Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

I was in the Saturn, parked next to Kan Klean. It was Sunday. It was the start of a new day, it was one minute to seven, and Morelli was on my cell.

“I'm in your lot,” he said. “I stopped by to take you to work. Where are you? And where's your car?”

“I'm at Kan Klean. I drove.”

“What happened to the boot?”

“I don't know. It disappeared.”

There was a full sixty seconds of silence while I knew Morelli was doing deep breathing, working at not getting nuts. I looked at my watch, and my stomach clenched.

Mama Macaroni appeared at car side and stuck her face in my open window, her monster mole just inches from my face, her demon eyes narrowed, her thin lips drawn tight against her dentures.

“What you doing out here?” Mama yelled. “You think we pay for talking on the phone? We got work to do. You kids . . . you think you get money for doing nothing.”

“Jesus,” Morelli said. “What the hell is that?”

“Mama Macaroni.”

“She has a voice like fingernails on a chalkboard.”

I needed a pill really bad. It was noon and I had a fireball behind my right eye and Mama Macaroni screeching into my left ear.

“The pink tag's for dry cleaning and the green tag's for laundry,” Mama shrieked at me. “You mixing them up. You make a mess of everything. You ruin our business. We gonna be out on the street.”

The tinkle bell attached to the front door jangled, and I looked up to see Lula walk in.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Lula said to me. “What's shakin'? What's hangin'? What's the word?”

Lula's hair was gold today and styled in ringlets, like Shirley Temple at age five. Lula was wearing black high-heeled ankle boots, a tight orange spandex skirt that came to about three inches below her ass, and a matching orange top that was stretched tight across her boobs and belly. And Lula's belly was about as big as her boobs.

“What word?” Mama Macaroni asked. “Wadda you mean word? Who is this big orange person?”

“This is my friend Lula,” I said.

“You friend? No. No friends. Wadda you think, this is a party?”

“Hey, chill,” Lula said to Mama. “I came to pick up my dry cleaning. I'm a legitimate customer.”

I had the merry-go-round in motion, looking for Lula's cleaning. The motor whirred, and plastic-sleeved, hangered orders swished by me, carried along on an overhead system of tracks.

“I'll take Vinnie's and Connie's too,” Lula said.

Mama was off her stool. “You no take anything until I say so. Let me see the slip. Where's the slip?”

I had Lula's cleaning in hand and Mama stepped in front of me. “What's this on the slip? What's this discount?”

“You said I got a discount,” I told her, trying hard not to stare at the mole, not having a lot of luck at it.

“You get a discount. This big pumpkin don't get no discount.”

“Hey, hold on here,” Lula said, lower lip stuck o

ut, hands on hips. “Who you calling a pumpkin?”

“I'm calling you a pumpkin,” Mama Macaroni said. “Look at you. You a big fat pumpkin. And you don't get no pumpkin discount.” Mama turned on me. “You try to pull a fast one. Give everybody a discount. Like we run a charity here. A charity for pumpkins. Maybe you get the kickback. You think you make some money on the side.”

“I don't like to disrespect old people,” Lula said. “And you're about as old as they get. You're as old as dirt, but that don't mean you can insult my friend. I don't put up with that. I don't take that bus. You see what I'm saying?”