Hardcore Twenty-Four

by Janet Evanovich

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  “You aren’t in. There’s no in for you. He’s bringing dinner, and he’s spending the night.”

  “You need to change that plan. I’m not crazy about sharing a bed with Morelli.”

  I’d been down this road before with Diesel. He was an immovable object. Too big and strong to push around. Too intelligent to out-psych. He was inexplicably likable, and he smelled like fresh-out-of-the-oven gingerbread. He also left as abruptly and as easily as he appeared. He was an okay guy to know, but a romantic attachment would be a disaster.

  “Okay. Great. You can have my apartment, and I’ll temporarily move in with Morelli,” I said.

  “Not gonna happen,” Diesel said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Spidey sense.”

  I put my groceries away, gave Rex a small piece of Pop-Tart, and went into my bedroom, where I found Diesel sprawled across my bed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Thinking. Want to join me?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid you might like it?”

  “Yes.”

  That got another grin out of him. He reached for me and I ran away, back to the kitchen. I ate what was left of the Pop-Tart, and I called Morelli.

  “Yo,” he said. “I was just about to call you. I’m going to have to cancel dinner tonight. We’ve got a situation here.”

  “I’ve got a situation too. What’s your situation?”

  “We found some heads.”

  “The ones without bodies?”

  “Yeah. Problem is we’ve got more heads than bodies now.”

  “How many heads do you have?”

  “I’m not authorized to say, but it’s more than three and less than ten.”

  “That could be a lot of heads.”

  “Actually, it’s less than five,” Morelli said.

  “Have they been identified?”

  “Three have been identified.”

  “What about the headless guy found behind the hardware store?”

  “It looks like one of the heads might belong to him, but the circumstances are odd. The autopsy has him dying from a heart attack several hours before his head was removed.”

  “Eeuuww.”

  “Exactly. It’s like someone has a head fetish. I’m really tied up here. It would be great if you could walk Bob for me, and maybe we could have a late dinner.”

  “No problem.”

  I disconnected and marched back to the bedroom.

  “So much for Spidey sense,” I said to Diesel.

  “Honeypot, you don’t ever want to underestimate my Spidey sense.”

  “Here’s the plan. I’m leaving. I’m going to look for a snake and an FTA. Then I’m going to Morelli’s house. I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to Rex once in a while. Make sure he has fresh water. And don’t eat all the mac and cheese.”

  I threw some clothes and a package of hot dogs into a small duffel bag, said goodbye to Rex, and told him I’d be back. I left the apartment and headed for my car. Truth is I wasn’t crazy about the whole leaving thing, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was involved in a relationship with Morelli, and he wouldn’t be happy to hear I was cohabitating with Diesel.

  • • •

  I drove to Diggery’s double-wide, parked, and peeked inside. No cats. No raccoons. No rats. No snake. Horrible smell. I didn’t spend a lot of time peeking. I jumped into my car and looked for Ethel as I inched my way along the road and out of the neighborhood. No luck.

  Next stop was Morelli’s house. I opened the front door and heard Bob galloping at me from the kitchen. I braced myself, but he still knocked me back against the wall and gave me a lot of Bob kisses. I told him he was a good boy and thanked him for the kisses and he seemed happy with that. I hooked him up to his leash and walked him around several blocks. He pooped twice, and I didn’t pick it up. My feeling is if God wanted me to pick up dog poop he would have made it look like diamonds and smell like roses.

  I fed Bob and helped myself to a frozen waffle. I was paging through my emails when I got a text from Lula saying she needed a ride, and she saw on the news that protesters were already collecting at the firehouse. Twenty minutes later I had Lula in my car, and I was driving back toward the Burg.

  “Is something wrong with your car?” I asked her.

  “No. My baby’s just fine, but I wasn’t gonna take it into no protest zone. Someone throws rocks at your car and turns it over wheels up, it’s no loss. I mean, sure it’s your transportation, but it’s not a classic like mine, right? I got a red Firebird. You don’t never want anybody throwing rocks at a red Firebird. And it’s got a custom sound system. That hummer’ll shake the fillings out of your teeth when I crank it up. It’s got bass, you see what I’m saying?”

  I cut my eyes to her. “Next time you drive.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. What do you think of my outfit? We might get to be on television if this thing gets out of hand, so I want to look good. I hear you shouldn’t wear stuff with too much pattern, and that’s why I went with this solid purple tank top.”

  Lula was wearing five-inch platform stilettos, a skirt that barely covered her ass, and a purple sequined tank top that was two sizes too small for her watermelon-size breasts.

  “I like the tank top,” I said. “Lots of sparkle.”

  “It’s from my Vegas collection from when I was a ’ho. I got a lot of action when I wore this top. ’Course some of that was on account of I had a good corner back then.”

  I got a block away from the firehouse and passed two buses that were parked on the street.

  “They’re the protester buses,” Lula said. “They bring in the professional protesters just in case there’s not enough locals. It’s just like Morelli said. And I read an article about this, too. I’m pretty sure you could get a degree in protesting if you go to the right college. It’s a big thing now.”

  “I don’t think there’s a degree in protesting.”

  “There’s a lot to learn,” Lula said. “You gotta know about making signs and holding them up in the right fashion. And there’s ways to be obnoxious and provoke a fight. Then you gotta shout slogans and such.”

  There were about sixty people milling around in front of the firehouse. They looked peaceful enough, holding signs, taking selfies on their smartphones. A bunch of uniformed cops stood on the perimeter. No riot gear. No nervous pacing. No guns drawn. Looking like they’d rather be someplace else.

  “This here’s disappointing,” Lula said. “I expected some nastiness.”

  I parked a block away, and we walked back to the firehouse. “Remember, we’re here to tag Zero Slick. We’re not getting involved in the protest.”

  “Nothing to get involved in,” Lula said. “This is a yawn. And I don’t get these signs some of them are holding. They say ‘Hell, no, we won’t go!’ What’s that mean, anyway?”

  “I think they’re left over from the sixties when people were protesting the Vietnam War,” I said. “Someone probably grabbed the wrong signs from the warehouse.”

  “Hey,” Lula said. “Look over by the street light. It’s your granny and two other old ladies. And they got signs.” Lula waved at Grandma. “Yoo-hoo! Granny!”

  Grandma turned and saw us and waved her sign. It said BINGO MATTERS.

  “Now, that’s a good sign,” Lula said. “It makes a real statement.”

  We didn’t see Slick outside, so we went into the firehouse and stood to the back of the meeting room. There was a podium and an American flag at the far end, and rows of folding chairs had been set up for the audience. The room could probably accommodate seventy to eighty people if you squashed them in, but so far there were only fifteen people there.

  “We must be early,” Lula said.

  I checked my
watch. “Nope. We’re right on time.”

  A woman came out and introduced the speaker. He was a nice-looking man in a blue suit. Glasses. Sandy blond hair. In his fifties.

  Lula leaned forward. “Who did she say this guy was? I didn’t catch it.”

  “He’s running for some sort of council seat to replace a man who died.”

  The candidate at the podium started to speak, and all the protesters filed in from outside.

  “I see him!” Lula said. “I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Slick?”

  “No. The television guy. The one with the greased-up hair and the fake tan. And he’s got a camera guy with him. Do I look okay? This could be my big chance. Is my hair okay?”

  Lula was wearing her blond Farrah Fawcett wig. I was guessing it was also from the Vegas ’ho collection. On anyone else the whole deal would look ridiculous, but it was oddly spectacular on Lula.

  “The hair’s good,” I said.

  “It shows off my beautiful mahogany complexion,” Lula said.

  This was true.

  The problem with trying to find a five-two man in a crowd is that he doesn’t stand out. It would be easier to spot Slick if he was six-five. I went seat by seat, row by row, trying to see around the signs. The protesters shouted at the poor man at the podium, and Grandma and her friends contributed to the chaos by chanting “We want bingo! We want bingo!”

  “I’m getting a headache,” Lula said. “The only people here who make any sense are your granny and her lady friends.”

  A woman carrying a HELL, NO sign tried to shove Lula out of the way so she could get to the front, and Lula planted her stiletto heel into the woman’s foot.

  “I’m injured,” the woman shrieked. “This fat bitch broke my foot.”

  Lula leaned in and narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Say what?”

  “Fat bitch,” the woman said. “Fat ’ho bitch.”

  Lula reached for her purse, and I grabbed her arm. “Do not shoot her,” I said. “I’ll be really pissed off if you shoot her.”

  “How about if I just shoot her in the knee?”

  “No!”

  “Okay then, can I punch her in the face?”

  “No.”

  Grandma was at my side. “What’s going on? You need some muscle? I got my girls with me.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I said.

  People were collecting around us, there was a lot of jostling, and voices were raised. I saw the television guy moving in our direction.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said to Lula.

  “I’m on it,” Lula said. “Stick close.”

  I grabbed Grandma’s wrist and tugged her after me. An object flew past and hit Lula in the back of the head. It exploded on impact and gushed red. My first thought was bomb. My second was tomato. I turned to look behind me and took a raw egg to the forehead.

  The entire room had broken out into a free-for-all. The police rushed in and set off a flash grenade. People were screaming and trampling one another to get to the door. Lula detoured into the firehouse kitchen, and I followed her, dragging Grandma and the ladies along with us. We exited through the back door into an alley. Grandma and the ladies ditched their signs, and we crept around the building and looked out at the street. The protesters were clustered in front of the lone television guy and his cameraman. They still looked angry, gesturing at the police who were mostly stoic, clearing the way so the buses could get through to pick up their passengers.

  I recognized one of the cops and sidled up to him. “Will you make any arrests?”

  He shook his head no. “This is the Camden group. They’re okay. They’re just out here making some pizza money. We’ll load them onto the buses, they’ll stop at White Castle for burgers, and they’ll be home before the ten o’clock news comes on.”

  “What about the man who was speaking?”

  “He’ll get elected,” the cop said. “He’s the only one running.”

  “I was hoping Zero Slick would be here. He’s FTA, and I know he’s an activist.”

  “He’s probably protesting the Korean grocery on Madison and State. I heard that gig was assigned to the locals. We’ll be heading over there as soon as we get these folks settled into their buses.”

  “Aren’t you afraid there’ll be trouble before you get there?”

  “The television guy is still here. No one’s going to act out on Madison until the television guy gets over there.” He made a small grimace. “You know you’ve got egg on you, right?”

  FIVE

  LULA AND I took Grandma home and then we went to the Korean grocery on Madison. A handful of people were standing in front of the store, blocking the entrance. They were holding signs that called for DIVERSITY NOW.

  I parked and approached one of the sign holders. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Discriminatory hiring practices,” he said.

  “This store is owned by the Park family,” Lula said. “I shop here all the time. They’re real nice people. The whole family works here.”

  “Their hiring practices aren’t sympathetic to diversity,” the man said.

  “That’s because they’re all Korean, you moron,” Lula said. “This here’s a family-run store. You see the sign over the door? It says ‘Park Korean Grocery.’ You know how many Parks there are? About forty. And they all live in two rooms over the store. What are all those people supposed to do if they can’t dribble down into the store to stack vegetables?”

  “They’re fascists,” the man said.

  “You don’t even know what that means,” Lula said. “Go ahead and tell me what makes up a fascist.”

  I pulled Lula away. “We’re supposed to be looking for Zero Slick, not inciting another riot.”

  “Well, I don’t see no chubby short guy with a brown ponytail here. The only short person I see with a brown ponytail is an unattractive woman wearing a dress that’s totally wrong for her. And she’s wearing it with sneakers.”

  I located the woman. “That’s Slick,” I said.

  “Well, he got no fashion sense. It’s like he’s giving women a bad name being dressed like that.”

  I had cuffs in the back pocket of my jeans and pepper spray hooked to my waistband. I also had a stun gun in my bag, but it was illegal so I preferred not to use it when there were witnesses. I walked around the group of protesters and came up behind Slick.

  “Zero Slick?” I asked.

  He turned and looked at me. “Yes?”

  “I represent your bail bonds agent. You need to come with me to reschedule your court date.”

  “Sure,” Slick said. “I’ll have my social secretary get in touch with you.”

  I clapped a bracelet onto his wrist. “We need to do this now.”

  He yanked his arm away, but I held firm to the second cuff.

  “Are you freaking nuts?” he said. “Can’t you see I’m working? Get this thing off me.”

  I reached around to secure his other wrist, and he smacked me with his sign.

  “Help!” he yelled. “Police brutality.”

  “I’m not a police officer,” I said to him.

  He waved his sign. “Pig! Pig!”

  “You stop that,” Lula said to him. “I don’t like your attitude. And on top of that I’m offended by your accessorizing.”

  Word went out that the television guy had arrived, and in seconds we were surrounded by protesters demanding that I release Slick. Voices were raised. Someone shoved Lula, and she took him out with an elbow to the gut. After that it was bloody chaos. There was a flash and a BANG! And everyone stopped punching and eye gouging and stepped back.

  “This is getting old,” Lula said. “My ears are ringing. I better not have permanent damage.”

  I thought if the sound system in her car hadn�
��t permanently damaged her ears, the flash grenades weren’t going to have an effect.

  Lula put her hands to her head. “Where’s my Farrah Fawcett wig? Someone took my wig. I’m pressing charges. Don’t anybody leave the scene.”

  There were a bunch of signs scattered around, but not many protesters. Slick was gone and so were my handcuffs. The police and some Parks were cleaning up the litter. No blond wig in sight.

  “It was splattered with tomato, anyway,” I said.

  “Yeah, you got some on you too. And egg. And your shirt got a big rip in it. I’m sayin’ that all in all this here was a depressing day. I need a donut.”

  A donut sounded like a good idea. A dozen donuts sounded even better. It was almost nine o’clock, and the sun had set. I wasn’t sure if I was up for the late dinner with Morelli. I was hungry, but I wasn’t feeling like a sex goddess. I was feeling like I’d gotten punched in the face, and my eye was swelling.

  “Do I have a black eye?” I asked Lula.

  “I can’t tell,” Lula said. “It’s too dark here.”

  We walked for two blocks and stopped.

  “Where’s your car?” Lula asked. “I could swear we parked it here.”

  We looked around. No car.

  “I think someone stole your car,” Lula said.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “This is doodie,” Lula said. “Just when I need a donut someone goes and steals your car. Some people have no consideration.”

  I reviewed my choices. I could call Morelli. I could call my dad. I could call Uber. Or I could call Ranger.

  “Hold on,” Lula said. “What’s that laying in the gutter? Looks to me like your license plates.”

  I went to the curb and retrieved the plates.

  “This is looking up,” Lula said. “At least you got your plates. All we need now is a car. How about the one across the street. It looks like a Lexus.”

  “We aren’t going to steal a car.”

  “I don’t see why not. Someone took ours, so we should be able to help ourself to a new one. Tit for tat.”

  My cellphone buzzed, and the screen told me it was Ranger. Ricardo Carlos Manoso, aka Ranger, is former Special Forces. He’s smart. He’s sexy. He’s Cuban American. He grew up street tough. He has his own moral code. And he has secrets. He wears only black unless he’s undercover. He sits with his back to the wall when he’s in a public place.