Eleven on Top, Page 2

  “I will tell you now that I am not Indian,” Alizzi said. “Everyone thinks I am Indian, but that is a false assumption. I come from a very small island country off the coast of India.”

  “Sri Lanka?”

  “No, no, no,” he said, wagging his bony finger at me. “Not Sri Lanka. My country is even smaller. We are a very proud people, so you must be careful not to make ethnic slurs.”

  “Sure. You want to tell me the name of this country?”

  “Latorran.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You see, already you are treading in very dangerous waters.”

  I squelched a grimace.

  “So, you were a bounty hunter,” he said, skimming over my resume, eyebrows

  raised. “That is a quite exciting job. Why would you want to quit such a job?”

  “I'm looking for something that has more potential for advancement.”

  “Oh dear, that would be my job you would eventually be seeking.”

  “Yes, well I'm sure it would take years, and then who knows . . . you might be president of the company by then.”

  “You are an outrageous flatterer,” he said. “I like that. And what would you do if I were to ask you for sexual favors? Would you threaten to sue me?”

  “No. I guess I'd ignore you. Unless you got physical. Then I'd have to kick you in a place that hurt a lot and you probably wouldn't be able to father any children.”

  “That sounds fair,” he said. “It happens that I have an immediate position to fill, so you're hired. You can start tomorrow, promptly at eight o'clock. Do not be late.”

  Wonderful. I have a real job in a nice clean office where no one will shoot at me. I should be happy, yes? This was what I wanted, wasn't it? Then why do I feel so depressed?

  I dragged myself down the stairs to the lobby and out to the parking lot. I found my car and the depression deepened. I hated my car. Not that it was a bad car. It just wasn't the right car. Not to mention, it would be great to have a car that didn't have three bullet holes in it.

  Maybe I needed another doughnut.

  A half hour later, I was back in my apartment. I'd stopped in at Tasty Pastry and left with a day-old birthday cake. The cake said Happy Birthday Larry.

  I don't know how Larry celebrated his birthday, but apparently it was without cake. Larry's loss was my gain. If you want to get happy, birthday cake is the way to go. This was a yellow cake with thick, disgusting white frosting made with lard and artificial butter and artificial vanilla and a truckload of sugar. It was decorated with big gunky roses made out of pink and yellow and purple frosting. It was three layers thick with lemon cream between the layers. And it was designed to serve eight people, so it was just the right size.

  I dropped my clothes on the floor and dug into the cake. I gave a chunk of cake to Rex, and I worked on the rest. I ate all the pieces with the big pink roses. I was starting to feel nauseous, but I pressed on. I ate all the pieces with the big yellow roses. I had a purple rose and a couple roseless pieces left. I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat any more cake. I staggered into my bedroom. I needed a nap.

  I dropped a T-shirt over my head and pulled on a pair of Scooby-Doo boxers with an elastic waist. God, don't you love clothes with elastic? I had one knee on the bed when I saw the note pinned to my pillowcase,

  BE AFRAID, BE VERY AFRAID. NEXT TIME I'll AIM HIGHER.

  I thought I'd be more afraid if I hadn't just eaten five pieces of birthday cake. As it was, I was mostly afraid of throwing up. I looked under the bed, behind the shower curtain, and in all the closets. No knuckle-dragging monsters anywhere. I slid the bolt home on the front door and shuffled back to the bedroom.

  Now, here's the thing. This isn't the first time someone's broken into my apartment. In fact, people regularly break in. Ranger slides in like smoke.

  Morelli has a key. And various bad guys and psychos have managed to breach the three locks I keep on the door. Some have even left threatening messages. So I wasn't as freaked out as I might have been prior to my career in bounty huntering. My immediate feelings ran more toward numb despair. I wanted all the scary things to go away. I was tired of scary. I'd quit my scary job, and now I wanted the scary people out of my life. I didn't want to be kidnapped ever again.

  I didn't want to be held at knifepoint or gunpoint. I didn't want to be threatened, stalked, or run off the road by a homicidal maniac.

  I crawled under the covers and pulled the quilt over my head. I was almost

  asleep when the quilt was yanked back. I let out a shriek and stared up at Ranger.

  “What the heck are you doing?” I yelled at him, grabbing at the quilt.

  “Visiting, Babe.”

  “Did you ever think about ringing a doorbell?”

  Ranger smiled down at me. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

  “I didn't know you were interested in fun.”

  He sat on the side of the bed and the smile widened. "You smell good enough

  to eat,“ Ranger said. ”You smell like a party."

  “It's birthday cake breath. And are we looking at another double entendre?”

  “Yeah,” Ranger said, “but it's not going anywhere. I have to get back to work. Tank's waiting for me with the motor running. I just wanted to find out if you're serious about quitting.”

  “I got a job at the button factory. I start tomorrow.”

  He reached across and removed the note from the pillowcase next to me. "New

  boyfriend?"

  “Someone broke in while I was out. And I guess he shot at me this afternoon.”

  Ranger stood. “You should discourage people from doing that. Do you need help?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And he left.

  I listened carefully, but I didn't hear the front door open or close. I got up and tiptoed through the apartment. No Ranger. All the locks were locked and the bolt was in place.

  I suppose he could have gone out the living room window, but he would have

  had to climb down the side of the building like Spider-Man.

  The phone rang, and I waited to see the number pop up on my caller ID. It was Lula. “Yo,” I said.

  “Yo, your ass. You got some nerve sticking me with this job.”

  “You volunteered.”

  “I must've had sunstroke. A person have to be nuts to want this job.”

  “Something go wrong?”

  “Hell, yes. Everything's wrong. I could use some assistance here. I'm trying to snag Willie Martin, and he's not cooperating.”

  “How uncooperative is he?”

  “He hauled his nasty ass out of his apartment and left me handcuffed to his big stupid bed.”

  “That's pretty uncooperative.”

  “Yeah, and it gets worse. I sort of don't have any clothes on.”

  “Omigod! Did he attack you?”

  “It's a little more complicated than that. He was in the shower when I busted in. You ever see Willie Martin naked? He is fine. He used to play pro ball until he made a mess of his knee and had to turn to boosting cars.”

  “Un hunh.”

  “Well, one thing led to another and here I am chained to his hunk-of-junk bed. Hell, it's not like I get it regular, you know. I'm real picky about my men. And besides, anybody would've jumped those bones. He's got muscles on muscles and a butt you want to sink your teeth into.”

  The mental image had me considering turning vegetarian.

  Willie Martin lived in a third-floor loft in a graffiti-riddled warehouse that contained a ground-floor chop shop. It was located on the seven-hundred block of Stark Street, an area of urban decay that rivaled Iraqi bomb sites.

  I parked behind Lula's red Firebird and transferred my five-shot Smith & Wesson from my purse to my jacket pocket. I'm not much of a gun person and almost never carry one, but I was sufficiently creeped out by the shooting and the notes that I didn't want to venture onto Stark Street unarmed. I locked the c
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.”

  Bob stood and hunched. “Gak,” Bob said. And he hacked up a sock and a lot of

  Bob slime. He looked down at the sock. And then he looked up at me. And then he got happy. He jumped around, doing his goofy dance. I gave him a hug and he wandered off, tail wagging, into the house.

  “Guess we can go in now,” Morelli said. He got to his feet, slid his arm around my shoulders, and hugged me to him for a friendly kiss. He broke from the kiss and his eyes strayed to my car. “I don't suppose you'd want to tell me about the body damage?”

  “Sledgehammer.” Of course.

  “You're pretty calm about all this,” I said to him.

  “I'm a calm kind of guy.”

  “No, you're not. You go nuts over this stuff. You always yell when people go after me with a sledgehammer.”

  “Yeah, but in the past you haven't liked that. I'm thinking if I start yelling it might screw up my chances of getting you naked. And I'm desperate. I really need to get you naked. Besides, you quit the bonds office, right? Maybe your life will settle down now. How'd the interview go?”

  “I got the job. I start tomorrow.”

  I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Morelli grinned down at me and slid his hands under my T-shirt. “We should celebrate.”

  His hands felt nice against my skin, but I was starving and I didn't want to encourage any further celebrating until I got my pizza. He pulled me close and kissed his way up my neck. His lips moved to my ear and my temple and by the time he got to my mouth I was thinking the pizza could wait.

  And then we heard it... the pizza delivery car coming down the street, stopping at the curb.

  Morelli cut his eyes to the kid getting out of the car. “Maybe if we ignore him he'll go away.”

  The steaming extra-large, extra cheese, green peppers, pepperoni pizza smell oozed from the box the kid was carrying. The smell rushed over the porch and

  into the house. Bob's toenails clattered on the polished wood hall floor as he took off from the kitchen and galloped for all he was worth at the kid.

  Morelli stepped back from me and snagged Bob by the collar just as he was about to catapult himself off the porch.

  “Ulk,” Bob said, stopping abruptly, tongue out, eyes bugged, feet off the ground.

  “Minor setback with the celebration plan,” Morelli said.

  “No rush,” I told him. “We have all night.”

  Morelli's eyes got soft and dark and dreamy. Sort of the way Bob's eyes got when he ate Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets and then someone rubbed his belly.

  “All right,” Morelli said. “I like the way that sounds.”

  Two minutes later, we were on the couch in Morelli's living room, watching the pregame show, eating pizza,
and drinking beer.

  “I heard you were working on the Barroni case,” I said to Morelli. “Having any luck with it?”

  Morelli took a second piece of pizza. “I have a lot out on it. So far nothings come in.”

  Michael Barroni mysteriously disappeared eight days ago. He was sixty-two years old and in good health when he vanished. He owned a nice house in the