Fortune and Glory

by Janet Evanovich

  “Enough women to keep him in vodka and tequila.”

  He gave the paperwork back to me and we went to the door. Trotter’s mother answered. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers and an orange-and-purple flowered tent dress that came to her knees. She had a cigarette stuck to her overinflated lower lip.

  “We’re here to see Rodney,” I said.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” she said, “but he’s busy. He might not have time to be real social.”

  Ranger and I stepped around her, and I wove my way through the cluttered living room and dining room. Trotter was at the kitchen table, mixing up God-knows-what. There were measuring spoons and cups on the table, a large unlabeled canister of white powder, a large jug of canola oil, several smaller canisters, and a large mixing bowl with some glop in it.

  “Hey, Trotter,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “What do I have to do to get rid of you?” Trotter said. “Shoot you? Stab you? Inject you with formaldehyde?”

  “You’re in violation of your bond agreement,” Ranger said. “You need to come with us.”

  “Where’d you get the all-in-black pretty boy?” Trotter asked me. “He looks like he’s auditioning for a television show.”

  Trotter scooped some glop up in a measuring cup and threw it at me. I didn’t move fast enough, and I got tagged in the chest. I looked down in horror and another glob of the stuff hit me in the head.

  “Stop it,” I said. “What the heck is this stuff?”

  “It’s my special enhancement formula,” Trotter said. “Flour, water, oil, cream of tartar.”

  “That’s Play-Doh,” I said.

  “My proportions are different, and I added the oil,” Trotter said. “My enhancement formula takes longer to set up, and it goes in smooth as silk. Problem is sometimes it hardens like concrete. You don’t want to let it sit in your hair too long.”

  I put my hand to the top of my head. The gunk was already starting to solidify.

  “Here’s some more,” he said, hurling another cupful of glop that caught me in the forehead and oozed down my nose.

  “What the fuck!” I yelled at Trotter.

  In my peripheral vision I saw Ranger move toward Trotter. “Stand back,” I said to Ranger. “He’s mine. He’s going down.”

  “Oh, I’m so scared,” Trotter said.

  He barely got the words out of his mouth when I charged across the room, snatched him by the front of his shirt, and head-butted him. I gave him a shove. He wobbled backward and sat down hard. I called him a dumb-ass, dumped the remaining glop on him and hit him in the head with the bowl. His eyes went out of focus, and I clapped cuffs on him while he was still fuzzy-brained.

  Ranger went full-on grin. “Babe.”

  “I have a headache,” I said. “I never head-butted anyone before.”

  “Best display of female rage that I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe ever. I liked the part where you hit him with the bowl.”

  “Hair is important in Jersey. You don’t dump glop in a Jersey girl’s hair.”

  “No doubt,” Ranger said. “You have me convinced.”

  He yanked Trotter to his feet and dragged him toward the front door.

  “We’re leaving!” I yelled to Mrs. Trotter. “Rodney is coming with us.”

  “Okay,” she answered from somewhere in the house. “Have a nice day.”

  We got to the sidewalk. Ranger stowed Trotter in the backseat of the Porsche and opened the passenger-side door for me.

  “I’m going to make a mess of your car,” I said.

  “Not a problem.”

  * * *

  Ranger pulled up to the back of the police station and marched Trotter inside while I waited in the car. Ten minutes later, Ranger slid behind the wheel and handed me my body receipt.

  “Do you want to come back to Rangeman and have me scrub you down?” he asked. “Or would you rather I take you home?”

  “Home.”

  I needed to regroup. And there was a good chance that I wouldn’t be able to get all of the enhancement gunk out of my hair and I would have to visit Salon Philip at the mall. Philip was a genius at cut and color. Hopefully he was also a genius at gunk removal.

  Ranger left the police lot and joined the flow of morning traffic. “I talked to Rodriguez while I was in the police station,” Ranger said. “He followed every offshoot and found three exits. The Mole Hole, the Margo, and the bakery. The fourth exit was cemented closed. Probably happened when Bobby Ragucci sold his property. Rodriguez said there’s nothing down there but dirt and rats, but there might have been another tunnel near the Margo. There was a lot of debris and possibly a cave-in at one point. Beyond that there’s no secret hideaway where there might be a safe.”

  “Grandma’s going to be disappointed.”

  “Why is this treasure so important to her?”

  “She has a bucket list.”

  Ranger stopped for a light and looked at me. “How about you? What’s in your bucket list?”

  I was stumped. I didn’t have a bucket list. My bucket was empty. “I haven’t gotten around to making a bucket list,” I said. “Do you think that’s a personal failure?”

  “No. You’re busy living every day. That’s a personal triumph.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a triumph. It feels like I’m moving through my life with no important goals or aspirations.”

  “What do you consider to be an important goal?”

  “Being a doctor or a vulcanologist or a marine biologist or finding the Ark of the Covenant.”

  Ranger glanced over at me. “Is the La-Z-Boys’ treasure your Ark of the Covenant?”

  “Maybe not the equivalent of the Ark of the Covenant, but it would be moving in the right direction.”

  “One more reason why you need to find it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ranger drove into the lot to my apartment building and stopped alongside a black Honda Passport.

  “This is yours,” he said. “It should be unlocked. The key fob is in the gun box under the passenger seat.” He handed me a key. “This is for the gun box. The SUV has the usual tracking device plus a rear camera that allows us to see if you’re being followed.”

  I got out, unlocked the gun box, and got the key fob. I locked the car and waved Ranger off. I went straight to my apartment, said a fast hello to Rex, shucked my clothes, and jumped into the shower. Twenty minutes later I was in the Honda Passport with a towel wrapped around my head, and I was on my way to Salon Philip. I called Connie from the road and told her I captured Rodney Trotter, but had a slight apprehension mishap, and was now booked into an immediate emergency appointment at the hair salon.

  “I have my own emergency,” Connie said. “Potts is on the couch. And he’s humming. I’m going to put him in an Uber and send him to you.”

  “No! No, no, no, no.”

  Too late. Connie was already disconnected.

  I reached Route 1 and took the exit to Quaker Bridge Mall. I parked by Macy’s and walked through the mall with as much dignity as I could muster considering I had a towel wrapped around my head.

  “Stephanie Plum,” I said to the fashion-forward woman at the salon reception counter. “I have an appointment.”

  The woman looked at my towel. “Is this a color issue?”

  “No,” I said. “Play-Doh.”

  I removed the towel and the woman bit into her lower lip. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep from laughing or gagging. She stepped from behind the counter and motioned to Philip.

  “We need triage here,” she said.

  * * *

  Potts arrived while I was in the shampoo area. He took a chair across from the reception desk and paged through the salon’s magazines, occasionally looking up to make sure I wasn’t being held at gunpoint. I was moved from the shampoo sink to Philip’s chair, and Lula came in. She breezed past Potts and came straight to me.

  “Connie said you had a incident,” Lula said. “What’s that about?”r />
  “Ranger helped me apprehend Trotter, but before we got Trotter in cuffs I got some glop thrown at me.”

  “It was in her hair,” Philip said. “We were able to get some of it out, but I’m going to have to cut the rest.”

  “How much are you going to cut?” Lula asked.

  “A couple inches,” Philip said. “Maybe four or five.”

  I got light-headed and little black dots floated in front of my eyes.

  “She looks whiter than usual,” Lula said.

  “Deep breath,” Philip said to me. “Put your head down between your legs. Don’t worry. You’re going to look terrific.”

  Potts rushed over. “I know CPR,” he said. “Does she need CPR? And I have an EpiPen. I always carry one because of my allergies. Does she need an EpiPen?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I just had a moment.”

  “It happens here all the time,” Philip said. “It’s the I’m going to cut all my hair off syndrome.”

  “I can’t look,” Lula said. “I’m going out to the mall and get a big pretzel.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Potts said. “Just in case she needs my EpiPen.”

  “Okay, here we go,” Philip said to me. “Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you.”

  I kept my eyes closed through the cutting and the styling. Mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass myself by fainting or shrieking or jumping out of the chair before Philip was done. I heard the hair dryer cut off. Philip did some fussing with his magic fingers. And I heard Lula barge into the salon with her spike heels clacking on the tile floor.

  “Omigod!” she said. “Omigod!”

  “What? What omigod?” I asked. “Is it good? Is it awful?”

  I opened my eyes. It was short. And kind of cute. Big curls and waves. He’d added red highlights.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. “This isn’t me,” I said. “Who is this?”

  “Girl, it’s the new you,” Lula said. “It’s Super Steph. This is happy hair. Kick-ass hair without going yesterday’s punk. Kudos, Mr. P.,” Lula said.

  “It’s pretty,” Potts said. “Can I touch it?”

  “No,” I told him. “Not ever.”

  I gave my credit card to the woman at the reception desk.

  “You can’t be going around in jeans and T-shirts anymore,” Lula said to me. “That hair deserves better. You need a new look.”

  “She needs a black leather jacket,” Potts said.

  “Absolutely,” Lula said. “With studs and bedazzle shit on it. And then she needs a black leather bra to go under it. Or maybe a red satin bustier.”

  “That would be hot,” Potts said.

  I took my card back and put it in my messenger bag. “I don’t think I would be comfortable in a leather bra.”

  “You gotta see the whole picture,” Lula said. “The hair is sexy in a sweet way. And then you pair it up with nasty clothes, and it says Hey, look at me. I’m complex.”

  “I don’t feel complex,” I said.

  “That’s on account of you’re in a transitional phase in your life what with the new hair,” Lula said. “You leave it to Potts and me and we’ll get you sorted out.”

  “I’ve got a lot of ideas,” Potts said. “I’ve been reading the fashion and makeup magazines while I’ve been waiting.”

  I looked at Lula. “I thought Connie said you had a temporary crown in place of the one that got damaged.”

  “Yep. The cracked crown got popped off and the new temporary one got stuck on,” Lula said.

  “And it was in the front?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Say what?” Lula felt around with her tongue. “What the heck!” She went to a makeup mirror and looked at herself. “Damn! I lost my temporary.”

  “I bet it got stuck in that big pretzel you ate,” Potts said. “You probably swallowed it. So, you didn’t actually lose it. You just have to wait until you poop it out.”

  “I can’t wait,” Lula said. “I’m unsightly. I got an image to protect. We’re going to have to delay the makeover until I get another crown stuck on. It won’t take long.”

  Lula hustled out of the salon, and Potts turned to me. “Now what? We could go shopping without Lula. Or we could wait for Lula. Or we could go to the car and make out.”

  “Not only will we never make out, but if you ever suggest it again, I’ll shoot you.”

  “You don’t have a gun,” Potts said.

  “Okay, then I’ll have someone else shoot you.”

  “Just for suggesting we make out? That’s extreme.”

  “You could punch him in the face,” the receptionist said. “That might be more appropriate.”

  “I don’t like to bleed,” Potts said. “It gives me anxiety. I guess it would be okay if I got punched in the forehead.”

  An alarm went off on his phone.

  “What’s that?” the receptionist asked.

  “It’s past lunchtime. I get low blood sugar if I don’t eat on schedule,” Potts said.

  “There’s a food court in the mall,” I told him. “You can get something to eat there.”

  “I can’t eat at a food court because of my allergies,” Potts said. “There’s all kinds of cross-contamination. I break out in hives and I get diarrhea if I walk through a food court. Did I tell you I’m extremely sensitive to gluten? And they let anyone work at those places. I know for a fact because I got a job at a chicken place in a mall once. Anyway, I only worked there for a couple days because of the diarrhea from the gluten spewing out of the fry station. And that was when I moved back to my parents’ house.”

  “I know someone who would shoot him,” the receptionist said.

  “I’ll get back to you,” I said to the receptionist.

  I walked Potts out of the salon and through the mall to the Macy’s exit.

  “I don’t see the Buick,” Potts said.

  “I have a different car. It’s a loaner from a friend.”

  “Is it the guy you sleep with? The good-looking one with muscles?”

  “Yes.”

  I unlocked the Honda.

  “This is it? A Honda?” Potts asked. “It’s nice but I expected you to perform at Porsche level. Maybe Mercedes. Boy, this is an eye opener. Where are we going for lunch?”

  “Giovichinni’s Grocery. You can get something from the deli, and we can eat at the office. I want to check in with Connie.”

  * * *

  I got Potts settled onto the faux leather couch with his chicken wrap and Pepsi, and I took the chair in front of Connie’s desk. I unwrapped my ham and cheese panini and opened a small tub of coleslaw.

  “I like the hair,” Connie said.

  I nodded. “Thanks. I’m getting used to it.”

  “Lula called and told me she was back at the dentist.”

  “Her temporary popped off.” I reached into my messenger bag, pulled out the body receipt for Trotter, and handed it to Connie.

  “Vinnie’s going to love this,” Connie said. “This was a high bond.”

  “I’m going to love it, too,” I said. “I need the money.”

  Connie wrote a check and slid it across her desk to me. “What are you buying with this?”

  “Food. Clothes. Maybe a manicure. My rent is due. Any more information from your mom?”

  “The latest gossip is that the La-Z-Boys are having problems. Lou Salgusta has gone from a successful sadistic killer to flat-out crazy, and Charlie Shine has decided he’s Al Capone.”

  “What about Benny?”

  “Benny is never seen. He’s in his house, eating cheese ravioli and watching television with his cat. My mom said his wife was moved into a hospice facility yesterday. She’s been sick for a long time.”

  “That’s sad,” I said. “I didn’t know her, but everyone seemed to like her.”

  “My mom will miss her,” Connie said. “They were friends for a lot of years.”

  I finished my lunch and Gr
andma called. “I need a ride,” she said. “And I could use some help picking an outfit. Your mother is babysitting for your sister and can’t take me. I’d go myself but they hid the keys to the Buick.”

  “What kind of an outfit?” I asked.

  “Carla Skootch went into hospice yesterday, and she’s not expected to last the night, so I need something to wear to the viewing. I want to look respectful for her. She’s a nice lady and she put up with a lot over the years.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I need to get some new clothes, too. When would you like to go?”

  “Now would be good,” Grandma said. “Your father is eating at the lodge tonight, and your mother won’t be home from Valerie’s house until late. Valerie and Albert had to go to some lawyer shindig.”

  “I’m taking Grandma shopping,” I said to Potts. “Can I possibly do this without you tagging along?”

  “No,” Potts said. “I’m following you to the end of the earth.”

  “I won’t be going that far,” I said.

  * * *

  Grandma was waiting at the curb. And she was carrying her big black patent purse. This meant she was packing her .45 long barrel. It was frightening to think that she had the gun, but it was good to know she recognized the danger level.

  She slid onto the passenger-side seat and buckled up. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said. “You have a new car and a new hairdo.”

  “The car is a loaner from Ranger. The hair is job related. An FTA threw some gunk at me and it got stuck in my hair.”

  “I like the new cut and color,” Grandma said. “It’s flirty.” Grandma turned and looked at Potts in the backseat. “What do you think?”

  “I’d like to touch it,” Potts said, “but she won’t let me.”

  Grandma leaned close to me. “He’s kind of a creeper,” she whispered.

  “It’s that he has no filters,” I said.

  “I heard that,” Potts said. “That’s insightful. There was a time when people thought you were forthright if you said what was on your mind. It was a sign of good character.”