Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

I gave Darren Boot’s address to Carl and told him to do a slow cruise past the Snake Pit.

“Hold on here,” Lula said. “I know this taste. I’ve had this cookie before. It’s got a edible in it. These are Hashy Smashies. They’re a controlled-substance tasty treat. This cookie could put you in a real good mood, but if you eat too many of them you want to stay close to a bathroom.”

I took the cookie tin from Lula and put it in the cargo area behind the rear seat.

“I’m not one to judge,” Lula said, “but seems to me Annie Gurky’s coping methods bear some examination. She should take up yoga or learn to play the saxophone.”

There was no sign of life on the Snake Pit block. It was eerily quiet. The landscape was depressing. The area beyond it was even worse. We approached the junkyard and it was like a ray of sunshine. The big electro-magnet was working, moving cars to

the smashing machine.

“I wouldn’t mind working here,” Lula said. “I like smashing things.”

A half mile later we turned into Darren Boot’s driveway.

“His pickup truck is parked in front of the house,” I said to Lula. “That’s a good sign.”

A chicken flew out of the tall grass, flapping and squawking. It crashed into the Rangeman windshield and lay on the hood momentarily stunned. It got up, pooped, and flapped away.

“That’s it for me,” Lula said. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this vehicle. Call Boot on the phone and tell him we’re parked and waiting for him.”

I dialed Boot’s number. “He’s not picking up,” I said. “I’m going in.”

“You could take Carl with you,” Lula said.

Taking Carl with me had some appeal. Leaving Lula alone in the car had no appeal. In the past, Lula has sometimes decided she needed nachos and forgot she was supposed to wait for me.

“Carl can stay here,” I said. “Darren won’t be a problem.”

I kept my eyes on the path and made it to the house without getting pecked. Minnie Mouse answered and invited me in.

“Darren is out back,” she said. “He’s working on the food truck.”

“I didn’t know you had a food truck.”

“Goodness, yes. It uses up the excess eggs and it brings in a nice amount of money. Just go through the kitchen and out the back door.”

Darren was a slim man with thinning brown hair and a large Captain Hook nose. He was hosing down a food truck that looked like a refugee from the junkyard.

“Howdy,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I just gotta get this washed off. The chickens make a terrible mess of it.”

“What do you sell?” I asked him.

“Breakfast burritos, mostly. We don’t sell them for breakfast, but they’re called that on account of we fill them with scrambled eggs. When you got a night of hard drugs and drinking there’s nothing better than a breakfast burrito. People stand in line forever for our burritos.”

It suddenly clicked in my head. “I saw this truck at the Snake Pit,” I said.

“Yep. That’s where we sell them. Every Thursday and Friday night. We’re famous because the big star of Rockin’ Armpits, Victor Waggle, won’t go onstage until he’s had one of our burritos. It’s a ritual for him. He shows up around ten o’clock. The security people bring him around to the back side of the truck so he doesn’t get mobbed.” Darren turned the hose off. “I guess you came to take me back to jail.”

“Yes. You missed your court date.”

“It’s hard to keep track of things like that. Problem is, this isn’t a good time for me. I’d appreciate it if you could come back in a couple days. I already bought the tortillas for tonight, and I’m in eggs up to my ears. And I don’t know what’ll happen if Victor doesn’t get his burrito.”

“If we go now, court is in session, and I can get you rebonded and back home for dinner.”

“I guess that would be okay.”

I loaded Darren into the back seat of the Rangeman SUV, and called Connie.