One for the Money (6 page)

We turned at the corner, cut through an alley on the next block, and ran down a narrow one-lane road carved out between backyards. The road was lined with broken-down single-car wooden garages and overflowing bashed-in garbage cans.

Sirens sounded two blocks away. No doubt a couple of cruisers and an ambulance responding to the shooting. Hindsight told me I should have stayed close to the gym and conned the cops into helping me track down Morelli. Something to remember next time I'm almost raped and brutalized.

Morelli stopped abruptly and jerked me into an empty garage. The double doors were cocked open enough to slide through, not enough for a passerby to see inside. The floor was packed dirt, and the air was close, smelling metallic. I was struck by the irony of it. Here I was, after all these years, once again in a garage with Morelli. I could see the anger in his face, hardening his eyes, pinching at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed me by the front of my suit jacket and pinned me against the crude wooden wall. The impact knocked dust from the rafters and made my teeth clack together.

His voice was tight with barely controlled fury. “What the hell did you think you were doing walking into the gym like that?”

He punctuated the end of the question with another body slam, rattling more filth onto the two of us.

“Answer me!” he ordered.

The pain was all mental. I'd been stupid. And now, to add insult to injury, I was getting bullied by Morelli. It was almost as humiliating as getting rescued by him. “I was looking for you.”

“Well congratulations, you found me. You also blew my cover, and I'm not happy about it.”

“You were the shadow in the third-floor window, watching the gym from across the street.”

Morelli didn't say anything. In the dark garage his eyes were dilated solid black.

I mentally cracked my knuckles. “And, now I guess there's only one thing left to do.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this.”

I shoved my hand into my shoulder bag, pulled out my revolver, and jabbed Morelli in the chest with it. “You're under arrest.”

His eyes opened wide in astonishment. “You have a gun! Why didn't you use it on Ramirez? Jesus, you hit him with your pocketbook like some sissy girl. Why the hell didn't you use your damn gun?”

I felt color flooding into my cheeks. What could I say? The truth was worse than embarrassing. It was counter-productive. Admitting to Morelli that I'd been more afraid of my gun than I'd been of Ramirez wasn't going to do much to further my credibility as an apprehension agent.

It didn't take Morelli long to put it together. He made a disgusted sound, pushed the barrel aside and took the gun from me. “If you aren't willing to use it, you shouldn't be carrying it. You have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

“Yes.” And I was at least ten percent convinced it was legal.

“Where'd you get your permit?”

“Ranger got it for me.”

“Ranger Mañoso? Christ, he probably made it in his cellar.” He shook out the bullets and gave the gun back to me. “Find a new job. And stay away from Ramirez. He's nuts. He's been charged with rape on three separate occasions and been acquitted each time because the victim always disappears.”

“I didn't know . . .”

“There's a lot you don't know.”

His attitude was beginning to piss me off. I was only too well aware that I had a lot to learn about apprehension. I didn't need Morelli's sarcastic superiority. “So what's your point.”

“Get off my case. You want a career in law enforcement? Fine. Go for it. Just don't learn on me. I have enough problems without worrying about saving your ass.”

“No one asked you to save my ass. I would have saved my own ass if you hadn't interfered.”

“Honey, you couldn't find your ass with both hands.”

My palms were skinned and burned like the devil. My scalp was sore. My knees throbbed. I wanted to go back to my apartment and stand in a hot shower for five or six hours until I felt clean and strong. I wanted to get away from Morelli and regroup. “I'm going home.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Where's your car?”

“Stark Street and Tyler.”

He flattened himself at the side of the door and took a quick look out. “It's okay.”

My knees had stiffened up, and the blood had dried and caked on what was left of my pantyhose. Limping seemed like an indulgent weakness not to be witnessed by the likes of Morelli, so I forged ahead, thinking ouch, ouch, ouch but not saying a word. When we got to the corner I realized he was walking me all the way to Stark. “I don't need an escort,” I said. “I'll be fine.”

He had his hand at my elbow, steering me forward. “Don't flatter yourself. I'm not nearly so concerned about your welfare as I am about getting you the hell out of my life. I want to make sure you leave. I want to see your tailpipe fading off into the sunset.”

Good luck, I thought. My tailpipe was somewhere on Route 1, along with my muffler.

We reached Stark, and I faltered at the sight of my car. It had been parked on the street for less than an hour, and in that time it had been spray-painted from one end to the other. Mostly Day-Glo pink and green, and the predominant word on both sides was “pussy.” I checked the plate and looked in the back seat for the box of Fig Newtons. Yep, this was my car.

One more indignity in a day filled with indignities. Did I care. Not a whole lot. I was numb. I was becoming immune to indignity. I searched through my bag for my keys, found them, and plugged them into the door.

Morelli rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, a grin beginning to creep to his lips. “Most people are content with pinstriping and a vanity plate.”

“Eat dirt and die.”

Morelli tipped his head back and laughed out loud. His laughter was deep and rich and infectious, and if I hadn't been so distraught, I'd have laughed along with him. As it was, I jerked the car door open and rammed myself behind the wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, gave the dash a good hard smack, and left him choking in a cloud of exhaust and a blast of noise that had the potential to liquefy his insides.

*    *    *    *    *

 OFFICIALLY, I LIVED AT THE EASTERN BOUNDARY of the city of Trenton, but in actuality my neighborhood felt more like Hamilton Township than Trenton proper. My apartment building was an ugly dark red brick cube built before central air and thermal pane windows. Eighteen apartments in all, evenly distributed over three floors. By modern-day standards it wasn't a terrific apartment. It didn't come with a pool membership or have tennis courts attached. The elevator was unreliable. The bathroom was vintage Partridge family with mustard yellow amenities and French Provincial trim on the vanity. The kitchen appliances were a notch below generic.

The good part about the apartment was that it had been built with sturdy stuff. Sound didn't carry from apartment to apartment. The rooms were large and sunny. Ceilings were high. I lived on the second floor, and my windows overlooked the small private parking lot. The building predated the balcony boom, but I was lucky enough to have an old-fashioned black metal fire escape skirt my bedroom window. Perfect for drying pantyhose, quarantining houseplants with aphids, and just big enough for sitting out on sultry summer nights.

Most important of all, the ugly brick building wasn't part of a sprawling complex of other ugly brick buildings. It sat all by itself on a busy street of small businesses, and it bordered a neighborhood of modest frame houses. Very much like living in the burg . . . but better. My mother had a hard time stretching the umbilical this far, and the bakery was only one block away.

I parked in the lot and slunk into the back entrance. Since Morelli wasn't around, I didn't have to be brave, so I bitched and complained and limped all the way to my apartment. I showered, did the first-aid thing, and dressed in T-shirt and shorts. My knees were missing the top layer of skin and were bruised, already turning shades of magenta and midnight blue. My elbows were in pretty much the same condition. I felt like a kid who'd fallen off her bike. I could hear myself singing out “I can do it; I can do it,” and then next thing I know, I'm lying on the ground, looking the fool, with two scraped knees.

I flopped onto my bed, spread-eagle on my back. This was my thinking position when things appeared to be futile. It had obvious advantages: I could nap while I waited for something brilliant to pop into my mind. I lay there for what seemed like a long time. Nothing brilliant had popped into my mind, and I was too agitated to sleep.

I couldn't stop reliving my experience with Ramirez. I'd never before been attacked by a man. Never even come close. The afternoon's assault had been a degrading, frightening experience, and now that the dust had settled, and calmer emotions prevailed, I felt violated and vulnerable.

I considered filing a report with the police, but immediately shelved it. Whining to Big Brother wasn't going to win any points for me as a rough, tough bounty hunter. I couldn't see Ranger instituting an assault charge.

I'd been lucky, I told myself. I'd gotten away with superficial injuries. Thanks to Morelli.

The latter admission dragged a groan from me. Being rescued by Morelli had been damned embarrassing. And grossly unjust. All things considered, I didn't think I was doing all that badly. I'd been on the case for less than forty-eight hours, and I'd found my man twice. True, I hadn't been able to bring him in, but I was in a learning process. No one expected a first-year engineering student to build the perfect bridge. I figured I deserved to be cut the same kind of slack.

I doubted the gun would ever be of any use to me. I couldn't imagine myself shooting Morelli. Possibly in the foot. But what were my chances of hitting a small moving target? Not good at all. Clearly I needed a less lethal way of subduing my quarry. Maybe a defense spray would be more my style. Tomorrow morning I'd go back to Sunny's Gun Shop and add to my bag of dirty tricks.

My clock radio blinked 5:50 P.M. I looked at it dully, not immediately responding to the significance of the time, then horror ripped through me. My mother was expecting me for dinner again!

I sprang out of bed and raced to the phone. The phone was dead. I hadn't paid my bill. I grabbed the car keys from the kitchen counter and hurtled out the door.

Stephanie Plum 1 - One for the Money

4

MY MOTHER WAS STANDING on the porch steps when I parked at the curb. She was waving her arms and shouting. I couldn't hear her over the roar of the engine, but I could read her lips. “SHUT IT OFF!” she was yelling. “SHUT IT OFF!”

“Sorry,” I yelled back. “Broken muffler.”

“You've got to do something. I could hear you coming four blocks away. You'll give old Mrs. Ciak heart palpitations.” She squinted at the car. “Did you have it decorated?”

“It happened on Stark Street. Vandals.” I pushed her into the hallway before she could read the words.

“Wow, nice knees,” Grandma Mazur said, bending down to take a closer look at my ooze. “I was watching some TV show last week, think it was Oprah, and they had a bunch of women on with knees like that. Said it was rug burn. Never figured out what that meant.”

“Christ,” my father said from behind his paper. He didn't need to say more. We all understood his plight.

“It's not rug burn,” I told Grandma Mazur. “I fell on my roller blades.” I wasn't worried about the lie. I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.

I glanced at the dining room table. It was set with the good lace tablecloth. Company. I counted the plates. Five. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Ma, you didn't.”

“I didn't what?”

The doorbell rang, and my worst fears were confirmed.

“It's company. It's no big deal,” my mother said, going to the door. “I guess I can invite company into my own house if I want to.”

“It's Bernie Kuntz,” I said. “I can see him through the hall window.”

My mother stopped, hands on hips. “So, what's wrong with Bernie Kuntz?”

“To begin with . . . he's a man.”

“Okay, you had a bad experience. That don't mean you should give up. Look at your sister Valerie. She's happily married for twelve years. She has two beautiful girls.”

“That's it. I'm leaving. I'm going out the back door.”

“Pineapple upside-down cake,” my mother said. “You'll miss dessert if you leave now. And don't think I'll save some for you.”

My mother didn't mind playing dirty if she thought the cause was worthy. She knew she had me locked in with the pineapple cake. A Plum would suffer a lot of abuse for a good dessert.

Grandma Mazur glared out at Bernie. “Who are you?”

“I'm Bernie Kuntz.”

“What do you want?”

I looked the length of the hall, and I could see Bernie shift uncomfortably on his feet.

“I've been invited for dinner,” Bernie said.

Grandma Mazur still had the screen door shut. “Helen,” she yelled over her shoulder, “there's a young man at the door. He says he's invited to dinner. Why didn't someone tell me about this? Look at this old dress I'm wearing. I can't entertain a man in this dress.”

I'd known Bernie since he was five. I'd gone to grade school with Bernie. We ate lunch together in grades one through three, and I would forever associate him with peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread. I'd lost touch with him in high school. I knew he'd gone to college, and that after college he'd gone to work selling appliances in his father's store.

He was medium height, with a medium build that had never lost its baby fat. He was all dressed up in shiny tassel loafers, dress slacks, and sports coat. So far as I could see, he hadn't changed much since sixth grade. He looked like he still couldn't add fractions, and the little metal pull on his zipper was sticking out, creating a tiny tent with his fly.

We took our seats at the table and concentrated on the business of eating.

“Bernie sells appliances,” my mother said, passing the red cabbage. “He makes good money at it, too. He drives a Bonneville.”

“A Bonneville. Imagine that,” Grandma Mazur said.

My father kept his head bent over his chicken. He rooted for the Mets, he wore Fruit of the Loom underwear, and he drove a Buick. His loyalties were carved in stone, and he wasn't about to be impressed by some upstart of a toaster salesman who drove a Bonneville.

Bernie turned to me. “So what are you doing now?”

I fiddled with my fork. My day hadn't exactly been a success, and announcing to the world that I was a fugitive apprehension agent seemed presumptuous. “I sort of work for an insurance company,” I told him.

“You mean like a claims adjuster?”

“More like collections.”

“She's a bounty hunter!” Grandma Mazur announced. “She tracks down dirty rotten fugitives just like on television. She's got a gun and everything.” She reached behind her to the sideboard, where I'd left my shoulder bag. “She's got a whole pocketbook full of paraphernalia,” Grandma Mazur said, setting my bag on her lap. She pulled out the cuffs, the beeper, and a travel pack of tampons and set them on the table. “And here's her gun,” she said proudly. “Isn't it a beauty?”

I have to admit it was a pretty cool gun. It had a stainless steel frame and carved wood grips. It was a Smith and Wesson 5-shot revolver, model 60. A .38 Special. Easy to use, easy to carry, Ranger had said. And it had been much more reasonable than a semiautomatic, if you can call $400 reasonable.

“My God,” my mother shouted, “put it away! Someone take the gun from her before she kills herself!”

The cylinder was open and clearly empty of rounds. I didn't know much about guns, but I knew this one couldn't go bang without bullets. “It's empty,” I said. “There are no bullets in it.”

Grandma Mazur had both hands wrapped around the gun with her finger on the trigger. She scrinched an eye closed and sighted on the china closet. “Ka-pow,” she said. “Ka-pow, kapow, ka-pow.”

My father was busy with the sausage dressing, studiously ignoring all of us.

“I don't like guns at the table,” my mother said. “And the dinner's getting cold. I'll have to reheat the gravy.”

“This gun won't do you no good if you don't have bullets in it,” Grandma Mazur said to me. “How're you gonna catch those killers without bullets in your gun?”

Bernie had been sitting open-mouthed through all of this. “Killers?”

“She's after Joe Morelli,” Grandma Mazur told him. “He's a bona fide killer and a bail dodger. He plugged Ziggy Kulesza right in the head.”

“I knew Ziggy Kulesza,” Bernie said. “I sold him a bigscreen TV about a year ago. We don't sell many big screens. Too expensive.”

“He buy anything else from you?” I asked. “Anything recent?”

“Nope. But I'd see him sometimes across the street at Sal's Butcher Shop. Ziggy seemed okay. Just a regular sort of person, you know?”

No one had been paying attention to Grandma Mazur. She was still playing with the gun, aiming and sighting, getting used to the heft of it. I realized there was a box of ammo beside the tampons. A scary thought skittered into my mind. “Grandma, you didn't load the gun, did you?”

“Well of course I loaded the gun,” she said. “And I left the one hole empty like I saw on television. That way you can't shoot nothing by mistake.” She cocked the gun to demonstrate the safety of her action. There was a loud bang, a flash erupted from the gun barrel, and the chicken carcass jumped on its plate.

“Holy mother of God!” my mother shrieked, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair over.

“Dang,” Grandma said, “guess I left the wrong hole empty.” She leaned forward to examine her handiwork. “Not bad for my first time with a gun. I shot that sucker right in the gumpy”

My father had a white-knuckle grip on his fork, and his face was cranberry red.

I scurried around the table and carefully took the gun from Grandma Mazur. I shook out the bullets and shoveled all my stuff back into my shoulder bag.

“Look at that broken plate,” my mother said. “It was part of the set. How will I ever replace it?” She moved the plate, and we all stared in silence at the neat round hole in the tablecloth and the bullet embedded in the mahogany table.

Grandma Mazur was the first to speak. “That shooting gave me an appetite,” she said. “Somebody pass me the potatoes.”

*    *    *    *    *

 ALL IN ALL, Bernie Kuntz had handled the evening pretty well. He hadn't wet his pants when Grandma Mazur shot off the chicken privates. He'd suffered through two helpings of my mother's dreaded brussels sprouts casserole. And he'd been tolerably nice to me, even though it was obvious we weren't destined to hit the sheets together and my family was nuts. His motives for geniality were clear. I was a woman lacking appliances. Romance is good for frittering away a few evening hours, but commissions will get you a vacation in Hawaii. Ours was a match made in heaven. He wanted to sell, and I wanted to buy, and I wasn't unhappy to accept his offer of a 10 percent discount. And, as a bonus for sitting through the evening, I'd learned something about Ziggy Kulesza. He bought his meat from Sal Bocha, a man better known for making book than slicing fillet.

I tucked this information away for future reference. It didn't seem significant now, but who knows what would turn out to be helpful.

I was at my table with a glass of iced tea and Morelli's file, and I was trying to put together a plan of action. I'd made a bowl of popcorn for Rex. The bowl was on the table by me, and Rex was in the bowl, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn, his eyes bright, his whiskers a blur of motion.

“Well Rex,” I said, “what do you think? Do you think we'll be able to catch Morelli?”

Someone tapped on my front door, and both Rex and I sat perfectly still with our radar humming. I wasn't expecting anyone. Most of my neighbors were seniors. No one I was especially chummy with. No one I could imagine knocking on my door at nine-thirty at night. Mrs. Becker, maybe, on the third floor. Sometimes she forgot where she lived.

The tapping continued, and Rex and I swiveled our heads toward the door. It was a heavy metal fire door with a security peephole, a dead bolt, and a double-thick chain. When the weather was nice, I left my windows wide open all day and night, but I always kept my door locked. Hannibal and his elephants couldn't have gotten through my front door, but my windows were welcome to any idiot who could climb a fire escape.

I put the splatter screen to my fry pan over the popcorn bowl so Rex couldn't climb out and went to investigate. I had my hand on the doorknob when the tapping stopped. I looked through the peephole and saw nothing but blackness. Someone had a finger on my peephole. Not a good sign. “Who's there?” I called.

A whisper of laughter filtered through the door frame, and I jumped back. The laughter was followed by a single word. “Stephanie.”

The voice was unmistakable. It was melodic and taunting. It was Ramirez.

“I've come to play with you, Stephanie,” he sang. “You ready to play?”

I felt my knees go slack, felt irrational fear swell in my chest. “Go away or I'll call the police.”

“You can't call anyone, bitch. You haven't got a phone. I know because I tried your number.”

My parents have never been able to understand my need to be independent. They're convinced I live a frightened, lonely life, and no amount of talking can persuade them otherwise. In truth, I'm almost never frightened. Maybe sometimes by gross multifooted insects. In my opinion, the only good spider is a dead spider, and woman's rights aren't worth dick if they mean I can't ask a man to do my bug squashing. I don't worry about serial skinheads bashing down my door or crawling through my open window. For the most part, they prefer to work the neighborhoods closer to the train station. Muggings and carjackings are also at a minimum in my neighborhood and almost never result in death.