Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum 27)

“No. But I could use some backup bringing in an FTA. Last time I tried to apprehend him he stuck a syringe in Potts’s leg. He lives on Stiller Street.”

Ranger drove down Stiller Street and parked behind Trotter’s van. I gave him the paperwork and he paged through it.

“This reads like bad fiction,” Ranger said. “Who would be dumb enough to let this guy inject them?”

“Enough women to keep him in vodka and tequila.”

He gave the paperwork back to me and we went to the door. Trotter’s mother answered. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers and an orange-and-purple flowered tent dress that came to her knees. She had a cigarette stuck to her overinflated lower lip.

“We’re here to see Rodney,” I said.

“He’s in the kitchen,” she said, “but he’s busy. He might not have time to be real social.”

Ranger and I stepped around her, and I wove my way through the cluttered living room and dining room. Trotter was at the kitchen table, mixing up God-knows-what. There were measuring spoons and cups on the table, a large unlabeled canister of white powder, a large jug of canola oil, several smaller canisters, and a large mixing bowl with some glop in it.

“Hey, Trotter,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“What do I have to do to get rid of you?” Trotter said. “Shoot you? Stab you? Inject you with formaldehyde?”

“You’re in violation of your bond agreement,” Ranger said. “You need to come with us.”

“Where’d you get the all-in-black pretty boy?” Trotter asked me. “He looks like he’s auditioning for a television show.”

Trotter scooped some glop up in a measuring cup and threw it at me. I didn’t move fast enough, and I got tagged in the chest. I looked down in horror and another glob of the stuff hit me in the head.

“Stop it,” I said. “What the heck is this stuff?”

“It’s my special enhancement formula,” Trotter said. “Flour, water, oil, cream of tartar.”

“That’s Play-Doh,” I said.

“My proportions are different, and I added the oil,” Trotter said. “My enhancement formula takes longer to set up, and it goes in smooth as silk. Problem is sometimes it hardens like concrete. You don’t want to let it sit in your hair too long.”

I put my hand to the top of my head. The gunk was already starting to solidify.

“Here’s some more,” he said, hurling another cupful of glop that caught me in the forehead and oozed down my nose.

“What the fuck!” I yelled at Trotter.

In my peripheral vision I saw Ranger move toward Trotter. “Stand back,” I said to Ranger. “He’s mine. He’s going down.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” Trotter said.

He barely got the words out of his mouth when I charged across the room, snatched him by the front of his shirt, and head-butted him. I gave him a shove. He wobbled backward and sat down hard. I called him a dumb-ass, dumped the remaining glop on him and hit him in the head with the bowl. His eyes went out of focus, and I clapped cuffs on him while he was still fuzzy-brained.

Ranger went full-on grin. “Babe.”

“I have a headache,” I said. “I never head-butted anyone before.”

“Best display of female rage that I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe ever. I liked the part where you hit him with the bowl.”

“Hair is important in Jersey. You don’t dump glop in a Jersey girl’s hair.”

“No doubt,” Ranger said. “You have me convinced.”

He yanked Trotter to his feet and dragged him toward the front door.

“We’re leaving!” I yelled to Mrs. Trotter. “Rodney is coming with us.”