One for the Money (Stephanie Plum 1)

“The kids?”

“Mother-in-law.”

“What about your diet?”

“You trying to get out of buying this pizza?”

“I've only got twelve dollars and thirty-three cents distinguishing me from the bag lady at the train station.”

“Okay, I'll buy the pizza.”

“Good. I need to talk. I have problems.”

Ten minutes later, we met at Pino's Pizzeria. There were several Italian restaurants in the burg, but Pino's was the place to get pizza. I was told at night cockroaches as big as barn cats came out to raid the kitchen, but the pizza was first rate—crust that was crisp and puffy, homemade sauce, and enough grease from the pepperoni to run down your arm and drip off your elbow. There was a bar and a family room. Late at night the bar was filled with off-duty cops trying to wind down before they went home. At this time of the day the bar was filled with men waiting for take-out.

We got a table in the family room and asked for a pitcher while we waited for the pizza. There was a shaker of crushed hot pepper in the middle of the table, and another shaker of Parmesan. The tablecloth was red-and-white checked plastic. The walls were paneled and lacquered to a shiny gloss and decorated with framed photos of famous Italians and a few non-Italian locals. Frank Sinatra and Benito Ramirez were the dominant celebs.

“So what's the problem?” Eddie wanted to know.

“Two problems. Number one. Joe Morelli. I've run into him four times since I've taken on this assignment, and I've never once come close to making an apprehension.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No. But I am afraid to use my gun.”

“Then do it the ladies' way. Spray him and cuff him.”

Easier said than done, I thought. It's hard to spray a man when he has his tongue down your throat. “That was my plan, too, but he always moves faster than I do.”

“You want my advice? Forget Morelli. You're a beginner, and he's a pro. He has years of experience behind him. He was a smart cop, and he's probably even better at being a felon.”

“Forgetting Morelli isn't an option. I'd like you to run a couple car checks for me.” I wrote the van's license number on a napkin and gave it to him. “See if you can find out who owns this. I'd also like to know if Carmen Sanchez owns a car. And if she does own a car, has it been impounded?”

I drank some beer and slouched back, enjoying the cold air and the buzz of conversation around me. Every table was filled now, and there was a knot of people waiting at the door. No one wanted to cook when it got this hot.

“So what's the second problem?” Eddie asked.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to get overwrought.”

“Christ, you're pregnant.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. “Why would you think that?”

His expression was sheepish. “I don't know. It just popped out. It's what Shirley always says to me.”

Gazarra had four kids. The oldest was nine. The youngest was a year. They were all boys, and they were all monsters.

“Well, I'm not pregnant. It's Ramirez.” I gave him the full story on Ramirez.

“You should have filed a report on him,” Gazarra said. “Why didn't you call the police when you got roughed up in the gym?”

“Would Ranger have filed a report if he got roughed up?”

“You're not Ranger.”

“That's true, but you see my point?”

“Why are you telling me this?”