Plum Lovin'

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “How bad is it?” He listened for a full minute, disconnected, cranked the car over and put it into gear.

  “Where are we going?”

  "We're going to look for Beaner. He attacked a woman in a diner two blocks from Ernie's Bar. My source said

  Beaner went in for breakfast, saw this woman, and went nuts on her because she resembled his wife."

  “Jeez. What did he do to her? Is she going to be all right?”

  “Shell recover, but it won't be fun.” Diesel headed for the center of the city. “I know Beaner is living in the neighborhood around Ernie's. I placed him there a week ago, but I can't get a fix on him. I thought we'd go over and walk around. See if I get a vibe.”

  I looked back at Bob. “It's freezing. I can't leave Bob sitting in the cold SUV all afternoon.”

  Diesel hooked a left at the intersection. “We'll drop him off at your apartment. Lock him in your bathroom, so he doesn't eat your couch. Your bathroom is nice and big. He'll be okay.”

  The neighborhood around Ernie's is a residential and commercial mix. There are office buildings, condo buildings, brownstones, and small businesses like Ernie's Bar all in a jumble. Diesel parked in a lot, and we set out on foot with our collars turned up against the wind and our hands in our pockets to keep warm. We covered a grid of blocks a half-mile square, but Beaner didn't register on Diesel's radar.

  We ducked into a deli and got sandwiches and coffee for lunch, happy to be out of the cold.

  “This isn't working,” I said to Diesel. “I vote we do it my human way and canvass the street, asking questions.”

  “I'm human,” Diesel said. “I just have a few extra skills.”

  I finished my sandwich and coffee and stood. “You go north and I'll go south, and we'll meet back here at three o'clock.”

  I started with the girl at the register in the deli, asking if she'd seen a guy with a raspberry birthmark on his face. Her answer was no. I went to the florist next door, the drugstore, the dry cleaner. No one had seen Beaner. I spoke to the doorman at a condo building and the receptionist at a high-rise office building. No Beaner. I went four blocks south, stopping people on the street. I crossed the street and worked my way back to the deli. No luck at all.

  By the time I met up with Diesel, wind-driven snow was angling down, stinging my face. Snow is picturesque in Vermont. In New Jersey, it's a pain in the ass. It slows traffic and makes walking treacherous. Dogs turn the snow yellow, and cars churn it into brown sludge.

  “Any luck?” Diesel asked.

  “None. How about you?”

  “Zip.”

  I felt my cell phone buzz. It was Larry Burlew, and I could barely understand what he was saying. He was talking at warp speed and stuttering.

  “It's n~n-not working,” he said. “I don't know what to's-s-say to her. She comes over with coffee whenever I wave, but I don't know what to say. What should I say? I just's-s-say thank you. I thought I could talk to her, but nothing comes out. I d-d-don't think I can drink much more coffee, but I can't stop myself from waving.”

  “How many cups have you had?”

  “I d-d-don't know. I lost count. Twelve or fifteen, I think.”

  “We're on our way,” I told him. “Try to hang in there, and for God's sake, don't drink any more coffee.”

  Stephanie Plum 12.5 - Plum Lovin

  Chapter 6

  Larry Burlew was pacing when we walked into the shop.

  “I don't feel good,” he said. “I think I'm having a heart attack. My heart is racing. And my eye is twitching. I hate when my eye twitches like this. Maybe I need a cup of coffee to settle my nerves.”

  “Put a coat on him and walk him around outside in the cold,” I told Diesel. “See if you can get some of the caffeine out of his system.”

  “Who'll take care of the shop?” Burlew asked. “I can't walk out on the shop.”

  “I'll take care of the shop,” I told him. “No one comes in at this time of the day. Don't worry about it.”

  Five minutes later, a woman walked in and wanted a pork roast deboned and rolled.

  “I'm just the assistant butcher,” I told her. “I'm not allowed to debone. The real butcher will be back in an hour, but I'm not sure he'll be fit to use sharp tools. How about a nice roasting chicken?”

  “I don't want a chicken,” she said. “I need a pork roast.”

  “Okay, how about this. I'll give it to you for free if you'll take it with the bone in. It's a special promotional deal.”

  “I guess that would be okay,” the woman said.

  I took a roast out of the display case, wrapped it in white butcher paper, and gave it to the woman.

  “Have a nice day,” I told her.

  Twenty minutes later, Diesel returned with Burlew.

  “How's he doing?” I asked Diesel.

  “He's stopped stuttering, and his eye has almost completely stopped twitching. I had to bring him back because I think his nose is frostbitten. This weather sucks. I'm putting in for an assignment in the Bahamas after this.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “No. I go where I'm needed. There aren't a lot of people who can do my job.”

  “Were there any customers?” Burlew asked.

  “No,” I told him. “Nobody bought anything.”

  “The coffee delivery scheme isn't working,” Diesel said. “We need to think of something else.”

  “The coffee delivery scheme is perfectly okay. It's Burlew we need to fix. He needs practice,” I said. “I'm going to be the coffee person, and you be Larry. I'll walk in, and you start a conversation with me, so he can see how it's done.”

  I went outside, and then I came in again.

  “Here's your coffee,” I said to Diesel, pretending to hand him a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” Diesel said. And he grabbed me and kissed me.

  I pushed away from him. “What the heck was that about?”

  Diesel was rocked back on his heels, smiling. “I felt like kissing you. It was cold outside, and you're all nice and warm.”

  “Boy. I wish I could do that,” Burlew said. “That was great.”

  “It wasn't great,” I said to Burlew. “That was a bad example. Diesel's a nut. I'm going to go out and come in again, and this time I'm going to hand you the coffee.”

  I went outside and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sucking in cold air. The kiss had actually been pretty damn terrific. Not that it was going to lead to anything, but it was terrific all the same. I pulled myself together and came back in and pretended to hand Burlew a cup of coffee.

  Burlew took the coffee and looked at me blank-faced.

  “What do you say?” I asked him.

  “Thank you.”

  “What else?”

  Burlew was stumped.

  “Tell her your name,” I said.

  “Larry Burlew.”

  “My name is Jet,” I told him.

  Silence.

  I jumped back in. “Tell her you think her name is unusual. Ask her if it means something.”

  “That's stupid,” Diesel said. “He'll sound like a dork.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “I'd get right to it. I'd tell her I was going to catch the Knicks game at the sports bar down the street, and I'd ask her if she wanted to join me.”

  “You can't just say 'Thanks for the coffee' and then ask her out to a bar. It's too abrupt. And how do you know she's a Knicks fan?”

  “It doesn't matter. It's a guy thing. It makes him look like a guy. If he says something dorky about her name, she'll think he's a pussy. Anyway, if she wants to go out with him she'll say yes. If she doesn't say yes you know it's a lost cause and you move on.”

  “I don't like basketball,” Burlew said.

  “What do you like?”

  “I like opera.”

  Diesel was hands on hips. “You're shitting me.”

  Burlew fixed his attention on the display case. “There's a pork
roast missing. Are you sure you didn't sell anything?”

  “I gave it away. It was a charity thing. Girl Scouts.”

  Diesel's attention wandered to the street. “Hey, get this,” he said. “Coffee Girl must be off work for the day. She's got her coat on, and her purse over her shoulder, and it looks like she's coming over here. She's out of the coffee shop and crossing the street.”

  “Oh no,” Burlew said. “She doesn't have more coffee, does she?”

  “No,” Diesel said. “No coffee.”

  The bell chimed on the front door, and Jet walked in. “Hi,” she said to me. “Your cousin is going to make me employee of the month for selling so much coffee.” Her attention turned to Diesel. “Hello,” she said.

  “He's gay,” I told her. “Flaming.”

  Jet sighed. “I knew he was too good to be true.” She looked over at Larry Burlew.

  “Straight as an arrow,” I said.

  Jet nodded. “It's important to know stuff like that about your… butcher. Like, is he married?”

  “Nope. Totally available.”

  “So I would be smart to buy meat here?”

  “You wouldn't regret it,” I said.

  “Good. I feel like steak tonight.”

  Diesel slid a look at me. “Carnivore,” he whispered.

  Jet directed her attention to Burlew. “What looks tasty?”

  “Do you want to grill it, or broil it, or pan-fry it?” Burlew asked.

  “I don't know. Something healthy.”

  “I have a great recipe that I do with sirloin,” Burlew said. “I marinate it and then I broil it with vegetables.”

  “That sounds terrific,” Jet said. “Maybe you could show me how to do it.”

  “Sure,” Burlew said. “It's real easy. I could do it tonight if you want. And I'll bring the steak and stuff with me.”

  Jet wrote her address on a scrap of butcher paper. “Come over whenever you're done with work. I'll get some wine.” And she left.

  Diesel and I looked at Burlew.

  “What the hell was that?” Diesel asked.

  “I'm good when it comes to meat,” Burlew said.

  It was twilight when we left the butcher shop. Streetlights were glowing behind swirling snow, and Trenton was looking cold but cozy.

  “We're hot at this relationship shit,” Diesel said. “We do things all wrong, and it all turns out right.”

  We drove back to Beaner's neighborhood and cruised several blocks. Diesel stopped in front of Ernie's, and I ran in to take a fast look. No Beaner in sight, so I returned to the car.

  “It's too early,” Diesel said. “We should come back around eight.”

  “We need to get to my parents' house anyway,” I told him. “I said we'd be there for dinner.”

  “We?”

  “I didn't want you to feel left out.”

  “I remember your parents. They run a loony bin.”

  “Okay. Fine. Drop me off at the door.”

  “No way,” Diesel said. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

  “We just have to make a fast stop at my apartment to get Bob.”

  A half hour later, we opened my bathroom door, and Bob looked out at us, all droopy-eyed and drooling and panting.

  He did some pathetic whimpering noises, opened his mouth, and said gak't And barfed up a roll of toilet paper.

  “Better than a couch,” Diesel said.

  I cleaned up the toilet paper and put a new roll in the holder. By the time I was done, Bob was completely perked up, affectionately rubbing against Diesel, spreading dog slime the length of his leg.

  “Probably I should change clothes before we go to your parents' house,” Diesel said.

  For sure.

  Diesel pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt out of his backpack. They were exact duplicates of what he was wearing, minus the slime and pizza sauce. No better, no worse. He peeled his shirt off, unlaced his boots, and stepped out of his boots and jeans.

  “Good God,” I said and whirled around, so I wasn't facing him. Not that it mattered. The image of Diesel in briefs was burned into my brain. Ranger and Morelli, the two men in my life, were physically perfect in very different ways.

  Ranger was Cuban American with dark skin and dark eyes and sometimes dark intentions. He had a kickboxer's body and Special Forces skills. Morelli was hard and angular, his temperament Italian, his muscle and skill acquired on the street. Diesel was put together on a larger scale. And while I couldn't see details, I suspected he was larger everywhere.

  My grandmother was setting the table when we arrived. The extension was in, and the kitchen chairs and a kid's high chair had been brought out to seat ten. Valerie and Albert were already there. Albert was watching television with my dad. I could hear Valerie in the kitchen talking to my mom. Her oldest girl, Angie, was on the floor in the living room coloring in a coloring book. The middle kid, Mary Alice, was galloping around the dining room table, pretending she was a horse. The baby was on Albert's lap.

  All action stopped when Diesel walked in.

  “Oh jeez,” my father said.

  “Nice to see you again, sir,” Diesel said.

  “I remember you,” Mary Alice said. “You used to have a ponytail.”

  “I did,” Diesel said, “but I thought it was time for a change.”

  “Sometimes I'm a reindeer,” Mary Alice said.

  “Is it different from being a horse?” Diesel asked her.

  “Yeah, 'cause when I'm a reindeer I got antlers, and I can fly like Rudolph.”

  “Can not,” Angie said.

  “Can, too.”

  “Can not.”

  “I can fly a little,” Mary Alice said.

  I cut my eyes to Diesel.

  Diesel smiled and shrugged.

  I let Bob off his leash, left Diesel in the living room to charm my father, and went to the kitchen to check in with my mother. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

  “You can spoon the red sauce into the gravy boat, and you can try to talk some sense into your grandmother. She won't listen to me.”

  “Now what?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “She was setting the table.”

  “Did you take a good look?”

  Grandma Mazur shuffled into the kitchen. She was in her seventies, and gravity hadn't been kind. She was all slack skin and dimpled flesh draped on a wiry frame. Her hair was steel gray and permed. Her teeth were bought. Her eyes didn't miss much. Her lips were horribly swollen.