I took another look in the mirror. Okay, so I was getting my hair done. What’s the big deal? I raised my chin a fraction of an inch. Belligerent. I’d seen my mother and grandmother take this stance a million times. There’s no better defense than a steely-eyed offense.
I briskly walked the length of the store and turned to the escalator. A few people stared, but most kept their eyes firmly averted.
Mr. Alexander was pacing at the entrance to the salon. He was looking up and down the mall, and he was muttering. He saw me, and he rolled his eyes.
Mr. Alexander always wore black. His long hair was slicked back in a ducktail. His feet were clad in black patent leather loafers. Gold cross earrings dangled from his ear-lobes. When he rolled his eyes he pinched his lips together.
“Where did you go?” he demanded.
“After a bail jumper,” I said. “Unfortunately, I lost him.”
Mr. Alexander tugged a foil packet off my head. “Unfortunately, you should have had your head in the rinse bowl ten minutes ago! That’s unfortunate.” He waved his hand at one of his underlings. “Miss Plum is done,” he said. “We need to rinse her immediately.” He removed another foil and rolled his eyes. “Unh,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not responsible for this,” Mr. Alexander said.
“What? What?”
Mr. Alexander waved his hand again. “It will be fine,” he said. “A little more spectacular than we’d originally imagined.”
Spectacular was good, right? I held that thought through the rinse and the comb-out.
“This will be wonderful once you get used to it,” Mr. Alexander said from behind a cloud of hair spray.
I squinted into the mirror. My hair was orange. Okay, don’t panic. It was probably the lights. “It looks orange,” I told Mr. Alexander.
“California sun–kissed,” Mr. Alexander said.
I got out of the chair and took a closer look. “My hair is orange!” I shouted. “It’s freaking ORANGE!”
It was five when I left the mall. Today was Saturday, and my mother expected me for pot roast at six. “Pity roast” was a more accurate term. Unwed daughter, too pathetic to have a date on a Saturday night, is sucked in by four pounds of rolled rump.
I parked the Buick in front of the house and took a quick look at my hair in the rearview mirror. Not much showed in the dark. Mr. Alexander had assured me I looked fine. Everyone in the salon agreed. I looked fine, they all said. Someone suggested I might want to boost my makeup now that my hair had been “lifted.” I took that to mean I was pale in comparison to my neon hair.
My mother opened the door with a look of silent resignation.
My grandmother stood on tippytoes behind my mother, trying to get a better look. “Dang!” Grandma said. “You’ve got orange hair! And it looks like there’s more of it. Looks like one of them clown wigs. How’d you grow all that hair?”
I patted my head. “I meant to have some highlights put in, but the solution got left on too long, so my hair got a little frizzy.” And orange.
“I’ve got to try that,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind having a big bush of orange hair. Brighten things up around here.” Grandma stuck her head out the front door and scanned the neighborhood. “Anybody with you? Any new boyfriends? I liked that last one. He was a real looker.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m alone today.”
“We could call him,” Grandma said. “We got an extra potato in the pot. It’s always nice to have a stud-muffin at the table.”
My father hunched in the hall, TV Guide dangling from his hand. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “Bad enough I have to hear crap like this on television, now I have to listen to some old bag talking about stud-muffins in my own home.”
Grandma narrowed her eyes and glared at my father. “Who you calling an old bag?”
“You!” my father said. “I’m calling you an old bag. You wouldn’t know what to do with a stud-muffin if you tripped over one.”
“I’m old, but I’m not dead,” Grandma said. “And I guess I’d know what to do with a stud-muffin. Maybe I need to go out and get one of my own.”
My father’s upper lip curled back. “Jesus,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll join one of those dating services,” Grandma said. “I might even get married again.”
My father perked up at this. He didn’t say anything, but his thoughts were transparent. Grandma Mazur remarried and out of his house. Was it possible? Was it too much to hope for?
I hung my coat in the hall closet and followed my mother into the kitchen. A bowl of rice pudding sat cooling on the kitchen table. The potatoes had already been mashed and were warming in a covered pot on the stove.
“I got a tip that Uncle Mo was seen coming out of the apartment building on Montgomery.”
My mother wiped her hands on her apron. “The one next to that Freedom Church?”
“Yeah. You know anyone who lives there?”
“No. Margaret Laskey looked at an apartment there once. She said it had no water pressure.”
“How about the church? You know anything about the church?”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
“I hear that Reverend Bill is a pip,” Grandma said. “They were talking about him in the beauty parlor the other day, and they said he made his church up. And then Louise Buzick said her son, Mickey, knew someone who went to that church once and said Reverend Bill was a real snake charmer.”
I thought “snake charmer” was a good description for Reverend Bill.
I felt antsy through dinner, not able to get Mo off my mind. I didn’t honestly think Stanley Larkin was the contact, but I did think Mo had been on Montgomery. I’d watched men his age go in and out of the mission and thought Mo would fit right in. Maybe Jackie didn’t see Mo coming out of the apartment building. Maybe Jackie saw Mo coming out of the mission. Maybe Mo was grabbing a free meal there once in a while.
Halfway through the rice pudding my impatience got the better of me, and I excused myself to check my answering machine.
The first message was from Morelli. He had something interesting to tell me and would stop by to see me later tonight. That was encouraging.
The second message was more mysterious. “Mo’s gonna be at the store tonight,” the message said. A girl’s voice. No name given. Didn’t sound like Gillian, but it could have been one of her friends. Or it could have been a snitch. I’d put out a lot of cards.
I called Ranger and left a message for an immediate callback.
“I have to go,” I told my mother.
“So soon? You just got here.”
“I have work to do.”
“What kind of work? You aren’t going out looking for criminals, are you?”
“I got a tip I need to follow up.”
“It’s nighttime. I don’t like you in those bad neighborhoods at night.”
“I’m not going to a bad neighborhood.”
My mother turned to my father. “You should go with her.”
“It’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine,” my mother said. “You get knocked out, and people shoot at you. Look at you! You have orange hair!” She put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.” She opened her eyes. “Wait while I fix some leftovers to take home.”
“Not too much,” I said. “I’m going on a diet.”
My mother slapped her forehead. “A diet. Unh. You’re a rail. You don’t need to diet. How will you stay healthy if you diet?”
I paced behind her in the kitchen, watching the leftovers bag fill with packets of meat and potatoes, a jar of gravy, half a green-bean casserole, a jar of red cabbage, a pound cake. Okay, so I’d start my diet on Monday.
“There,” my mother said, handing me the bag. “Frank, are you ready? Stephanie is going now.”
My father appeared in the kitchen door. “What?”
My mother gave him the long-suffering face. “You never listen to me.”
“I always listen. What are you talking about?”
“Stephanie is going out looking for criminals. You should go with her.”
I grabbed the leftovers bag and ran for the door, snagging my coat from the hall closet. “I swear I’m not doing anything dangerous,” I said. “I’ll be perfectly safe.”
I let myself out and quickly walked to the Buick. I looked back just before sliding behind the wheel. My mother and grandmother were standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front, faces stern. Not convinced of my safety. My father stood behind them, peering over my grandmother’s head.
“The car looks pretty good,” he said. “How’s it running? You giving it high-test? You got any pings?”
“No pings,” I called back.
And then I was gone. On my way to Mo’s store. Telling myself I was going to be smarter this time. I wasn’t going to get knocked out, and I wasn’t going to get faked out. I wasn’t going to let Mo get the best of me with pepper spray. As soon as I saw him I was going to give him a snootful of the stuff. No questions asked.
I parked across the street from the store and stared into the black plate-glass window. No light. No activity. No light on in the second-floor apartment. I pulled out and circled surrounding blocks, looking for Ranger’s BMW. I tried the alley behind the store and checked the garage. No car. I returned to Ferris. Still no sign of life in the store. I parked a block away on King. Maybe I should try Ranger again. I reached over for my pocketbook. No pocketbook. I closed my eyes in disbelief. In my haste to get away without my father, I’d left my pocketbook behind. No big deal. I’d go back and get it.
I put the car into gear and pulled onto Ferris. I glanced into the store windows one last time as I did a slow drive-by. I saw a shadow move to the rear of the store.
Damn!
I angled the Buick into the curb two houses down and jumped out. I’d like the luxury of having a bag full of bounty hunter loot, like pepper spray and handcuffs, but I wasn’t willing to risk losing the opportunity for it. I didn’t really want to spray Mo anyway. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to reason with him. Get some answers. Get him to come back into the system without hurting him.
Stephanie Plum, master of rationalization. Believe whatever the moment calls for.
I jogged to a dark spot across from the store and watched for more movement. My heart gave a lurch when a light flickered briefly. Someone had used a penlight and immediately extinguished it. The information on my answering machine had been right. Mo was in the store.
CHAPTER 10
I sprinted across the street and sought cover in the shadows to the side of the store. I hugged the brick wall, creeping back toward the rear exit, thinking I might barricade the door. I’d stand a better chance of capturing Mo if he had just one avenue of escape.
I took a deep breath and peeked around the building corner. The back door to the store was wide open. I didn’t think this was a good sign. Mo wouldn’t have left the door open if he was in the store. I feared history had repeated itself, and Mo had flown the coop.
I inched my way to the door and stood there listening. Hard to hear over the pounding of my heart but no footfalls carried to me from the neighborhood. No car engines being started. No doors slamming shut.
I did another deep breath and poked my head into the gaping doorway, squinting into the dark hall that led to the counter area.
I heard the scrape of a shoe from deep inside the store and almost passed out from adrenaline rush. My first instinct was to run away. My second instinct was to shout for help. I didn’t follow either of these instincts because the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to my ear.
“Be nice and quiet and walk into the store.”
It was the wiry little guy who’d tried to give me money. I couldn’t see him, but I recognized the voice. Low and raspy. A smoker’s voice. North Jersey accent. Newark, Jersey City, Elizabeth.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going into the store.”
“I need some help here,” the guy with the gun said. “We need to persuade Miss Plum to cooperate.”
A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing the requisite ski mask and coveralls. He was taller and heavier. He was shaking a canister of pepper spray. Showing me he knew to make sure the gas is live.
I opened my mouth to scream and was hit with the spray. I felt it suck back to my throat and burn, felt my throat close over. I went down hard to my knees and choked, unable to see, closing my eyes tight to the searing pain, blinded by the spray.
Hands grabbed at me, digging into my jacket, dragging me forward over the doorstep, down the hall. I was thrown to the linoleum at the back of the store, knocking into a teary blur of wall and booth, still unable to catch my breath.
The hands were at me again, wrenching my jacket over my shoulders to form a makeshift straitjacket, binding my arms behind my back and tearing my shirt in the process. I gasped for air and tried to control the fear, tried to ignore the manhandling while I fought the pepper spray. It’ll pass, I told myself. You’ve seen people sprayed before. It passes. Don’t panic.
They moved off. Waiting for me to come around. I blinked to see. Three large shapes in the dark. I assumed they were men in ski masks and coveralls.
One of them flashed a penlight in my eyes. “Bet you’re not feeling so brave anymore,” he said.
I adjusted my jacket and tried to stand but wasn’t able to get farther than hands and knees. My nose was running, dripping onto the floor, mixing with drool and tears. My breathing was still shallow, but the earlier panic had passed.
“What’s it take?” Jersey City asked me. “We tried to warn you away. We tried to compensate you. Nothing works with you. We’re out here trying to do a good deed, and you’re being a real pain in the behind.”
“Just doing my job,” I managed.
“Yeah, well, do your job someplace else.”
A match flared in the dark store. It was Jersey City lighting up. He sucked smoke deep into his lungs, let it curl out from his nose. I was still on hands and knees, and the man swooped down and held the glowing tip of the cigarette to the back of my hand. I yelped and jerked my hand away.
“This is just the start,” Jersey City said. “We’re going to burn you in places that are a lot more painful than the back of your hand. And when we’re done you’re not going to want to tell anyone about it. And you’re not going to want to go chasing after Mo anymore. And if you do…we’re going to come get you and burn you again. And then maybe we’ll kill you.”
A door slammed somewhere far off and footsteps sounded on the pavement behind the store. There was an instant of silence while we all listened. And then the back door was opened wide and a shrill voice called into the darkness. “What’s going on here?”
It was Mrs. Steeger. Any other time Mrs. Steeger would call the police. Tonight she decided to investigate on her own. Go figure.
“Run!” I yelled to Mrs. Steeger. “Call the police!”
“Stephanie Plum!” Mrs. Steeger said. “I might have known. You come out this instant.”
A beam of light played across Mo’s backyard. “Who’s there?” another voice called. “Mrs. Steeger? Is that you in Mo’s backyard?”
Dorothy Rostowski.
A car parked at the curb. Headlights blinked off. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Shit,” Jersey City said. “Let’s get out of here.” He got down on one knee and put his face close to mine. “Get smart,” he said. “Because next time we’ll make sure nobody saves you.”
James Bond would have shown disdain with a clever remark. Indiana Jones would have sneered and said something snotty. The best I could come up with was, “Oh yeah?”
There was scuffling at the back door and some frightened exclamations from Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.
I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against a booth for support.
I was sweating and shivering, and my nose was still running. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and realized my shirt was open and my Levi’s were unzipped. I sucked in some air and clenched my teeth. “Damn.”
Another deep breath. Come on, Stephanie, get it together. Get yourself dressed and get out there to check on Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.
I tugged at my jeans, putting a shaking hand to the zipper. My eyes were still watering, and saliva was still pooling in my mouth and I couldn’t get the zipper to slide easily. I burst into tears and gave my nose another vicious swipe with my sleeve.
I gathered my shirt together with one hand and lurched toward the back door. Dorothy was standing, arms crossed over her chest. Self-protective. Mrs. Steeger was sitting on the ground. A man squatted in front of her, talking to her. He helped her to her feet and turned to look when I appeared in the doorway. Morelli. Wouldn’t you know it.
Morelli raised questioning eyebrows.
“Not now,” I said.
I backed up a few paces and sidestepped into the bathroom. I flicked the light on and locked the door. I looked at myself in the rust-rimmed mirror over the sink. Not a pretty sight. I used half a roll of toilet paper to blow my nose. I splashed water on my face and hand and buttoned my shirt. Two of the buttons were missing, but they weren’t crucial to modesty.
I did deep breathing, trying to compose myself. I blew my nose some more. I looked at myself again. Not bad except my eyes looked like tomatoes and the cigarette burn was turning into a beauty of a blister.
Morelli had knocked on the door three times, asking if I was okay. My reply each time had been a cranky “Yes! Go away!”
When I finally opened the door, the lights were on in the candy store, and Morelli was behind the counter. I slid onto a stool in front of him, leaned my elbows on the counter and folded my hands.
Morelli set a hot fudge sundae in front of me and gave it a good dose of whipped cream. He handed me a spoon. “Thought this might help.”
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