Fortune and Glory

by Janet Evanovich

  Lula fished around in her purse, found her Glock, and fired off a shot that took out an overhead sign advertising Clucky Nuggets.

  The counter girl ducked behind the counter, and a handful of people who had been sitting in booths ran out of the building.

  Arnold reached under his greasy T-shirt and grabbed the gun he had tucked under his waistband. “Dumb, fat bitch,” he said. “Eat this.”

  Lula shrieked, panicked, and threw her gun at him, and we ran for the car. Arnold unloaded a couple of rounds that missed Lula and me but took out my side mirror.

  I chirped the tires getting out of the lot and headed for the office.

  “He said I was fat,” Lula said. “Can you imagine?”

  “That’s what bothers you about that whole fiasco?”

  “That’s not all. I’m bothered that I never got my chicken nuts, even though the one I ate didn’t live up to my expectations.”

  “What about the orgasm in your mouth?”

  “Hunh, I suppose you never lied about a orgasm? I was being complimentary. And I’ll tell you another thing. They should do something about gun control in this state. They let just any bat-shit crazy idiot carry a gun.”

  “You carry a gun,” I said.

  “That’s different. I’m almost a police officer. I’m a quasi-law-enforcement person.”

  “You realize you left your gun back there?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna have to replace it. I’ll detour to the hair salon on Stark when I go home today. Lolita Sue always has a nice collection. I get all my guns from her.”

  “You don’t get them at a gun shop?”

  “Hell, no. You gotta fill out all those forms and go through a bunch of crap. All I do with Lolita Sue is give her a couple bucks.”

  * * *

  I dropped Lula at the office, and I called Ranger.

  “I need you,” I said to him.

  “Babe,” Ranger said. “I’m your man.”

  “I don’t need you that way. I need you to help me break into a safe.”

  Okay, that was sort of a fib. Every woman I knew lusted after Ranger. Including me. He was six feet of hard-muscled perfection. He was magic in bed. And he had a magnetic pull that was beyond the physical. On the flip side, he wasn’t a candidate for marriage, and he had a code of conduct that didn’t necessarily conform to the national norm. I’d decided a while ago that it was best to ignore and deny Ranger-lust.

  “I have a lot of skills,” Ranger said. “Safecracking isn’t one of them.”

  “But you know someone.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m on the hunt for the La-Z-Boys’ treasure. Supposedly there are clues locked up in the safe at the Mole Hole.”

  “There’s a little Italian bakery on Henry Street,” Ranger said.

  “Carlotta’s.”

  “Meet me in the lot behind the bakery at ten o’clock tonight.”

  “Okay, but…”

  The Man of Mystery disconnected.

  I thought about the files in my bag. Potts, Rugalowski, and Trotter. It was midafternoon. I could make another try at a capture. Potts was the obvious choice. He was guilty of a nonviolent crime. And he was a first offender, so he wasn’t up to speed on the system. When I told him that I was merely taking him downtown to get a new court date, he might actually believe me. There was the gluten issue, but he’d probably have clothes on, so an accident wouldn’t be an entire disaster. Plus, I kept a shower curtain in the back for blood and other body fluid emergencies. My bounty hunter skills are lacking, but at least I’m prepared for fugitive leakage.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Potts was thirty-seven years old and living with his parents in a house on Porter Street. A spouse wasn’t listed on his bond application. His parents put up the bail bond money. He was unemployed.

  Porter Street was about a mile from the bonds office in a neighborhood very much like the Burg. Small houses, nonexistent front yards, and backyards big enough to hold a Weber grill and a trash can. Mostly blue-collar, two-income families or retirees who had paid off their mortgage.

  I parked across from the Potts house and watched for a while. A Ford Escape was in the driveway that led to a single-car garage. A rusted-out Sentra was at the curb. I was guessing everyone was home. Not my favorite scenario. I hated to make apprehensions that involved parents. It always felt sad that they had to see their kid led away in cuffs. It didn’t matter that the kid was forty-two or that the parents were relieved to see him taken away. It still felt sad to me. If it was my child, I would be destroyed. Even Rodney Trotter’s mother, in her La La Land pot-hazed delusion, had to shed a tear at having her son locked up.

  I crossed the street and rang the Pottses’ doorbell. A skinny guy with a large nose and mousey brown ponytail answered.

  “George?” I asked.

  “Oh jeez,” he said. “I know who you are. How did you find me?”

  “You gave this as your address,” I told him. “It’s on your bond application.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “So, what’s up?”

  “You missed your court date. You have to reschedule.”

  “Did they tell you I have PTSD?”

  “No. Were you in the military?”

  “No. College. It was a bad trip.”

  “Okay, but you still need to reschedule.”

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t want to involve my parents. They’re sort of freaked-out about me. My mom won’t go to the bakery anymore because… you know.”

  “I do,” I said. “I know. That was an unfortunate emergency.”

  “Yes! OMG, you understand. That’s so amazing. Thank you.”

  “Sure, but you still have to reschedule your court date.”

  “I get it,” Potts said. “How do we do this?”

  “I can take you to the courthouse and get you re-bonded.”

  “That would be cool. That would be amazingly cool. And we don’t have to involve my parents?”

  Here’s the dilemma. If I say his parents won’t be involved, it’s not a fib, but the reality is he won’t get out of jail unless he finds someone else to post his bond. If I tell him the whole story, he probably won’t get in my car.

  “What do you want to hear?” I asked him.

  “Something good. Like you want to come in and hang out in my room with me.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I have a PlayStation and a big tub of cheese puffs. They’re made from corn and the cheese dust is lactose free.”

  “No. Never.”

  “That’s harsh. Never is a long time.”

  “Are you going downtown with me, or do I have to get your parents involved?”

  “Wow,” he said, “you play hardball.”

  I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket and clapped one on his wrist, and he squealed like a pig.

  “Get it off! Get it off!” he said, jumping away. “I don’t like it. I’m feeling anxiety. I’m feeling panic. I’m feeling faint. Call 911. I need a doctor. I need a paper bag. I need a joint.”

  “I haven’t got any of those things,” I said. “Do you want me to get your mother?”

  “No! Not my mother. I’m feeling better. I just need a moment. You surprised me. I’m not good with surprises.”

  “I should put the other bracelet on you,” I said.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “They like it at the police station. It’s a security thing.”

  He held his hand out, so I could put the cuff on him. “I guess you never know who’s going to be dangerous,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not very dangerous. I’m mostly fearful and I have allergies.”

  I led him across the street and got him settled into the backseat of my car.

  “I’m allergic to cats and bananas and garlic and marigolds and wool and macadamia nuts and wheat gluten and cucumbers,” he said. “There are other things, too. There’s a l
ong list of things I’m allergic to, but I’m not allergic to peanuts. For instance, I could have a peanut butter sandwich as long as it’s on gluten-free bread.” He was silent for a long moment. “Do you think they have gluten-free bread in prison? I get the poops if I eat wheat bread.”

  I turned onto Hamilton Avenue and glanced at Potts in the rearview mirror. “Hopefully you won’t have to go to prison,” I said. “You were accused of a nonviolent crime, so maybe you’ll just get community service.”

  “That would be awesome,” he said. “I’m all about community service.”

  “Do you volunteer anywhere?”

  “No, but I think about it sometimes. I wanted to volunteer at the zoo in Philadelphia, but it turned out I was allergic to giraffe dander. And they’re very big when you get up close. I’m not comfortable with animals that are bigger than me.”

  “You aren’t having any allergic reactions now, are you?” I asked. “Like gluten?”

  “No. I’m okay. I’m a little apprehensive, but that’s normal for me. Did I tell you I have PTSD?”

  “Yes.”

  “It makes me apprehensive.”

  Having Potts in my car was making me apprehensive.

  “Do you mind if I hum?” he asked. “Humming helps to settle my stomach.”

  I checked him out in the mirror again. “You have a stomach problem?”

  “It happens when I get apprehensive. I get a nervous stomach.”

  I was less than ten minutes away from the courthouse and police station. If I stopped to get the shower curtain out of the back, I’d add at least three minutes. Best to drive faster and take a chance he wouldn’t spew before I pulled into the parking lot, I thought.

  “Go ahead and hum,” I said.

  “Sometimes my humming bothers people,” he said.

  “Not me,” I told him. “Hum all you want.”

  After seven minutes of listening to tuneless humming I thought letting him throw up in the car might have been a better choice. I sped into the lot across from the municipal building, slid into a parking slot, and jumped out of the car. I stood for a moment, enjoying the sound of traffic.

  Court was still in session, so I took Potts directly to the judge. If the judge had the time and inclination to see him and Potts could make bail, Potts could avoid spending the night in jail.

  * * *

  Connie was alone when I walked into the office.

  “I have a body receipt for Potts,” I said.

  Connie’s eyebrows raised a little. “Didn’t he want to get bailed out again?”

  “He refused to call his parents, and he had no one else he could ask.”

  “There’s more,” Connie said. “I know you. You have that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The look like you want to poke your eye out with a sharp stick.”

  I slumped into the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of her desk. “I put up his bail.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was small. I put it on my credit card. I couldn’t just leave him there. The man is a car crash. He has all these allergies and insecurities. And he has PTSD.”

  “Jeez. Don’t drive past the Humane Society on your way home. You’ll go home with a box of kittens.”

  “He hums,” I said to Connie. “Parts of songs. Over and over. And sometimes he hums nothing.”

  Connie took my body receipt and wrote out a check for the capture. “My Uncle Big used to hum like that,” she said. “One day he was humming, and someone shot him… twelve times.”

  “Because he was humming?”

  “Maybe, but he was also trying to hijack a truck full of sneakers.”

  “Is he still humming?”

  “You don’t hum after taking twelve gunshots,” Connie said. “Not ever.”

  I stuffed the check into my bag and headed out. I stopped at the door and looked back at Connie. “You haven’t, by any chance, seen a woman my age and my height, dressed in black, with freshly ironed long brown hair and perfectly applied fake eyelashes on her big brown eyes?”

  “Gabriela?”

  “You know her?”

  “She was here earlier today. She wanted information on Charlie Shine. She knew we bonded him out.”

  “Do you know her last name? Who is she?”

  “She didn’t give a last name. Just Gabriela. She didn’t say much. She’s looking for Shine, and she knew we were, too.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That he was in the wind. She already had his police file. I’m guessing she’s a PI or maybe an insurance investigator. Shine probably has a bunch of people looking for him.”

  I left the office wondering why Gabriela was interested in Shine. It didn’t bode well. If she found him before I did, I’d be out bond money and the chance to extract information about the treasure’s location. Even worse, what if Gabriela wasn’t actually after Shine, but the treasure? What if she was out to steal the treasure from underneath Grandma and me?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I left my apartment at nine thirty and drove to Henry Street. I was meeting Ranger in a parking lot, and I expected to take part in a burglary. I had no further information. I wasn’t sure of the dress requirements, so I went with basic black. Black sweatshirt. Black T-shirt. Dark jeans. Black sneakers.

  A Rangeman SUV was already parked in the bakery lot when I arrived. There was a Rangeman driver behind the wheel, and Ranger and his tech guy, Ramone, were standing beside the SUV, waiting for me. Both men were in black fatigues without the Rangeman logo. Both men were wearing black ball caps. No logo.

  Ranger was wearing a utility belt that held a Maglite, a knife, and a gun. Possibly the belt held other tools of his trade, but I couldn’t identify them. Ramone had a small backpack slung over one shoulder. I’d watched Ramone apply his skills on a couple of other occasions, and I knew he had various gizmos and probably explosives in the pack. He was a crack shot, an electronics genius, a master safecracker, and, like most of Ranger’s specialists, Ramone was comfortable on both sides of the law.

  “Hey,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Hey,” Ramone said.

  Ranger gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked Ranger.

  “This bakery is owned by Benny the Skootch’s cousin, Emelio. It’s mostly used to launder money, and it has no security beyond a locked door. There’s a tunnel exit in the basement. We can use it to get into the Mole Hole back room. Less complicated than going through the front or back door of the Mole Hole after hours.”

  “Have you ever been in the tunnel?” I asked Ranger. “There are rats in the tunnel.”

  “And?”

  “Rats! Big rats! Lots of them.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  Depending on the tone, babe could have many different meanings with Ranger. This babe was said with the slight hint of a smile. I amused him.

  “Maybe not so many rats,” Ramone said. “I understand there was a fire down there.”

  Ranger moved to the bakery’s back door, inserted a slim pick, and the lock clicked open.

  “Stay close behind me when we’re in the tunnel,” Ranger said. “Ramone will watch your back.”

  We walked through a small storeroom filled with racks of white bakery bags and unassembled white bakery boxes, large jars of food coloring, multicolored sprinkles, granulated sugar, powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar. The storeroom led to a room with a couple of refrigerators and a workbench.

  “Where do they bake things?” I asked.

  “In Carteret,” Ranger said. “It all gets trucked in and they do some decorating here.”

  “That’s disappointing,” I said. “I always imagined Carlotta dusted in flour, baking bread and cupcakes before the sun came up.”

  “It gets worse,” Ranger said, opening a door and shining his light on a flight of stairs that led to the basement. “There’s no Carlotta. There’s just Emelio and a couple minimum-wage cannoli fille
rs.”

  I followed Ranger down the stairs to a crude cellar that housed an ancient-looking water heater and furnace. Ranger opened another door, and we stepped into an offshoot of the Mole Hole tunnel.

  I looked at the roughly carved dirt that was supported by wood beams and occasionally rebar, and I gave an involuntary shudder.

  “This is safe, right?” I asked Ranger.

  “Probably on a level with driving the Jersey Turnpike,” Ranger said.

  Ranger had the big Maglite beam focused a good distance ahead of us. I had my little pocket light shining on the ground in front of my feet. I could hear Ramone close behind me. So far, no rats, bats, giant spiders, or insane arsonists.

  We reached a T-intersection, and Ranger turned to the left.

  “You’ve been in this tunnel system before,” I said to Ranger.

  “Years ago, when I was working as an agent for Vinnie, I tracked a couple skips down here.”

  I flashed my light on a support beam and saw that it had been superficially charred. This was the part of the tunnel Lou Salgusta had set on fire. Ranger made another turn, we passed under the overhead light and stood in the concrete passageway that led to the trapdoor.

  “We need to kill the lights,” Ranger said. “Ramone has infrared goggles, and I have a penlight.”

  He went up the ladder, found the hidden spring-latch that had eluded Lula and me, and quietly opened the trapdoor. I followed. Ramone came last, wearing the goggles.

  “Someone made Swiss cheese out of this trapdoor,” Ramone said.

  “That would be me,” I told him. “I couldn’t find the latch.”

  Ranger wrapped his hand around my wrist, and I got a rush. His hand was warm, and I could feel him close beside me in the total darkness. I was basically blind in the absence of light, but Ranger had vision like a cat. He’d grasped my wrist, so he could guide me across the room to the safe. I heard Ramone move past us and stop.

  “Whoa,” Ramone said. “This is old-school. I don’t need equipment to open this. I could stand a foot away and hear the tumblers.”

  Minutes later the safe creaked open and Ranger flicked the penlight on. There were two bricks of what I suspected was cocaine on the top shelf. The second shelf held stacks of money neatly held together by paper wrappers. The third shelf was a jumble of porno magazines, a TV remote, a half-eaten Snickers bar, and a cardboard cigar box.