Fortune and Glory

by Janet Evanovich

  “You look like a balloon someone just let the air out of,” Lula said to me. “Are you okay?”

  “The human race is doomed,” I said. “How can we survive when the earth is populated by people like this?”

  “These people aren’t so bad,” Lula said. “I’ve known lots worse. You gotta look at their whole picture. The Tasty Pastry Pooper was probably just trying to get happy with weed and a supermarket birthday cake, and it didn’t work out for him. The cook at Cluck-in-a-Bucket fried the roaches. It’s not like he was feeding them to his ex-wife while they were alive or something. And I don’t know what to say about the butt injector. He shouldn’t have been doing that. Anyways, the good news is that we’re going to drag their sorry asses back to jail, where they’ll have a chance to rehabilitate themselves.”

  “Do you really think serving time could help them?” I asked Lula.

  “Hell no,” she said. “They’ll get gang raped and hooked on meth.”

  Connie held a half-empty box of donuts out to me. “This is why I get a box of donuts every morning,” she said. “It’s a box full of happiness.”

  I took a donut and shoved the files into my messenger bag. “I’m all about happiness.”

  “Me too,” Lula said. “We should probably take the box with us in case our happiness runs out. We’re going out after the bad guys, right?”

  “Right.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lula followed me out of the office with the donut box under her arm. “Who’s up first?”

  “Rodney Trotter.”

  “Going after the big money,” Lula said. “I like your style.”

  “No guts, no glory,” I said. “Your car or mine?”

  “I’m thinking you should drive on account of I just had my baby detailed. In case we get around to the streaker, and he still has gluten issues, I wouldn’t want him in my backseat, if you see what I’m saying.”

  Lula drove a red Firebird that she kept in pristine condition. When she had her sound system cranked up it was enough to make birds fall out of the sky and your molars explode.

  I got behind the wheel of the CR-V and handed the Trotter file over to Lula.

  “It says here that he lives on Stiller Street,” Lula said. “That’s across town by the public housing projects.”

  I was having a hard time focusing on Trotter. My brain was stuck on Benny and the treasure. I drove over the railroad tracks and turned right, toward the train station.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Lula said. “You must be taking the scenic route.”

  “I want to ride past the Mole Hole. It’s not that much out of the way.”

  “What do you expect to see there?”

  “I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

  “Are we going in?” Lula asked.

  “Do you think we should?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. We could get some of those curly cheese fries. We left in a hurry this morning. You were all worried about what’s-his-name.”

  “Lou Salgusta.”

  I was half a block from the Mole Hole and Lula leaned forward in her seat. “Look who’s coming out of the titty bar,” she said. “It’s the crazy woman that went down into the tunnel.”

  I pulled to the side of the street and idled.

  “She doesn’t look singed or anything,” Lula said. “Her hair isn’t smoking. Hard to tell from this distance but her shoes don’t even look muddy.”

  The woman walked through the parking lot and got into a black Mercedes sports car. She pulled out of the lot and I followed her.

  “You think she’s got something to do with the treasure?” Lula asked.

  “I don’t know. I think it’s weird that she mysteriously showed up and went down into the tunnel.”

  “Yeah, who does that with their Fendi backpack and Louboutins? Those Louboutins didn’t even look like knockoffs. They looked like they were made out of real quality leather.”

  The Mercedes took a right turn, drove two blocks, and took another right. It sailed through a yellow light, and I got the red.

  “I think she made you,” Lula said.

  “Yep.”

  “Not her first rodeo,” Lula said.

  “Yep, again.”

  Twenty minutes later I was on Stiller Street. Narrow, two-story, redbrick row houses lined both sides of the street for three blocks. The brick was grimy with age. Paint was blistered and peeling on window trim. Front yards were postage stamp size, and most were neglected. It was easy to find Trotter’s house. His van was parked at the curb.

  “This isn’t much of a neighborhood for a doctor,” Lula said. “You’d think he’d have a nicer house. I’m guessing he does a lot of pro bono butt jobs.”

  “He isn’t a doctor,” I said, parking behind the van. “He’s a con man.”

  “Even more reason why he should have a certain lifestyle. He doesn’t have any overhead. He just has a lame-ass van to service. And he doesn’t have to buy malpractice insurance. He probably don’t have to fill out any Medicare forms, either, since it’s a questionable cosmetic procedure.”

  Lula and I crossed the small yard, I rapped on Trotter’s front door, and a woman answered. Hard to tell her age. Somewhere between fifty and infinity. Her face was deeply lined and artificially tanned. Her lips looked like they might explode at any minute. A self-rolled joint was stuck between the lips. She was wearing flip-flops and a magenta tent dress that came to mid-calf.

  “Mrs. Trotter?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m looking for Rodney. I’d like to speak to him.”

  “He’s in the kitchen having a late lunch.”

  The living room was dark and cluttered. Too much furniture. Stacks of newspapers. Giant box-store-size jars of snacks. Pretzel nuggets, dill pickles, Hershey miniatures, popcorn, Twizzlers, Cheetos, beef jerky. A gruesome collection of taxidermied animals. Squirrels, cats, foxes, skunks, a small pig, a weasel.

  “The snack jars I get,” Lula said, “but what’s with the creepy dead animals?”

  “Rodney says taxidermy relaxes him after a hard day of surgery,” the woman said. “It’s his hobby.”

  The kitchen was just as cluttered as the living room. Boxes of cereal were stacked on the counters beside jugs of vinegar, family-size jars of peanut butter, badly stuffed rodents with their teeth bared, loaves of bread, and bags of cookies.

  A thin man with balding black hair and excessively bloodshot eyes was at the kitchen table. He was wearing a tight silky black shirt, and he was drinking Jose Cuervo tequila without benefit of a glass or straw.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said, eyeing Lula. “You looking for a booty job? I got an opening this afternoon. Soon as I’m done with lunch.”

  “First off, I’m not your sweetie,” Lula said. “Second, do I look like I need any work? My booty is perfect just like the rest of me. And even if I wasn’t perfect, I wouldn’t let a drunk punk-ass like you touch me.”

  “Sticks and stones,” he said.

  “Rodney Trotter?” I asked.

  “Yeah. How about you, cutie? You looking to get beautified? I got a special going this week on lips.” He squinted at the woman. “Hey, Ma, show her your lips.”

  His mother did duck lips at me and shuffled off into the living room.

  “I could give you lips like that,” Trotter said.

  “Gee, hard to pass up, but no,” I told him. “I’m looking to take you downtown to reschedule your court date.”

  “No can do. I got a big day ahead of me.”

  His eyes rolled back in his head, he fell off his chair, and crashed to the floor.

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “You think he’s dead?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I think he passed out from too much lunch.”

  “This man should not be practicing medicine,” Lula said. “He’s a mess. He shouldn’t even be practicing fake medicine.”

  “Mrs. Trotter!” I yelled. “We have a problem.”

  The woman came into
the kitchen and looked down at Rodney. “Sometimes he takes a nap after lunch,” she said.

  “We could drag him out, throw him into your backseat, and turn him over to the police,” Lula said to me. “Problem is, the police might not want him being that he’s unconscious. They’ve been getting picky about that lately.”

  I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket. “We can secure him and let him sleep it off at the office.”

  I reached for his wrist. His eyes blinked open and he scrambled away from me.

  “That was a short nap,” Lula said.

  “Get away from me,” Trotter said. “I know my rights. I’m a doctor.”

  “You aren’t no doctor,” Lula said, “and you got no rights. You signed them away when you got bonded out of jail.”

  Trotter lurched to his feet and grabbed a large syringe off the kitchen counter. “One step closer and I’ll inject you.”

  “What the hell is that?” Lula asked. “It looks like something you’d use on a horse.”

  “Tools of the trade,” he said. “I can work miracles with this baby.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “Put the syringe down.”

  “Get out of my house or someone gets this in their face,” he said. “I’ll make your nose look like it should be a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

  “You want me to shoot him?” Lula asked.

  “No!” I said. “We don’t shoot people.”

  “Sometimes we shoot people,” Lula said.

  “Not this time. He isn’t armed.”

  “He looks armed to me,” Lula said. “He’s threatening to rearrange my nose with butt filler.”

  “Don’t get too close to him,” I said. “Let me handle this.”

  “How are you going to handle it? You going to let him pump up your nose? I’ll tell you how I’m handling it. I’m leaving. If I can’t shoot him, then I’m out of here. Adios. Au revoir. Sayonara.”

  Lula and I backed out of the kitchen, not taking our eyes off Trotter. We hurried through the living room, left the house, and jumped into my car. Okay, Stephanie, I told myself, so this wasn’t your finest hour, but you’ll have another chance to capture him. It’s all about dogged perseverance, right?

  “That was a disappointing experience,” Lula said. “I need to elevate my endorphins. I say we go after the Cluck-in-a-Bucket fry cook, on account of I could try out those new donuts everyone’s talking about. They’re calling them chicken nuts because they fry the dough in the same oil as the fried chicken. I’m thinking some of those chicken nuts could take my endorphins to a whole new level. Besides it’s a real innovation in the world of fast-food frying. And you know I’m all about innovating.”

  I pulled away from the curb. “Onward to the chicken nuts.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cluck-in-a-Bucket is five minutes from the bail bonds office on a good day. Ten minutes if church is getting out or if there’s a funeral procession leaving the funeral home on Hamilton. It was twenty minutes from Trotter’s house.

  We got to Cluck-in-a-Bucket after the lunch rush and before the dinner rush. There were a few cars in the parking lot. No cars in the drive-thru line.

  “I’m feeling good about this,” Lula said. “This is gonna be a win-win. We capture the fry cook and we get chicken nuts as a bonus.”

  I’d be happy with just a win. I wasn’t sold on the chicken nuts. I parked the car and got out and arranged my gear. Cuffs in jeans right-hand back pocket. Car keys in jeans left-hand back pocket. Pepper spray in right-hand sweatshirt pocket. Fake badge and legitimate right to apprehend papers in left sweatshirt pocket. Illegal stun gun left in car. Cell phone and credit card in sports bra. Lula kept her equipment in her purse. Lula rarely had pockets.

  “Things could happen fast after we start the apprehension process with Arnold,” Lula said. “So, I’m suggesting we get our chicken nuts first. I’ll just step up like I’m an ordinary customer and then as soon as I get my nuts, we can make our move.” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “What kind of nuts do you want? Regular or extra spicy?”

  “I’m going to pass on the nuts.”

  “What? No nuts? You gotta try the nuts. It’s just wrong not to try the nuts.”

  “I’m not in a mood for nuts.”

  “This is about that fight you had with Morelli, isn’t it? It’s the nuts association.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s not about Morelli. And it’s definitely not about his… you know.”

  “His nuts.”

  “Yes, his nuts. It’s not about his nuts. Morelli’s nuts are just fine, thank you.”

  “Well, you gotta miss them.”

  “Could we please move on from this.”

  “Just sayin’,” Lula said.

  I cut a look at Lula and decided my chances of walking away with no nuts were small to none.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll try the chicken nuts. I want the plain.”

  “Yeah, but it’s all about the extra spicy,” Lula said.

  I felt my eyes narrow and my teeth clench. “Then get me the extra spicy.”

  “Good choice,” Lula said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hung just inside the door while Lula went to the counter. Lula was right. I missed Morelli. I missed his dog, Bob. I missed his big-screen TV. I missed the comfort and security of being in a relationship. I missed hearing about his day and cuddling next to him in bed at night. I missed his playful sexiness and the heat that came with the play. I wanted to end the standoff, but I didn’t know how to resolve the problem that caused the argument.

  When Grandma found the keys, I told her I’d help her find the treasure. From that moment on, it’s been a battlefield with Grandma and me on one side and the rest of my family plus Morelli on the other side. All of their objections are valid. Ownership of the treasure isn’t clear. Much of the search will most likely fall into the gray zone of legality. And there are psychopaths involved, so it will be dangerous. Maybe even fatal.

  Morelli’s parting shot was that he didn’t want a relationship with Indiana Jones. Okay, I get that because I have similar feelings about having a relationship with a cop. It’s dangerous work and the hours aren’t always great. My problem is that while Morelli made the statement to get a point across, he hit on a squelched desire. I’m realizing that I’m a closet Indy. For much of my childhood I was convinced I could fly. I broke my arm trying. I wanted to be Wonder Woman, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Princess Leia. None of that worked out for me. I ended up selling bargain-basement lingerie when I graduated from college, and now I’m tracking down a man who fried roaches and fed them to his ex-wife. Transitioning into Indiana Jones has a lot of appeal. Indy never had to eat chicken nuts to save the day. Monkey brains, yes, but not chicken nuts.

  Lula put her order in for extra spicy nuts and waited at the counter. A couple of minutes later the counter girl handed Lula a giant bucket of nuts and Lula motioned for me to step forward.

  “I can take it from here,” Lula said to me. “I know I’m just the assistant agent, but I got a good grip on this one.”

  She popped a donut into her mouth and looked like she was in rapture.

  “Omigod,” she said. “This is the best donut ever. This is like having an orgasm in my mouth. And not someone else’s either. Like it’s mine.”

  The counter girl took a step back. “That’s gross.”

  “Well, obviously you don’t know a lot about orgasms,” Lula said. “I gotta talk to the fry cook. I gotta compliment him.”

  “He’s in the back,” the girl said. “He’s pretty busy right now.”

  “Hey, fry cook!” Lula yelled. “I gotta talk to you.”

  A big guy in a grease-stained white T-shirt appeared and stepped up to the counter. He was over six feet tall and built like a bear. He was balding and the hair he had left was pulled into a ponytail. He had a two-day beard and bloodshot eyes.

  “You got something to say about my nuts?” he asked Lula. />
  Lula looked back at me. “Is he the one?” she whispered.

  I nodded, yes.

  “Are you Arnold Rugalowski?” Lula asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “So what?”

  Lula tucked the bucket of nuts under her arm and fished around in her purse. “Hold on,” she said. “I gotta get my equipment.”

  Lula’s purse had the capacity of a small suitcase. Lula could never find anything in her purse.

  “Maybe I can help,” I said, moving closer, offering Lula my cuffs.

  “Thanks,” Lula said, taking the cuffs, turning to Arnold. “We’re bond enforcement agents, and we want you to come downtown with us, so we can reschedule your court date.”

  “Screw that,” Arnold said. “And you’re not getting my nuts, either.”

  He reached across the counter and grabbed the cardboard bucket Lula had tucked under her arm.

  “Hey!” Lula said. “Those are mine. I paid for them.”

  Arnold flipped her the bird and walked back to his fry station.

  “That’s rude,” Lula said. “I don’t like his attitude. I want to see the manager,” she said to the counter girl. “I demand to see the manager.”

  “He isn’t here right now,” she said. “It’s just me and Arnold. Do you want to talk to Arnold again?”

  “Damn right I want to talk to Arnold,” Lula said. “Hey, Arnold!” she yelled. “Get your butt out here and bring my nuts with you.”

  Arnold stepped up to the counter. “You want your nuts? Try this on for size.”

  He took a donut from the bucket and threw it at Lula. It hit her in the forehead and was followed by a second that hit her left boob.

  “Ow!” Lula said. “Stop that.”

  “Make me,” Arnold said.