Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“I know all about how to do this stakeout stuff,” Grandma said. “They had some private eyes on television the other night, and they didn't leave out a thing.” She stuck her head into the canvas tote bag she'd hauled along. “I got everything we need in here. I got magazines to pass the time. I got sandwiches and sodas. I even got a bottle.”

“What kind of bottle?”

“Used to have olives in it.” She showed me the bottle. “It's so we can pee on the job. All the private eyes said they did this.”

“I can't pee in that bottle. Only men can pee in bottles.”

“Darn,” Grandma said. “Why didn't I think of that? I went and threw away all the olives, too.”

We read the magazine and tore out a few recipes. We ate the sandwiches and drank the sodas.

After drinking the sodas we both needed to go to the bathroom, so we went back to my parents' house for a potty break. We returned to Hamilton, slid into the same parking place behind Morelli, and continued to wait.

“You're right,” Grandma said after an hour. “This is boring.”

We played hangman and counted cars and verbally trashed Joyce Barnhardt. We'd just started twenty questions when I glanced out the window at oncoming traffic and recognized Kenny Mancuso. He was driving a two-tone Chevy Suburban that looked to be as big as a bus. We exchanged surprised stares for the longest heartbeat in history.

“Shit!” I shouted, fumbling with the ignition key, swiveling in my seat to keep him in sight.

“Get this car moving,” Grandma yelled. “Don't let that son of a skunk get away!”

I wrenched the gearshift into drive and was about to pull out when I realized Kenny had U-turned at the intersection and was closing ground between us. There were no cars parked behind me. I saw the Suburban swerve to the curb and told Grandma to brace herself.

The Suburban crashed into the back of the Buick, bouncing us forward into Morelli's car, which crashed into the car in front of him. Kenny backed the Suburban up, stepped on the gas, and rammed us again.

“Well, that takes it,” Grandma said. “I'm too old for this kind of bouncing around. I got delicate bones at my age.” She pulled a .45 long-barrel out of her tote bag, wrenched her door open, and scrambled out onto the sidewalk. “Guess this will show you something,” she said, aiming the gun at the Suburban. She pulled the trigger, fire flashed from the barrel, and the kick knocked her on her ass.

Kenny floored the Suburban in reverse all the way to the intersection and took off.

“Did I get him?” Grandma wanted to know.

“No,” I said, helping her to her feet.

“Did I come close?”

“Hard to say.”

She had her hand to her forehead. “Hit myself in the head with the dang gun. Didn't expect that much of a kick.”

We walked around the cars, surveying the damage. The Buick was virtually unscathed. A scratch in the chrome on the big back bumper. No damage that I could find in the front.

Morelli's car looked like an accordion. The hood and the trunk lid were crumpled, and all the lights were broken. The first car in line had been shoved a couple feet forward, but didn't look bashed. A small dent in the back bumper, which may or may not have been the result of this accident.

I looked up the street, expecting Morelli to come running, but Morelli didn't appear.

“Are you okay?” I asked Grandma Mazur.

“Sure,” Grandma said. “I would have got that slimeball too if it wasn't for my injury. Had to shoot with one hand.”

“Where'd you get the forty-five?”

“My friend Elsie loaned it to me,” Grandma said. “She got it at a yard sale when she lived in Washington, D.C.” She rolled her eyes up in her head. “Am I bleeding?”

“No, but you've got a notch in your forehead. Maybe we should take you home to rest.”

“That might be a good idea,” she said. “My knees feel sort of rubbery. Guess I'm not so tough as them television people. Shooting off guns never seems to take anything out of them.”

I got Grandma in the car and clicked the seat belt across her chest. I took one last look at the damage and wondered about liability for the first car in line. The damage was minimal to none, but I left my business card under the windshield wiper in case he discovered the dent and wanted an explanation.