Finger Lickin' Fifteen

by Janet Evanovich

  “So what are you doing here in the slums?” I asked her.

  “Ask Connie.”

  “Vinnie hired her again,” Connie said. “He decided you weren’t bringing the skips in fast enough, so he brought Joyce in to take up the slack.”

  “I don’t take up slack,” Joyce said. “I take the cream off the top.”

  From time to time, Joyce had worked for Vinnie, mostly because she was good with a whip and once in a while Vinnie felt like a very bad boy.

  “What’s in the casserole?” Joyce asked.

  I opened the lid. “It’s barbecue. Grandma Mazur made it for me for dinner. She knows how I love this recipe.”

  Joyce spit on the pulled pork. “Just like old times,” she said. “Remember when I used to spit on your lunch in school?”

  “How about now?” Lula asked. “Can I shoot her now?”

  “No!”

  Joyce took the casserole dish from me. “Yum,” she said. “Dinner.” And then she sashayed out of the bonds office, got into her black Mercedes, and roared off down the street with the barbecue.

  “I got a dilemma here now,” Lula said. “I don’t know whether I want her to like my barbecue sauce or get the squirts from it.”

  Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “Where is she? Did she leave? Christ, she scares the crap out of me. Still, there’s no getting around it. She’s a man-eater. She’ll clean up the list.”

  Connie and Lula and I did a collective eye roll because Joyce had tried her hand at bounty hunting before and the only man she ate was Vinnie.

  “Am I fired?” I asked Vinnie.

  “No. You’re the B team.”

  “You can’t have an A team and a B team going after the same skips. It doesn’t work.”

  “Make it work,” Vinnie said.

  “We should have saved the barbecue for Vinnie,” I said to Lula.

  “Wasn’t me that gave Barnhardt the barbecue,” Lula said. “I wanted to shoot her.”

  I hiked my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m out of here. I’m going to see if Myron Kaplan is home.”

  “I’m with you,” Lula said. “I’m not staying here with this Barnhardt-hiring idiot.”

  “What about the filing?” Vinnie yelled at Lula. “There’s stacks of files everywhere.”

  “File my ass,” Lula said.

  ACCORDING TO THE information Connie had given me, Myron Kaplan was seventy-eight years old, lived alone, was a retired pharmacist, and two months ago, he robbed his dentist at gunpoint. Myron’s booking photo was mostly nose. Several other photos taken when bail was written showed Myron to be slightly stooped, with sparse, wild gray hair.

  “There it is,” Lula said, checking house numbers while I crept down Carmichael Street. “That’s his house with the red door.”

  Carmichael was a quiet little side street in the center of the city. Residents could walk to shops, restaurants, coffeehouses, corner groceries, and in Myron’s case . . . his dentist. The street was entirely residential, with narrow brick-faced two-story row houses.

  I parked at the curb, and Lula and I walked to the small front stoop. I rang the bell, and we both stepped aside in case Myron decided to shoot through his door. He was old, but he was known to be armed, and we’d been shot at a lot lately.

  The door opened, and Myron looked at me and then focused on Lula in the yellow stretch suit and black flak vest.

  “What the heck?” Myron asked.

  “Don’t mess with me,” Lula said. “I’m off doughnuts, and I feel mean as a snake.”

  “You look like a big bumblebee,” Myron said. “I thought I slept through October, and it was Halloween.”

  I introduced myself and explained to Myron he’d missed his court date.

  “I’m not going to court,” Myron said. “I already told that to the lady who called on the phone. I got better things to do.”

  “Like what?” Lula wanted to know.

  “Like watch television.”

  Myron had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was gumming it around, sucking in smoke and blowing it out, all at the same time.

  “That’s disgustin’,” Lula said. “You shouldn’t be smoking. Didn’t your doctor tell you not to smoke?”

  “My doctor’s dead,” Myron said. “Everybody I know is dead.”

  “I’m not,” Lula said.

  Myron considered that. “You’re right. You want to do knicky-knacky with me? It’s been a while, but I think I can still do it.”

  “You better be talkin’ about some kind of card game,” Lula told him.

  “We need to go now,” I said. “I’m kind of on a schedule.”

  “Listen, missy,” Myron said. “I’m not going. What part of not going don’t you understand?”

  I hated capturing old people. If they didn’t cooperate, there was no good way to bring them in. No matter how professional and respectful I tried to act, I always looked like a jerk when I dragged their carcass out the door.

  “It’s the law,” I said. “You’re accused of a crime, and you have to go before a judge.”

  “I didn’t commit a crime,” Myron said. “I just got a refund. This quack dentist made me false teeth. They didn’t fit. I wanted my money back.”

  “Yes, but you got it back at gunpoint.”

  “That’s because I couldn’t get an appointment to see him until January. Couldn’t get past his snippy receptionist. When I went in with the gun, I got to see him right away. It’s not like I have forever to wait for money. I’m old.”

  “What about the teeth?” Lula asked him. “Where’s the teeth?”

  “I left them with the dentist. I got my money back, and he got his teeth back.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Lula said.

  “The court decides what’s fair,” I said. “You have to go to court.”

  Myron crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Make me.”

  “This is gonna get ugly,” Lula said. “We should have left this for Barnhardt.”

  “I’ll make a deal,” I said to Myron. “If you come with me, I’ll get you a date with my grandmother. She’s real cute.”

  “Does she put out for knicky-knacky?”

  “No!”

  “Criminy,” Lula said to Myron. “What’s with you and the knicky-knacky? Do it by yourself and get it over with just like the rest of us.”

  “He’s not real big,” I said to Lula. “Probably about a hundred and sixty pounds. If we hog-tie him, we should be able to cart him out to the car.”

  “Yeah, and he don’t have no teeth, so we don’t have to worry about him biting us.”

  “You can’t do that to me,” Myron said. “I’m old. I’ll have a heart attack. I’ll pee my pants.”

  Lula was hands on hips. “I hate when they pee their pants. It’s a humiliating experience. And it ruins the upholstery.”

  I cut my eyes to Myron. “Well? How do you want us to do this?”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom before you hog-tie me,” Myron said. “Or else I’ll pee for sure.”

  “You’ve got three minutes,” I said to him.

  “I can’t go in three minutes. I’m old. I’ve got a prostate the size of a basketball.”

  “Just go!”

  Myron trotted off to the bathroom, and Lula and I waited in the front room. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I went to the bathroom door and knocked. No answer.

  “Myron?”

  Nothing. I tried the door. Locked. I called again and rapped louder. Shit!

  “I need something to pop the lock,” I said to Lula. “Do you have a safety pin? Chicken skewer? Knitting needle?”

  “I got a bobby pin.”

  Lula bent the pin open, shoved it in the little hole in the knob, and the door unlocked and we peeked in. No Myron in the bathroom. Open window.

  “He gets around, for bein’ he’s so old,” Lula said, looking out the window.

  This was the second time today I’d lost a skip through a window.
I couldn’t even categorize myself as incompetent. I had to go with pathetically stupid.

  “Now what are we gonna do?” Lula asked.

  Ordinarily, I’d walk the neighborhood and try to ferret out my skip. Problem was, I had Lula in her yellow spandex, and we were way too visible. You could probably see Lula from the space shuttle.

  “I’m going to drop you at the office, and I’m going back to work for Ranger,” I said. “Morelli told me the crime lab was done with your apartment. Is your landlord replacing your door?”

  “I don’t know. I gotta call and find out.”

  I DROVE PAST the bonds office twice before pulling to the curb to let Lula out.

  “I don’t see anything suspicious,” I said to her. “I think you’re safe.”

  “This has been another disturbin’ day, what with those two assholes lookin’ to kill me, and findin’ out that I’m fat. I might go back on that bacon diet.”

  “The bacon diet is unhealthy. And you had packs of dogs chasing you down the street when you were on the bacon diet. All you need to do is control your portions. Stay away from the doughnuts and only eat one piece of chicken or one pork chop or one hamburger at a meal.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lula said. “Nobody eats just one pork chop. I’d get weak and die.”

  “Lots of people only eat one pork chop.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “That’s un-American. How am I supposed to stimulate the economy when I’m only eating one plain-ass pork chop? Probably I can’t even have gravy on that pork chop.”

  I made sure Lula got into the office without getting shot or decapitated, and then I pulled my map out of my handbag and started another run through Ranger’s accounts.

  Morelli called a little after four. “We found the Town Car,” he said. “It was parked on a side street near the Bank Center. Easy to spot, since it had a bunch of bullet holes in it. No blood inside. I don’t know how she always manages to miss her target. It’s uncanny.”

  “Owner?”

  “It was stolen from a car service last night. The lab guys are doing their thing, but that car has been handled by half of New Jersey.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pass this on to Lula.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “No. I dropped her at the bonds office. I’m riding a circuit for Ranger right now.”

  “Word around town is that he’s losing accounts. Having a Rangeman security system has turned into a liability.”

  “He’s working on it.”

  I WAS HALFWAY through my account route, and I realized it was almost six o’clock. I took Olden to Hamilton, turned into the Burg, and slid to a stop in front of my parents’ house precisely on time.

  I could smell the ham the minute I stepped into the foyer. It was an intoxicating aroma of warm, salty goodness and special occasions. My father was already at the table, waiting to stab into the first piece of ham. My grandmother was also seated. And a strange man sat beside Grandma.

  “This is Madelyn Mooney’s boy, Milton,” my mother said to me, setting the green bean casserole on the table. “He just moved back to Trenton.”

  “Yep,” Grandma said. “We thought we’d fix you up with some hotties since it’s kaput with Morelli.”

  “I’m not interested in getting fixed up,” I said.

  “You’re not getting any younger,” Grandma said. “You wait too long, and all the good ones get taken.”

  I looked over at Milton. He was a sandbag. Overweight, slumped in his chair, pasty white skin, bad complexion, balding orange hair. I was guessing mid-thirties. Not to be judgmental, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when God was handing stuff out.

  “Milton used to work in the auto industry,” Grandma said. “He had a real good job on the line at the factory.”

  “Yeah,” Milton said. “It was sweet until I got fired. And then the bank foreclosed on my house, and my wife left me and took the dog. And now I’m hounded by collection agencies.”

  “That’s awful,” I said. “So what are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s living with his mother,” Grandma said. “Until he gets on his feet.”

  “I guess it’s hard to get a job these days.”

  “I’m not actually looking for a job,” Milton said. “The doctor who treated me after I had the nervous breakdown and set fire to my house said I should take it easy for a while.”

  “You set fire to your house?”

  “Technically, it wasn’t my house anymore. It was the bank’s house, and between you and me, I think they were happy I burned it down. They were real nice to me while I was in the mental hospital.” He speared a piece of ham, studied it, and turned his attention back to me. “My outpatient advisor tells me I need to get out of my mother’s house, so that’s why I’m considering marrying you. I was told you have your own apartment.”

  My father picked his head up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Good God,” he said.

  “I bet a big, strapping young guy like you has a lot of special talents,” Grandma said to Milton.

  “I can make French toast,” Milton said. “And I can whistle.”

  “Isn’t that something,” Grandma said. “Whistling’s a lost art. You don’t find many whistlers anymore.”

  Milton whistled “Camptown Races” and “Danny Boy.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Grandma said. “I wish I could whistle like that.”

  My father shot my mother a look like he was in intense pain.

  “Pass the potatoes to your father,” my mother said to me. “And give him more ham.”

  I tried to sneak an inconspicuous peek at my watch.

  “Don’t even think about it,” my mother said. “You leave now, and you don’t get dessert . . . ever.”

  TWELVE

  MILTON LEFT AT eight o’clock so he could get home in time to take his meds. I helped my mom with the dishes, had an extra piece of chocolate cake, and said good night at nine, pulling away from my parents’ house reconsidering my feelings toward Morelli. After two hours of Milton, I was thinking Morelli might be worth a second look.

  I drove two blocks down, hooked a left, and turned into his neighborhood. This was blue-collar Trenton at its best. Houses were small, cars were large, green referred to dollars in the bank. At eight o’clock, kids were doing homework and parents were in front of the television. At ten o’clock, the houses were dark. This neighborhood got up early five mornings out of seven and went to work.

  Morelli lived in a row house he inherited from his Aunt Rose. He was gradually making it his own, but Rose’s curtains still hung in most of the windows. Hard to explain, but I liked the combination of Morelli and his aunt. There was something about the mix of generations and genders that felt right for the house. And I thought it said something good about Morelli that he didn’t have to entirely erase the house’s history.

  I cruised down Morelli’s street and had a moment of breathless panic at finding Barnhardt’s Mercedes parked in front of Morelli’s green SUV. The moment passed, and I continued on to the corner. I made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side three houses down, taking some time to collect myself. In the past, this sort of dilemma would have sent me straight to the nearest 7-Eleven, where I’d clean them out of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers bars. Since I’d just had three pieces of my mother’s cake, a bag of candy wasn’t where I wanted to go.

  I did some deep breathing and told myself slashing tires never really solved anything. And besides, here I was sitting in Ranger’s car, sleeping in his bed, wearing his stupid uniform, and I was all bent out of shape because Barnhardt was in Morelli’s house. I rolled my eyes and thunked my forehead against the steering wheel. Jeez Louise, I was a mess.

  Morelli’s front door opened, and Barnhardt made a theatrical exit, blowing kisses and smiling. She got into her Mercedes and drove off, rolling past me, never noticing that I was watching.<
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  There were two other vehicles parked by Morelli’s house. A red F150 truck and a clunker Subaru. Now that my breathing was returning to normal and my brain was more or less functioning, I realized I recognized the car and truck. The truck belonged to Morelli’s brother, Anthony. And the Subaru belonged to Morelli’s cousin Mooch.