Eleven on Top

  I was feeling a little left out, but I was telling myself it was much better this way. No more danger. No more mess. No more embarrassing screw-ups. I was focused on the door to the bar, not paying a lot of attention to the street, and suddenly the drivers-side door to the Porsche was wrenched open and a guy slid in next to me. He was in his twenties, wearing a ball cap sideways and about sixty pounds of gold chains around his neck. He had a diamond chip implanted into his front tooth and the two teeth next to the chip were missing. He smiled at me and pressed the barrel of a gleamingsilver-plated monster gun into my temple.

  “Yo bitch,” he said. “How about you get your ass out of my car.”

  In my mind I saw myself out of the car and running, but the reality of the situation was that all systems were down. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

  I couldn't speak. I stared openmouthed and glassy-eyed at the guy with the diamond dental chip. Somewhere deep in my brain the word carjack was struggling to rise to the surface.

  Diamond dental chip turned the key in the Porsche's ignition and revved the engine. “Out of the car,” he yelled, pushing the gun barrel against my head.

  “I'm giving you one second and then I'm gonna blow your brains all over this motherfucker. Now get your fat ass out of the car.”

  The mind works in weird ways, and it's strange how something dumb can push a button. I was willing to overlook the use of the MF word, but getting called a fat ass really pissed me off.

  “Fat ass?” I said, feeling my eyes narrow. “Excuse me? Fat ass?”

  “I haven't got time for this shit,” he said. And he rammed the car into gear, mashed the gas to the floor, and the Porsche jumped away from the curb.

  He was driving with his left hand and holding the gun and shifting with his right. There was light traffic on Stark, and he was weaving around cars and running lights. He came up fast behind a Lincoln Navigator and hit the brake hard. He moved to shift, and I knocked the gun out of his hand. The gun hit the console and fell to the floor on the drivers side.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Fucking fuck. Fucking bitch.”

  He leaned forward and reached for the gun, and I punched him in the ear as hard as I could. His head bounced off the wheel, the wheel jerked hard to the left, and we cut across oncoming traffic. The Porsche jumped the curb, plowed through a stack of black plastic garbage bags, and crashed through the plate glass window of a small delicatessen that was closed for the night.

  The front airbags inflated with a bang, and I was momentarily stunned. I fought my way through the bag, somehow got the door open, and rolled out onto the deli floor. I was on my hands and knees in the dark, and it was wet under my hand. Blood, I thought. Get outside and get help.

  A leg came into my field of vision. Black cargo pants, black boots. Hands under my armpits, lifting me to my feet. And then I was face-to-face with Ranger.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I must be bleeding. The floor was wet and sticky.”

  He looked at my hand. “I don't see any blood on you.” He put my hand to his mouth and touched his tongue to my palm, giving me a rush that went from my toes to the roots of my hair. “Dill,” he said. He looked beyond me, to the crumpled hood of the Porsche.

  “You crashed into the counter and smashed the pickle barrel.”

  “I'm sorry about your Porsche.”

  “I can replace the Porsche. I can't replace you. You need to be more careful.”

  “I was just sitting in your car!”

  “Babe, you're a magnet for disaster.”

  Tank had the carjacker in cuffs. He shoved him across the floor to the door, the carjacker slid in the pickle juice and went down to one knee, and I heard Tank's boot connect with solid body. “Accident,” Tank said. “Didn't see you down there in the dark.” And then he yanked the carjacker to his feet and threw him into a wall. “Another accident,” Tank said, grabbing the carjacker, jerking him to his feet again.

  Ranger cut his eyes to Tank. “Stop playing with him.”

  Tank grinned at Ranger and dragged the carjacker out to the SUV.

  We followed Tank out, and Ranger looked at me under the streetlight. “You're a mess,” he said, picking noodles and wilted lettuce out of my hair. “You're covered in garbage again.”

  “We hit the bags on the curb on the way into the store. And I guess we dragged some of it with us. I probably rolled in it when I fell out of the car.”

  A smile hung at the corners of Rangers mouth. “I can always count on you to brighten my day.”

  A shiny black Ford truck angled to a stop in front of us, and one of Ranger's men got out and handed Ranger the keys. I could see a police car turn onto Stark, two blocks away.

  “Tank and Hal and Woody can take care of this,” Ranger said. “We can leave.”

  “You have a guy named Woody?”

  Ranger opened the passenger-side door to the truck for me. “Do you want me to explain it?”

  “Not necessary.”

  I was in the Saturn, parked next to Kan Klean. It was Sunday. It was the start of a new day, it was one minute to seven, and Morelli was on my cell.

  “I'm in your lot,” he said. “I stopped by to take you to work. Where are you? And where's your car?”

  “I'm at Kan Klean. I drove.”

  “What happened to the boot?”

  “I don't know. It disappeared.”

  There was a full sixty seconds of silence while I knew Morelli was doing deep breathing, working at not getting nuts. I looked at my watch, and my stomach clenched.

  Mama Macaroni appeared at car side and stuck her face in my open window, her monster mole just inches from my face, her demon eyes narrowed, her thin lips drawn tight against her dentures.

  “What you doing out here?” Mama yelled. “You think we pay for talking on the phone? We got work to do. You kids . . . you think you get money for doing nothing.”

  “Jesus,” Morelli said. “What the hell is that?”

  “Mama Macaroni.”

  “She has a voice like fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  I needed a pill really bad. It was noon and I had a fireball behind my right eye and Mama Macaroni screeching into my left ear.

  “The pink tag's for dry cleaning and the green tag's for laundry,” Mama shrieked at me. “You mixing them up. You make a mess of everything. You ruin our business. We gonna be out on the street.”

  The tinkle bell attached to the front door jangled, and I looked up to see Lula walk in.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Lula said to me. “What's shakin'? What's hangin'? What's the word?”

  Lula's hair was gold today and styled in ringlets, like Shirley Temple at age five. Lula was wearing black high-heeled ankle boots, a tight orange spandex skirt that came to about three inches below her ass, and a matching orange top that was stretched tight across her boobs and belly. And Lula's belly was about as big as her boobs.

  “What word?” Mama Macaroni asked. “Wadda you mean word? Who is this big orange person?”

  “This is my friend Lula,” I said.

  “You friend? No. No friends. Wadda you think, this is a party?”

  “Hey, chill,” Lula said to Mama. “I came to pick up my dry cleaning. I'm a legitimate customer.”

  I had the merry-go-round in motion, looking for Lula's cleaning. The motor whirred, and plastic-sleeved, hangered orders swished by me, carried along on an overhead system of tracks.

  “I'll take Vinnie's and Connie's too,” Lula said.

  Mama was off her stool. “You no take anything until I say so. Let me see the slip. Where's the slip?”

  I had Lula's cleaning in hand and Mama stepped in front of me. “What's this on the slip? What's this discount?”

  “You said I got a discount,” I told her, trying hard not to stare at the mole, not having a lot of luck at it.

  “You get a discount. This big pumpkin don't get no discount.”

  “Hey, hold on here,” Lula said, lower lip stuck o
ut, hands on hips. “Who you calling a pumpkin?”

  “I'm calling you a pumpkin,” Mama Macaroni said. “Look at you. You a big fat pumpkin. And you don't get no pumpkin discount.” Mama turned on me. “You try to pull a fast one. Give everybody a discount. Like we run a charity here. A charity for pumpkins. Maybe you get the kickback. You think you make some money on the side.”

  “I don't like to disrespect old people,” Lula said. “And you're about as old as they get. You're as old as dirt, but that don't mean you can insult my friend. I don't put up with that. I don't take that bus. You see what I'm saying?”

  The pain was radiating out from my eye into all parts of my head, and little men in pointy hats and spiky shoes were running around in my stomach. I had to get Lula out of the store. If Mama Macaroni called Lula a pumpkin one more time, Lula was going to squash Mama Macaroni, and Mama Macaroni was going to be Mama Pancake.

  I shoved Lula's clothes at her, but Mama got to them first. “Gimme those clothes,” Mama said. “She can't have them until she pays full price. Maybe I don't give them to her at all. Maybe I keep them for evidence that you steal from us.”

  “Well okay, now that I think about it, probably you're fired,” Lula said.

  “It was a nasty job anyway. You had to look at that mole all day. And I'm sorry, that's no normal mole.”

  “It's the mole from hell.”

  “Friggin' A,” Lula said. “And you shouldn't worry about getting another job. You could get a better job than that. You could even get a job here. Look at the sign by the register. It says they're hiring. And there'd be advantages to working here. I bet you get free chicken and fries.” Lula went back to the counter. “We want to see the manager,” she said. “My friend's interested in having a job here. I'm not interested myself because I'm a kick-ass bounty hunter, but Stephanie over there just got unemployed.”

  I had Lula by the arm, and I was trying to drag her away from the counter.

  “No!” I whispered to Lula. “I don't want to work here. I'd have to wear one of those awful uniforms.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn't ruin any of your real clothes that way,” Lula said.

  “Probably you get a lot of grease stains here. And I don't think the uniform's so bad. Besides, your skinny little ass makes everything look good.”

  “The hat!”

  “Okay, I see what you're saying about the hat. Suppose the hat had an accident? Suppose the hat fell into the french fry machine first thing? I bet it would take days to get a new hat.”

  A little guy came up behind me. He was half a head shorter than me, and he looked like a chubby pink pig in pants. His cheeks were round and pink. His hands were pink sausages. His belly jiggled when he moved. His mouth was round and his lips were pink . . . and best not to think about the pig part the mouth most resembled, but it could be found under the curly pig tail.

  “I'm the manager,” he said. “Milton Mann.”

  “This here's Stephanie Plum,” Lula said. “She's looking for a job.”

  “Minimum wage,” Mann said. “We need someone for the three-to-eleven shift.”

  “How about food?” Lula wanted to know. “Does she eat free? And what about takeout?”

  "There's no eating on the job, but she can eat for free on her dinner break.

  Takeout gets a twenty percent discount."

  “That sounds fair,” Lula said. “She'll take the job.”

  “Come in a half hour early tomorrow,” Mann said to me. “I'll give you your uniform and you can fill out the paperwork.”

  “Look at that,” Lula said, claiming her tray of food, steering me back to the table. “See how easy it is to get a job? There's jobs everywhere.”

  “Yeah, but I don't want this job. I don't want to work here.”

  “Twenty percent off on takeout,” Lula said. “You can't beat that. You can feed your family . . . and friends.”

  I took a piece of fried chicken from the bucket on the tray. “My car is back at the dry cleaner.”

  “And I didn't get my sweater. That was my favorite sweater, too. It was just the right shade of red to flatter my skin tone.”

  I finished my piece of chicken. “Are you going back to get your sweater?”

  “Damn skippy I'm going back. Only thing is I'm waiting until they're closed and it's nice and dark out.” Lula looked over my shoulder and her eyes focused on the front door. “Uh oh,” Lula said. “Here comes Officer Hottie, and he don't look happy.”

  Morelli moved behind me and curled his fingers into the back of my jacket collar. “I need to talk to you . . . outside.”

  “I wouldn't go if I was you,” Lula said to me. “He's wearing his mad cop face. At least you should make him leave his gun here.”

  Morelli shot Lula a look, and she buried her head in the chicken bucket.

  When we got outside Morelli dragged me to the far side of the building, away from the big plate glass windows. He still had a grip on my jacket, and he still had the don't-mess-with-me cop face. He held tight to my jacket, and he stared at his shoes, head down.

  “Practicing anger management?” I asked.

  He shook his head and bit into his lower lip. “No,” he said. “I'm trying not to laugh. That crazy old lady shot at you and I don't want to trivialize it, but I totally lost it at Kan Klean. And I wasn't the only one. I was there with three uniforms who responded to the call, and we all had to go around to the back of the building to compose ourselves. Your friend Eddie Gazarra was laughing so hard he wet his uniform. Was there really a shoot-out between the old lady and Lula?”

  “Yeah, but Mama Macaroni did all the shooting. She trashed the place. Lula and I were lucky to get out alive. How'd you know where to find me?”

  “I did a drive-by on all the doughnut shops and fast-food places in the area. And by the way, Mama Macaroni said to tell you that you're fired.”

  Morelli leaned into me and nuzzled my neck. “We should celebrate.”

  “You wanted to celebrate when I got the job. Now you want to celebrate because I've lost the job?”

  “I like to celebrate.”

  Sometimes I had a hard time keeping up with Morelli's libido. “I'm not talking to you,” I told Morelli.

  “Yeah, but we could still celebrate, right?”

  “Wrong. And I need to get back inside before Lula eats all the food.”

  Morelli pulled me to him and kissed me with a lot of tongue. “I really need to celebrate,” he said. And he was gone, off to file a report on my shootout.

  Lula was finishing her half gallon of soda when I returned to the table.

  “How'd that go?” she wanted to know.

  “Average.” I looked in the chicken bucket. One wing left.

  “I'm in a real mean mood after that whole cleaning incident,” Lula said. “I figure I might as well make the most of it and go after my DV. When I was a file clerk I didn't usually work on Sunday, unless I was helping you. But now that I'm a bounty hunter I'm on the job twentyfour/seven. You see what I'm saying? And I know how you're missing being a bounty hunter and all, so I'm gonna let you ride with me again.”

  “I don't miss being a bounty hunter. And I don't want to ride with you.”

  “Please?” Lula said. “Pretty please with sugar on it? I'm your friend, right? And we do things together, right? Like, look at how we just shared lunch together.”

  “You ate all the chicken.”

  “Not all the chicken. I left you a wing. 'Course, it's true I don't particularly like wings, but that's not the point. Anyways, I kept you from putting a lot of ugly fat on your skinny ass. You aren't gonna be getting any from Officer Hottie if you get all fat and dimply. And I know you need to be getting some on a regular basis because I remember when you weren't getting any and you were a real cranky pants.”

  “Stop!” I said. “I'll go with you.”

  Stephanie Plum 11 - Eleven On Top

  FIVE

  It took us a half hour to get to the public housing proj
ects and work our way through the grid of streets that led to Emanuel Lowe, also known as the DV.

  Lula had the Firebird parked across the street from Lowe's apartment, and we were both watching the apartment door, and we were both wishing we were at Macy's shopping for shoes.

  “We need a better plan this time,” Lula said. “Last time, I did the direct approach and that didn't work out. We gotta be sneaky this time. And we can't use me on account of everybody here knows me now. So I'm thinking it's going to have to be you to go snatch the DV.”