ar, bypassed the rickety open-cage service elevator on the ground floor, and trudged up two flights of stairs. The stairwell opened to a small grimy foyer and a door with a size-nine high-heeled boot print on it. I guess Willie hadn't answered on the first knock and Lula got impatient.
I tried the doorknob, and the door swung open. Thank God for small favors because I'd never had any success at kicking in a door. I tentatively stuck my head in and called “Hello.”
“Hello, yourself,” Lula said. "And don't say no more. I'm not in a good mood. Just unlock these piece-of-crap handcuffs and stand back because I need fries.
I need a whole shitload of fries. I'm having a fast-food emergency."
Lula was across the room, wrapped in a sheet, one hand cuffed to the iron headboard of the bed, the other hand holding the sheet together.
I pulled the universal handcuff key out of my pocket and looked around the room. “Where are your clothes?”
“He took them. Do you believe that? Said he was going to teach me a lesson not to go after him. I tell you, you can't trust a man. They get what they want and then next thing they got their tighty whities in their pocket and they're out the door. I don't know what he was so upset about, anyway. I was just doing my job. He said, 'Was that good for you?' And I said, 'Oh yeah baby, it was real good.' And then I tried to cuff him. Hell, truth is it wasn't all that good and besides, I'm a professional bounty hunter now. Bring 'em back dead or alive, with or without their pants, right? I had an obligation to cuff him.”
“Yeah, well next time put your clothes on before you try to cuff a guy.”
Lula unlocked the cuffs and tied a knot in the sheet to hold it closed.
“That's good advice. I'm gonna remember that. That's the kind of advice I need to be a first-class bounty hunter. At least he forgot to take my purse. I'd be really annoyed if he'd taken my purse.” She went to a chest on the far wall, pulled out one of Willie's T-shirts and a pair of gym shorts, and put them on. Then she scooped the rest of the clothes out of the chest, carried them to the window, and threw them out.
“Okay,” Lula said, “I'm starting to feel better now. Thanks for coming here to help me. And good news, it looks like no one's stolen your car. I saw it still sitting at the curb.” Lula went to the closet and scooped up more clothes. Suits, shoes, and jackets. All went out the window. “I'm on a roll now,” she said, looking around the loft. “What else we got that can go out the window? You think we can fit his big-ass TV out the window? Hey, how about some kitchen appliances? Go get me his toaster.” She crossed the room, grabbed a table lamp, and brought it to the window. “Hey!” she yelled, head out the window, eyes focused on the street. “Get away from that car. Willie, is that you? What the hell are you doing?”
I ran to the window and looked out. Willie Martin was whaling away at my car with a sledgehammer.
“I'll show you to throw my clothes outta the window,” he said, taking a swing at the right rear quarter panel.
“You dumb premature ejaculator,” Lula shouted at him. "You dumb-ass moron!
That's not my car."
“Oh. Oops,” Willie said. “Which one's your car?”
Lula hauled a Glock out of her purse, squeezed off two rounds in Willie's direction, and Willie left the scene. One of the rounds pinged off my car roof.
And the other round made a small hole in my windshield.
“Must be something wrong with the sight on this gun,” Lula said to me.
“Sorry about that.”
I trudged down the stairs and stood on the sidewalk examining my car. Deep scratch in roof from misplaced bullet. Hole in windshield plus embedded bullet in passenger seat. Bashed-in right rear quarter panel and right passenger-side door from sledgehammer. Previous damage from creepy gun attack by insane stalker. And someone had spray painted eat me on the driver's side door.
“Your car's a mess,” Lula said. “I don't know what it is with you and cars.”
Stephanie Plum 11 - Eleven On Top
TWO
Morelli drives an SUV. He used to own a 4x4 truck, but he traded it in so Bob could ride around with him and be more comfortable. This isn't normal behavior for Morelli men. Morelli men are known for being charming but worthless drunks who rarely care about the comfort of their wife and kids, much less the dog. How Joe escaped the Morelli Man syndrome is a mystery.
For a while he seemed destined to follow in his fathers footsteps, but somewhere in his late twenties, Joe stopped chasing women and fighting in bars and started working at being a good cop. He inherited his house from his Aunt Rose. He adopted Bob. And he decided, after years of hit-and-run sex, he was in love with me. Go figure that. Joseph Morelli with a house, a dog, a steady job, and an SUV.
And on odd days of the month he woke up wanting to marry me. It turns out I only want to marry him on even days of the month, so to date we've been spared commitment.
When I arrived at Morelli's house his SUV was parked curbside and Morelli and Bob were sitting on Morelli's tiny front porch. Usually Bob goes gonzo when he sees me, jumping around all smiley face. Today Bob was sitting there drooling, looking sad.
“What's with Bob?” I asked Morelli.
“I don't think he feels good. He was like this when I came home.”