Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

And Sally opened the door in full drag. Black bitch queen wig, skin-?tight silver-?sequined sheath that stopped three inches below his ass, and strappy silver platform heels that put him at a startling 6'8" without the hair.

Sally gave me the once-?over. “I thought we were supposed to be in disguise.”

“I' m disguised as a f

ox,” Lula said.

“Yeah, and I'm disguised as an old lady,” Grandma said.

“My mother wouldn't let me go if I was disguised as somebody,” I said.

Sally tugged at his dress. “I'm disguised as Sheba.”

“Girlfriend,” Lula said to him, “you are the shit.”

“Sally's a drag queen,” I explained to Grandma.

“No kidding,” Grandma said. “I always wanted to meet a drag queen. I always wanted to know what you do with your dingdong when you wear girl's clothes.”

“You're supposed to wear special underpants that tuck you under.”

We all looked down at the crotch-?level bulge in the front of Sally's dress.

“So sue me,” Sally said. “They give me a rash.”

Lula tipped her nose in the air. “What's that smell? Mmmmmm, I smell something baking.”

Sally rolled his eyes. “It's Sugar. He's in a fucking frenzy. He must have gone through ten pounds of flour in the last two hours.”

Lula muscled past Sally into the kitchen. “Lord,” she said, “will you look at this . . . cakes as far as the eye could see.”

Sugar was at the counter, kneading bread dough. He looked up when we came in and gave us an embarrassed smile. “You probably think I'm weird to be doing all this baking.”

“Honey, I think you're cute as a button,” Lula said. “You ever want a new roommate you give me a call.”

“I like the way it smells when you have something in the oven,” Sugar said. “Like home.”

“We're going to Atlantic City,” I said to Sugar. “Would you like to join us?”

“Thanks, but I have a pie ready to go in, and this dough has to rise, and then I have some ironing . . . ”

“Damn,” Lula said, “you sound like Cinderella.”

Sugar poked at his dough. “I'm not much of a gambler.”

We each took a cookie from a plate on the counter and herded ourselves out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the elevator.

“What a sad little guy,” Lula said. “He don't look like he has much fun.”

“He's a lot more fun when he's in a dress,” Sally said. “You put him in a dress and his whole personality changes.”

“Then why don't he always wear a dress?” Lula wanted to know.

Sally shrugged. “I don't know. Guess that doesn't feel right, either.”

We crossed the sleek marble lobby and walked the flower-?bordered path to the lot.

“Over here,” I said to Sally. “The blue-?and-?white Buick.”