Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

I didn't really want to give him any more volts. Didn't think it would look good if I hauled him into court with his hair curled. So I grabbed him by the ankles and tugged toward the door.

Kitty raced upstairs and I assumed, from the sounds of drawers being wrenched open, she was packing.

I managed to get Eugene out of the house and onto the sidewalk next to the Buick, but there was no way I was going to get Eugene into the car without some help.

I could see Kitty assembling suitcases and tote bags in the front room. “Hey, Kitty,” I yelled, “I need a hand here.”

She peeked out the open door. “What's the problem?”

“Can't get him into the car.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Is he awake?”

“There are all kinds of awake. This kind of awake isn't nearly so awake as some other kinds.”

She inched forward. “His eyes are open.”

“True, but the pupils are mostly rolled up behind his lids. I don't imagine he can see much like that.”

In response to our conversation, Eugene had begun ineffectually flailing his legs.

Kitty and I each took an arm and hoisted him to shoulder level.

“This would be easier if you'd parked closer,” Kitty said, breathing heavily. “You practically parked in the middle of the street.”

I steadied myself under the burden. “I can only park on the curb when there's a parking meter to aim for.”

We gave a joint heave and slammed up against the rear quarter panel with rubber-limbed Eugene. We shoved him into the backseat and cuffed him to the sissy bar, where he hung like a sandbag.

“What will you do?” I asked Kitty. “Do you have someplace to go?”

“I have a girlfriend in New Brunswick. I can stay with her for a while.”

“Make sure you keep the court informed of your address.”

She nodded her head and scuttled back into her house. I hopped behind the wheel and threaded my way through the burg to Hamilton. Eugene's head snapped around some on the curves, but aside from that the trip to the police station was uneventful.

I drove to the

rear of the building, climbed out of the Buick, hit the attention button on the locked door, which led to the docket desk, and stepped away to wave at the security camera.

Almost instantly the door opened and Crazy Carl Costanza poked his head out at me. “Yeah?”

“Pizza delivery.”

“It's against the law to lie to a cop.”

“Help me get this guy out of my car.”

Carl rocked back on his heels and smiled. “This is your car?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You want to make something of it?”

“Hell no. I'm fucking politically correct. I don't make cracks about women's big cars.”

“She electrocuted me,” Eugene said. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

Carl and I exchanged looks.