Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“We have to get him bonded out today,” I said. “He has to be working on his food truck tonight.”

How good is this, I thought. I know exactly where Victor Waggle will be at ten o’clock. I can have everyone in place to make a capture with a minimum amount of fuss. We’ll get Waggle in cuffs, and hopefully he’ll know where the kidnap victims are being held.

It was late afternoon when we went before the judge and the paperwork was completed. Lula returned to the office with Connie, and Carl and I took Darren home.

“This turned out to be a real relaxing day,” Darren said. “It’s not often I get to sit around and do nothing. I’m usually collecting eggs or feeding chickens or selling eggs or feeding eggs or selling chickens or . . .”

I was sitting in the front next to Carl, and I checked Darren out in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay back there?” I asked.

“I’m freaking fine,” Darren said. “Why wouldn’t I be fine? I’m in this nice car and you even have bottled water and cookies back here for me. And by the way these cookies taste a little funny, but I like them anyway. They’re freaking fine.”

I swiveled around and looked at him. “Cookies?”

“Yep. The ones in the tin. I ate them all. I hope that was okay.”

“Omigod,” I said to Carl. “He ate the Hashy Smashies.”

“I don’t know from personal experience,” Carl said, “but I hear the edibles stay with you for a longer time than just smoking weed. And they aren’t always well tolerated.”

“I feel a little sick,” Darren said.

I squelched a grimace, and told Carl to drive faster.

“Maybe I’m just hungry,” Darren said. “Are there any more cookies?”

“No!”

We had to detour around the Snake Pit. A flatbed was off-loading two giant spotlights. Vendors were finding their assigned spots on the street. Several black Escalades were lined up on the far end of the block.

Carl blew past the junkyard, turned into Darren’s driveway, and skidded to a stop. I ran around and got Darren out of the car. He took two steps and projectile vomited half-digested Hashy Smashies.

“Do you think he’ll be okay now?” I asked Carl.

Carl shrugged. “Were there a lot of cookies in the tin?”

“Yes.”

“Bummer.”

I got Darren into the house, and Mrs. Boot helped me stretch him out on the couch. A chicken immediately jumped up and settled itself on Darren’s chest.

“That’s Bobby Sunflower,” Mrs. Boot said. “She’s a cuddler.”

“Darren ate some cookies that might not have agreed with him,” I told Mrs. Boot.

“He has a sensitive stomach,” Mrs. Boot said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay if he just rests a little.”

Carl was standing at the front door. “There’s a lot of chickens in here,” he said. “A lot of chickens.”

“I don’t feel good,” Darren said, “but I don’t care. Sometimes you have to feel bad to feel good. Have you ever noticed that?”

“Can you OD on cookies?” I asked Carl.

“Doubtful,” he said. “And he lost half of them.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to drive the food truck?”