Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

drug fair,” Hal said. “They sell stuff here that makes the blue pill Stretch took look like kids’ candy.”

Melton Street wasn’t high-rent, but it wasn’t Stark either. People lived on the end blocks of Melton. There were seniors sticking it out because they had no other place to go, homeless souls hunkered down in buildings that had been condemned, and runaway drugged-out kids sheltered in hallways and abandoned apartments.

Hal cruised down Melton and stopped when he thought he was behind the Pit.

“This isn’t helping,” Lula said. “I can’t see past these broken-down buildings.”

Tenement-style row houses were smashed together, blocking our view. We could see strobe lights flashing across the sky, emanating from Stark, but we couldn’t see between the grimy, graffiti-covered structures.

There was on-street parking here, but no one dared leave a car unattended. This wasn’t a problem for the residents because if you were unfortunate enough to need to live here, you for sure couldn’t afford a car.

Hal turned at the corner and drove toward Stark. He stopped at a checkpoint, handed over a fifty-dollar parking fee, and was allowed to proceed and park wherever he could find a spot in the two-block area that had been cordoned off. He pulled into a slot, cut the engine, and got a windbreaker from the back seat. Cars were streaming in behind us. The people getting out of the cars were young. High schoolers. Millennials. The cars, for the most part, were new and compact. Clothes were a mix of early Britney Spears and Seattle grunge.

Hal shrugged into the windbreaker, hiding his Rangeman patch and holstered gun. Lula fluffed up her magenta hair and tugged her spandex skirt down over her ass. I followed behind, feeling like Frump Girl in my jeans and T-shirt and plain brown ponytail.

The parking area and the front of the warehouse were lit. Not quite as bright as daylight, but bright enough to buy and sell drugs, sex, and Snake Pit T-shirts.

Two garage bay doors had been rolled up, allowing people to enter and exit what had now become the Snake Pit. A band called the Romanian Slippery Unicorn was already onstage, blasting out music that was so bass-heavy I was getting heart arrhythmia. The lighting was lower inside. A cannabis and menthol vapor haze hung over the crowd.

Hal took point to get to the front, plowing through what appeared to be an army of stoner zombies. Lula followed Hal, waving her arms in the air, bobbing her head, and swinging her ass like she was on Soul Train. I stayed in Lula’s wake.

We got close enough to see when Rockin’ Armpits and Victor Waggle were about to take the stage. Hal changed direction and moved us left so we’d be in a good position when they finished playing and headed for the exit.

Hal watched the band and the crowd in full-on Rangeman protective mode. Lula took selfies, posted them for her Facebook friends, and looked like she knew what the band was playing. I focused on Victor Waggle and did shallow breathing, hoping to minimize the contact high.

At eleven-thirty I saw Victor look to the side of the stage and nod to someone. Hal saw it too and began to move us toward the side exit. Ten minutes later, the band played their last song, waved at the audience, and bounded off the stage. We made an effort to follow them but were stopped at the door.

Lula adjusted the girls and leaned forward. “Hold on here,” she said to the doorman. “We’re special friends of all them Armpits. We have a personal relationship. You can ask anybody, except for the little guy with the green hair. We don’t know him personal. Furthermore, I’ve had a request from certain members of the band to pay a visit and work my magic. They gonna be unhappy if you don’t let Lula through to work magic.”

“Okay, you can go in,” the doorman said. “But only you.”

“No way,” Lula said. “I don’t go nowhere without my security detail. When you got talents like I got you need people around who know CPR and shit.”

Most of Lula’s boobs had jiggled out by now with only her massive nipples caught inside the bustier. The doorman was having a hard time looking past the trapped nipple to the security detail.

“Whatever,” he said. “Maybe you want to save some of that magic for me.”

“When I’m done with you, your dick will never be the same,” Lula said. “I’ll ruin you.”

We all hurried through the door and looked around for Victor Waggle. Lighting was minimal, supplied mostly by Maglites and cellphone flashlights. There were thirty to forty people milling around in the small outdoor space. Some looked like the band about to go onstage next. Some looked like groupies and roadies. Some looked like event security. I spotted Russel Frick off to one side, packing his drum set into a cart.

“Hey,” I said, “remember me?”

“Bounty hunter.”

“Yeah. Is Victor here somewhere?”

“He went up front to find a meal ticket.”

“How do I get up front from here?”

Frick pointed to the narrow alley between the buildings. “Follow the yellow brick road.”

I grabbed Hal and Lula, and we ran down the alley to Stark. People were standing around talking, smoking, checking out street vendors. Victor Waggle was with several women in front of a food truck that was selling hot dogs. It looked like he was autographing photos.

We did a flanking maneuver and sneaked up behind him. I had my cuffs ready and was about to clap one on his wrist when one of the women yelled, “PIG!”

Victor whirled around, saw the cuff, and jumped away. One of the women kicked me in the knee, and two others pulled out guns.