory, and my job is to beat the unruly children who work there. It is a very good job.”
“Wow,” Mitchell said. “You beat the little kids who work in the factory?”
“Yes. With a stick. It is a highly skilled position. You must be careful when beating the children not to crush their little fingers or they will not be able to tie the very fine knots.”
“That's disgusting,” I said.
“Oh no,” Habib said. “The children like it, and they make much money for their families.” He turned to Mitchell and shook his finger at him. “And I work very hard beating the little children, so you should not say such things about me.”
“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “Guess I was wrong about you.” He gave the bag a kick. The bag broke and some of the debris stuck to his shoe.
“What the hell?” Mitchell shook his foot, and flaming dog shit flew everywhere. A big glob landed on the carpet on the car; there was the hiss of ignition, and flames spread everywhere.
“Holy crap,” Mitchell said, grabbing Habib, falling backward over the curb.
The fire popped and crackled, and the interior went conflagration. There was a small explosion when the gas tank caught and the car was engulfed in black smoke and flame.
“Guess they didn't use one of them flame-retardant carpets,” Lula said.
Habib and Mitchell were pressed flat to the building, mouths open.
“You could probably go now,” Lula said. “I don't think they're gonna follow you.”
By the time the fire trucks arrived, the carpet car was mostly carcass, and the fire had settled down to wienie-roast size. My Buick was about ten feet in front of the carpet car, but Big Blue was untouched. The Buick's paint wasn't even blistered. The only noticeable difference was a slightly warmer than usual door handle.
“I've got to go now,” I said to Mitchell. “Too bad about your car. And I wouldn't worry about your eyebrows. They're a little singed right now, but they'll probably grow back. I had this happen to me once and everything turned out okay.”
“What . . . How . . . ?” Mitchell said.
I loaded Bob into the Buick and eased away from the curb, winding my way around the police cars and fire trucks.
Carl Costanza was in uniform, directing traffic. “Looks like you're on a roll,” he said. “This is the second car you've toasted this week.”
“It wasn't my fault! It wasn't even my car!”
“I heard someone pulled the old bag-full-of-crapola gag on Arturo Stolle's two stooges.”
“No kidding? I don't suppose you know who did it?”
“Funny thing, I was just going to ask if you knew who did it.”
“I asked you first.”
Costanza did a small grimace. “No. I don't know who did it.”
“Me either,” I said.
“You're a pip,” Constanza said. “I can't believe you got suckered into taking Simon's dog.”
“I kind of like him.”
“Just don't leave him alone in your car.”
“You mean because it's against the law?”
“No. Because he ate Simon's front seat. Only thing left was some scraps of foam rubber and a few springs.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
Costanza grinned. “I thought you'd want to know.”
I cruised off, thinking that if Bob ate Big Blue's seat it would probably regenerate. At the risk of sounding like Grandma, I was beginning to wonder about Big Blue. It was as if the darn thing was impervious to damage. It was almost fifty years old and the original paint was in perfect condition. All around it cars got dented and torched and smushed flat as a pancake, but nothing ever happened to Big Blue.
“It's downright creepy,” I said to Bob.
Bob had his nose pressed to the window and didn't look like he cared a whole lot.
I was still on Hamilton when my cell phone rang.
“Hey, babe,” Ranger said. “What have you got for me?”
“Only basic facts on Lotte. Do you want to know where she lives?”
“Pass.”
“She looks good in gray.”
“That's going to keep me alive.”
“Hmm. Feeling cranky today?”
“Cranky doesn't come close. I have a favor to ask. I need you to take a look at the back of the house in Deal. Everyone else on the team would be suspect, but a woman walking her dog down the beach won't feel threatening to Ramos's security. I want you to catalogue the house. Count off windows and doors.”
THERE WAS A public-access beach about a quarter-mile from the Ramos compound. I parked on the road, and Bob and I crossed a short stretch of low dunes. The sky was overcast and the air was cooler than it had been in Trenton. Bob tipped his nose into the wind and looked all perky, and I buttoned my jacket up to my neck and wished I'd brought something warmer to wear. Most of the big, expensive houses that sat on the dunes were shuttered and unoccupied. Frothy gray waves came whooshing in at us. A few seagulls ran around at the water's edge, but that was it. Just me and Bob and the seagulls.
The big pink house came into view, more exposed on the beach side than to the street. Most of the first floor and all of the second story were clearly visible. A porch ran the length of the main structure. Attached to this main structure were two wings. The north wing consisted of first-floor garages and possibly bedrooms over the garages. The south wing was two stories and seemed to be entirely residential.
I continued to plow through the sand, not wanting to seem overly curious as I counted off the windows and doors. Just a woman walking her dog, freezing her ass off. I had binoculars with me but I was afraid to use them. I didn't want to arouse suspicion. It was impossible to tell if I was being observed from a window. Bob raced around me, oblivious to everything but the joy of being outdoors. I walked several houses farther, drew myself a diagram on a piece of paper, turned, and walked back to the public-access ramp where Blue was parked. Mission accomplished.
Bob and I piled into Blue and rumbled down the street, past the Ramos house, one
last time. When I paused at the corner, a man in his sixties jumped off the curb at me. He was wearing a running suit and running shoes. And he was waving his hands.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop a minute.”
I could have sworn it was Alexander Ramos. No, that was ridiculous.
He trotted to the driver's side and rapped on my window. “Have you got any cigarettes?” he asked.
“Gee . . . uh, no.”
He shoved a twenty at me. “Drive me to the store for some cigarettes. It'll only take a minute.”
Thick accent. Same hawklike features. Same height and build. Really looked like Alexander Ramos.
“Do you live around here?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I live in that piece-of-shit pink monstrosity. What's it to you? Are you gonna drive me to the store, or not?”
My god! It was Ramos. “I don't usually let strange men in my car.”
“Give me a break. I need some cigarettes. Anyway, you got a big dog in the backseat, and you look like you drive strange men around all the time. What'd ya think, I was born yesterday?”
“Not yesterday.”
He wrenched the passenger door open and got in the car. “Very funny. I have to flag down a comedian.”
“I don't know my way around here. Where do you go for cigarettes?”
“Turn the corner here. There's a store about a half-mile down.”
“If it's just a half-mile away why don't you walk?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Not supposed to be smoking, huh? Don't want anyone to catch you going to the store?”
“Goddamn doctors. I have to sneak out of my own house just to get a cigarette.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I can't stand being in that house, anyway. It's like a mausoleum filled with a bunch of stiffs. Goddamn pink piece of shit.”
“If you don't like the house, why do you live in it?”
“Good question. I should sell it. I never liked it, right from the beginning, but I just got married and my wife had to have this house. Everything with her was pink.” He reflected for a minute. “What was her name? Trixie? Trudie? Christ, I can't even remember.”
“You can't remember your wife's name?”
“I've had a lot of wives. A lot. Four. No, wait a minute . . . five.”
“Are you married now?”
He shook his head. “I'm done with marriage. Had a prostate operation last year. Used to be, women married me for my balls and my money. Now they'd just marry me for my money.” He shook his head. “It's not enough. You've gotta have standards, you know?”
I stopped at the store, and he jumped out of the car. “Don't go away. I'll be right back.”
Part of me wanted to flee the scene. That was the cowardly part. And part of me wanted to go Yippee! That was the stupid part.
In two minutes he was back in the car, lighting up.
“Hey,” I said, “no smoking in the car.”
“I'll give you another twenty.”
“I don't want the first twenty. And the answer is no. No smoking in the car.”
“I hate this country. Nobody knows how to live. Everybody drinks fucking skim milk.” He pointed to the cross street. “Turn up there and take Shoreline Avenue.”
“Where are we going?”
“I know this bar.”
Just what I need, to have Hannibal come out looking for his father and find me buddy-buddy with him in a bar. “I don't think this is such a good idea.”
“You gonna let me smoke in the car?”
“No.”
“Then we're going to Sal's.”
“Okay, I'll drive you to Sal's, but I'm not going in.”
“Sure, you're going in.”
“But my dog . . .”
“The dog can come, too. I'll buy him a beer and a sandwich.”
Sal's was small and dark. The bar stretched the length of the room. Two old men sat at the end of the bar, silently drinking, watching the television. Three empty tables were clustered to the right of the door. Ramos sat at one of the tables.
Without asking, the bartender brought Ramos a bottle of ouzo and two shot glasses. Nothing was said. Ramos drank a shot; then he lit up and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. “Ahh,” he said on the exhale.
Sometimes I envy people who smoke. They always look so happy when they suck in that first lungful of tar. I can't think of many things that make me that happy. Maybe birthday cake.
Ramos poured himself a second shot and tipped the bottle in my direction.
“No thanks,” I said. “I'm driving.”
He shook his head. “Sissy country.” He knocked the second shot back. “Don't get me wrong. I like some things okay. I like big American cars. And I like American football. And I like American women with big tits.”
Oh, boy.
“Do you flag people down a lot?” I asked him.
“Every chance I get.”
“Don't you think that's dangerous? Suppose you get picked up by a nut?”
He pulled a .22 out of his pocket. “I'd shoot him.” He laid the gun on the table, closed his eyes, and sucked in more smoke. “You live around here?”
“No. I just come down once in a while to walk my dog. He likes to walk on the beach.”
“What's with the Band-Aid on your chin?”
“I cut myself shaving.”
He dropped a twenty on the table and stood. “Cut yourself shaving. I like that. You're okay. You can take me home now.”
I dropped him off a block from his house.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Same time. Maybe I'll hire you on as my personal chauffeur.”
GRANDMA WAS SETTING the dinner table when Bob and I got home. The Mooner was slouched on the couch, watching TV.
“Hey,” he said, “how's it going?”
“Can't complain,” I said. “How's it going with you?”
“I don't know, dude. It's just hard to believe there's no more Dealer. I thought the Dealer'd be around forever. I mean, he was doing a service. He was the Dealer.” He shook his head. “It rocks my world, dude.”
“He needs to have another brewski and chill some more,” Grandma said. “And then we'll all have a nice dinner. I always like when there's company for dinner. Especially when it's a man.”
I wasn't sure Mooner counted as a man. Mooner was sort of like Peter Pan on pot. Mooner spent a lot of time in never-never land.
Bob ambled out of the kitchen over to Mooner and gave his crotch a big sniff.
“Hey dude,” Mooner said, “not on the first date, man.”
“I bought myself a car today,” Grandma said. “And the Mooner drove it over here for me.”
I felt my mouth drop open. “But you already have a car. You have Uncle Sandor's Buick.”
“That's true. And don't get me wrong, I think it's a pip of a car. I just decided it didn't fit my new image. I thought I should get something sportier. It was the darnedest thing how it happened. Louise came over to take me driving and she said she heard about how the Dealer was going out of business. And so, of course, we had to hurry over to stock up on Metamucil. And then while we were there I bought a car.”
“You bought a car from Dougie?”
“You bet. And it's a beaut.”
I cut Mooner the death look, but it was lost on him. Mooner's emotional range didn't go that far beyond mellow.
“Wait'll you see your granny's car,” Mooner said. “It's an excellent car.”
“It's a babe car,” Grandma said. “I look just like Christie Brinkley in it.”
David Brinkley, I could believe. Christie was a stretch. But hey, if it made Grandma happy then it was fine by me. “What kind of car is it?”
“It's a 'vette,” Grandma said. “And it's red.”
Stephanie Plum 6 - Hot Six
8
SO MY GRANDMOTHER has a red Corvette, and I have a blue '53 Buick and a big zit on my chin. Hell, it could be worse, I told myself. The zit could be on my nose.
“Besides,” Grandma said, “I know how you like the Buick. I didn't want to take the Buick away from you.”
I nodded and tried to smile. “Excuse me,” I said. “I'm going to wash my hands for dinner.”