“Exercise improves your sex life,” Ranger said.
I wasn’t going to share any embarrassing secrets with Ranger, but my sex life was at an all-time low. You can’t improve something that doesn’t exist.
“Is it snowing?” I asked.
“No.”
“Is it raining?”
“No.”
“You aren’t going to expect me to drink another one of those smoothies, are you?”
Ranger gave me the once-over. “Wouldn’t hurt. You look like Smokey the Bear in that nightgown.”
“I do not look like Smokey the Bear! All right, so I haven’t shaved my legs in a couple days…that does not make me look like Smokey the Bear. And I certainly am not as fat as Smokey the Bear.”
Ranger did more of the smile thing.
I stomped off into the bedroom and slammed the door. I stuffed myself into long johns and sweats, laced up my running shoes and marched back to the foyer where Ranger stood, arms crossed.
“Don’t expect me to do this every day,” I said to Ranger, teeth clenched. “I’m just doing this to humor you.”
An hour later I dragged myself into my apartment and collapsed onto the couch. I thought about the gun on my night table and wondered if it was loaded. And then I thought about using it on Ranger. And then I thought about using it on myself. One more early-morning run and I’d be dead anyway. May as well get it over with now.
“I’m ready for a job at the sanitary products factory,” I told Rex, who was hiding in his soup can. “You don’t have to be in shape to cram tampons into a box. I could probably blow up to three hundred pounds and still do a good job at the sanitary products plant.” I wrenched the shoes off my feet and peeled wet socks away. “Why am I knocking myself out over this? I’m teamed up with a madman, and we’re both fixated on finding an old guy who sells ice cream.”
Rex backed out of his can and looked at me, whiskers whirring.
“Exactly,” I said to Rex. “It’s dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
I gave a grunt and got to my feet. I padded into the kitchen and started coffee brewing. At least Ranger hadn’t come back with me to supervise breakfast.
“He had to go home on account of the accident,” I said to Rex. “Honest to God, I didn’t mean to trip him. And I certainly hadn’t wanted him to tear the knee out of his sweatsuit when he went down. And of course I’d felt very bad about the pulled groin.”
Rex gave me one of those looks that said, Yeah, right.
When I was a little girl I wanted to be a reindeer—the flying kind. I spent a couple years galloping around looking for lichen and fantasizing about boy reindeer. Then one day I saw Peter Pan and my reindeer phase was over. I didn’t understand the allure of not growing up, because every little girl in the burg couldn’t wait to grow up and get boobs and go steady. I did understand that a flying Peter Pan was better than a flying reindeer. Mary Lou had seen Peter Pan too, but Mary Lou’s ambition was to be Wendy, so Mary Lou and I made a good pair. On most any day we could be seen holding hands, running through the neighborhood singing, “I can fly! I can fly!” If we’d been older this probably would have started rumors.
The Peter Pan stage was actually pretty short-lived because a few months into Peter Pan I discovered Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman couldn’t fly, but she had big, fat bulging boobs crammed into a sexy Wondersuit. Barbie was firmly entrenched as role model in the burg, but Wonder Woman gave her a good run for her money. Not only did Wonder Woman spill over her Wondercups but she also kicked serious ass. If I had to name the single most influential person in my life it would have to be Wonder Woman.
All during my teens and early twenties I wanted to be a rock star. The fact that I can’t play a musical instrument or carry a tune did nothing to diminish the fantasy. During my more realistic moments I wanted to be a rock star’s girlfriend.
For a very short time, while I was working as a lingerie buyer for E. E. Martin, my aspirations ran toward corporate America. My fantasies were of an elegantly dressed woman, barking orders at toadying men while her limo waited at curbside. The reality of E. E. Martin was that I worked in Newark and considered it a good day if no one peed on my shoe in the train station.
I was currently having problems coming up with a good fantasy. I had reverted back to wanting to be Wonder Woman, but it was a cruel fact of life that I was going to have a hard time filling Wonder Woman’s Wonder-bra.
I popped a frozen waffle into the toaster and ate it cookie style when it was done. I drank two cups of coffee and walked my sore muscles into the bathroom to take a shower.
I stood under the steaming water for a long time, reviewing my mental list of things to do. I needed to call about my pickup. I needed to do laundry and pay some bills. I had to return Mary Lou’s sweatshirt. And last but not least, I had to find Uncle Mo.
First thing I called about the pickup.
“It’s your carburetor,” the service manager of the blue team told me. “We could put a new one in or we could try to rebuild the one you’ve got. It’d be a lot cheaper to rebuild. Of course there’s no guarantee with a rebuild.”
“What do you mean it’s my carburetor? I just got points and plugs.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It needed them too.”
“And now you’re sure it needs a carburetor.”
“Yeah. Ninety-five percent sure. Sometimes you get problems like this, and you’ve got faulty EGR valve operation. Sometimes you’ve got faulty PCV valve airflow or faulty choke vacuum diaphragm. Could be a defective fuel pump…but I don’t think that’s it. I think you need a new carburetor.”
“Fine. Good. Wonderful. Give me a carburetor. How long will it take?”
“Not long. We’ll call you.”
Next on my list was to stop off at the office and see if anything new had turned up. And while I was there, maybe just for the heck of it I’d run a credit history on Stanley Larkin, the Montgomery Street tenant Ranger and I had questioned.
I threw on a bunch of warm clothes, hustled downstairs, chipped the latest layer of ice off the Buick and rumbled on down to the office.
Lula and Connie were already busy at work. Vinnie’s door was closed.
“Is he in?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen him,” Connie said.
“Yeah,” Lula added. “Maybe somebody drove a stake in his heart last night, and he won’t be in at all.”
The phone rang, and Connie handed it over to Lula. “Someone named Shirlene,” Connie said.
I raised my eyebrows to Lula. Shirlene, who was Leroy Watkins’s woman?
“Yes!” Lula said when she got off the phone. “We’re on a roll! We got ourselves another live one. Shirlene says Leroy came home last night. And then they got into a big fight, and Leroy beat up some on Shirlene and kicked her out to the street. So Shirlene says we could have his ugly ass.”
I had my keys in my hand and my coat zipped. “Let’s go.”
“This is gonna be easy,” Lula said when we hit Stark Street. “We’re just gonna sneak up on ol’ Leroy. Probably he think it gonna be Shirlene at the door. I just hope he don’t come to the door too happy, you know what I mean?”
I knew exactly what she meant, and I didn’t want to think about it. I parked in front of Leroy’s building, and we both sat there in silence.
“Well,” Lula finally said. “He probably wouldn’t want to ruin his door a second time. Probably he caught it from the landlord. Doors don’t grow on trees, you know.”
I considered that. “Maybe he isn’t even in there,” I added. “When was the last Shirlene saw him?”
“Last night.”
We did some more sitting.
“We could wait out here for him,” Lula said. “Do a stakeout.”
“Or we could call.”
Lula looked up into the third-story windows. “Calling might be a good idea.”
A few more minutes passed.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do it.”
; “Damn skippy,” Lula said.
We paused in the foyer and took stock of the building. A television blaring somewhere. A baby crying. We walked the first flight of stairs slowly, listening as we crept step by step. We stopped on the second-floor landing and took a few deep breaths.
“You aren’t gonna hyperventilate, are you?” Lula asked. “I’d hate to have you keel over on me from hyperventilating.”
“I’m okay,” I told her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
When we got to the third-floor landing neither of us was breathing at all.
We stood there staring at the door that had been patched with cardboard and two slats of stained plywood. I motioned to Lula to stand aside of the door. She jumped to attention and plastered herself against the wall. I did the same on the opposite side.
I rapped on the door. “Pizza delivery,” I yelled.
There was no response.
I rapped harder and the door swung open. Lula and I still weren’t breathing, and I could feel my blood pounding behind my eyeballs. Neither Lula nor I made a move for a full minute. We just pressed into the wall, not making a sound.
I called out again. “Leroy? It’s Lula and Stephanie Plum. Are you there, Leroy?”
After a while Lula said, “I don’t think he’s here.”
“Don’t move,” I said. “I’m going in.”
“Help yourself,” Lula said. “I’d go in first, but I don’t want to be a hog about this searching shit.”
I inched my way into the apartment and looked around. Everything was as I’d remembered. There was no sign of occupancy. I peeked into the bedroom. No one there.
“Well?” Lula asked from the hall.
“Looks empty.”
Lula poked her head around the doorjamb. “Too bad. I was looking to do another takedown. I was ready to kick some butt.”
I approached the closed bathroom door with my pepper spray in hand. I flipped the door open and jumped back. The door crashed against the wall and Lula dove behind the couch.
I looked into the empty bathroom, and then I looked over at Lula.
Lula picked herself up. “Just testing my reflexes,” Lula said. “Trying out new techniques.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wasn’t that I was scared,” she said. “Hell, takes more than a man like Leroy to scare a woman like me.”
“You were scared,” I said.
“Was not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Unh-uh, was not. I’ll show you who’s scared. And it won’t be me. Guess I can open doors too.”
Lula stomped over to the closet door and wrenched it open. The door swung wide with Lula glaring straight into the jammed-together coats and other clothes.
The clothes parted and Leroy Watkins, buck naked, sporting a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, fell out onto Lula.
Lula lost her footing, and the two of them went down to the floor—Leroy, arms outstretched, stiff as a board, looking like Frankenstein from the ’hood, on top of Lula.
“Holy cow,” I yelled. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
“Eeeeeeeeee,” Lula screamed, flat on her back, arms and legs flailing, with Leroy deadweight on her chest.
I was jumping around, hollering, “Get up. Get up.”
And Lula was rolling around, hollering, “Get him off. Get him off.”
I grabbed an arm and yanked, and Lula sprang to her feet, shaking herself like a dog in a rainstorm. “Ugh. Gross. Yuk.”
We squinted down at Leroy.
“Dead,” I said. “Definitely dead.”
“You better believe it. Wasn’t shot with no BB gun, either. Got a hole in his head about the size of Rhode Island.”
“Smells bad.”
“Think he pooped in the closet,” Lula said.
We both gagged and ran to the window and stuck our heads out for air. When the ringing stopped in my ears I went to the phone and dialed Morelli. “Got a customer for you,” I told him.
“Another one?”
He sounded incredulous, and I couldn’t blame him. This was my third dead body in the space of a week.
“Leroy Watkins fell out of a closet on top of Lula,” I said. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men aren’t going to put Leroy Watkins together again.”
I gave him the address, hung up and went out to the hall to wait.
Two uniforms were the first to arrive. Morelli followed them by thirty seconds. I gave Morelli the details and fidgeted while he checked out the crime scene.
Leroy had been naked and not especially bloody. I thought one possibility was that someone had surprised him in the shower. The bathroom hadn’t been covered with gore, but then I hadn’t felt inclined to peek behind the drawn shower curtain.
Morelli returned after walking through the apartment and securing the scene. He ushered us down to the second-floor landing, away from the activity, and we went through our story one more time.
Two more uniforms trundled up the stairs. I didn’t know either of them. They looked to Joe, and he asked them to wait at the door. A television continued to drone on. The muffled sound of young children arguing carried into the hallway. None of the residents opened a door to snoop on the police activity. I suppose curiosity isn’t a healthy character trait in this neighborhood.
Morelli drew the zipper up on my jacket. “I don’t need anything else from you…for now.”
Lula was halfway down the stairs before I even turned around.
“I’m out of here,” Lula said. “I got filing to do.”
“Cops make her nervous,” I told Morelli.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know the feeling. They make me nervous too.”
“Who do you think did Leroy?” I asked Morelli.
“Anybody could have done Leroy. Leroy’s mother could have done Leroy.”
“Is it unusual for three dealers to get faded in the space of a week?”
“Not if there’s some kind of war going on.”
“Is there some kind of war going on?”
“Not that I know of.”
A couple suits stopped at the landing. Morelli jerked his thumb toward the next flight of stairs; the men grunted acknowledgment and continued on.
“I need to go,” Morelli said. “See you around.”
See you around? Just like that? All right, so there was a dead guy upstairs, and the building was crawling with cops. I should be happy Morelli was being so professional. I should be happy I didn’t have to fight him off, right? Still, “see you around” felt a little bit like “don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Not that I wanted Morelli to call me. It was more that I wondered why he didn’t want to. What was wrong with me, anyway? Why wasn’t he making serious passes?
“Is something bugging you?” I asked Morelli. But Morelli was already gone, disappeared in the knot of cops on the third-floor landing.
Maybe I should drop a few pounds, I thought, slumping down the stairs. Maybe I should have some red highlights put in my hair.
Lula was waiting for me in the car.
“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” Lula said. “We didn’t get shot at.”
“What do you think of my hair?” I asked. “You think I should add some red highlights?”
Lula hauled back and looked at me. “Red would be bitchin’.”
I dropped Lula at the office and went home to check my messages and my bank account. There were no messages, and I had a few dollars left in checking. I was almost current on my bills. My rent was paid for the month. If I continued to mooch meals from my mother I could afford highlights. I studied myself in the mirror, fluffing my hair, imagining a radiant new color. “Go for it,” I said to myself. Especially since the alternative was to dwell on Leroy Watkins.
I locked up and drove to the mall, where I persuaded Mr. Alexander to work me into his schedule. Forty-five minutes later I was under the dryer with my hair soaked in chemical foam, wrapped in fifty-two squares of aluminum foil. Stephanie Plum,
space creature. I was trying to read a magazine, but my eyes kept watering from the heat and fumes. I dabbed at my eyes and looked out through the wide-open arch door and plate-glass windows into the mall.
It was Saturday, and the mall was crowded. Passersby glanced my way. Their stares were emotionless. Empty curiosity. Mothers and children. Kids hanging out. Stuart Baggett. Holy cow! It was that little twerp Stuart Baggett at the mall!
Our eyes met and held for a moment. Recognition registered. Stuart mouthed my name and took off. I flipped the dryer hood back and came out of the seat like I was shot from a cannon.
We were on the lower level, sprinting toward Sears. Stuart had a good head start and hit the escalator running. He was pushing people out of his way, apologizing profusely, looking charmingly cute.
I jumped onto the escalator and elbowed my way forward, closing ground. A woman with shopping bags belligerently stood in front of me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I need to get through.”
“I got a right to be on this escalator,” she said. “You think you own this place?”
“I’m after that kid!”
“You’re a kook, that’s what you are. Help!” she yelled. “This woman is crazy! This is a crazy woman.”
Stuart was off the escalator, moving back down the mall. I held my breath and danced in place, keeping him in view. Twenty seconds later I was off the stairs, running full tilt with the foil flapping against my head, the brown beauty parlor smock still tied at the waist.
Suddenly Stuart was gone, lost in the crowd. I slowed to a walk, scanning ahead, checking side stores. I jogged through Macy’s. Scarves, sportswear, cosmetics, shoes. I reached the exit and peered out into the parking lot. No sign of Stuart.
I caught myself in a mirror and stopped dead. I looked like Flypaper Woman meets Alcoa Aluminum. Foilhead does Quaker Bridge Mall. If I saw anyone I knew while I looked like this I’d drop dead on the spot.
I had to pass back through Macy’s to get to the mall, including a foray through cosmetics where I might encounter Joyce Barnhardt, queen of the makeover. And after Macy’s I still had to negotiate the escalator and main corridor of the mall. This was not something I wanted to do in my present condition.
I’d left my shoulder bag at the beauty parlor, so purchasing a scarf was out of the question. I could rip out the little foil squares wrapped around my hair, but I’d paid sixty dollars to have the squares put on.
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