Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

“Pot roast,” Lula said. “Boy, I like pot roast.” She pulled a chair up and shook out her napkin.

“I always wanted to eat with a Negro,” Grandma said.

“Yeah, well, I always wanted to eat with a boney-?assed old white woman,” Lula said. “So I guess this works out good.”

Grandma and Lula did some complicated handshake thing.

“Bitchin',” Grandma said.

* * * * *

IT WAS the first time I'd ridden in the new Firebird, and I was feeling envious.

“How can you afford a car like this working as a file clerk? And how come your insurance came through, and I'm still waiting?”

“First off, I got low overhead where I'm living. And second, I just keep leasing these suckers. You barbecue a car and they give you a new one. No sweat.”

“Maybe I should look into that.”

“Just don't tell them about how your cars keep getting blown up. They might think you're a risk, you know what I'm saying?” Lula had taken High to Hamilton. “This guy, Bernie, works at the supermarket on Route Thirty-?three. When he's not stacking oranges he's selling wacky tobaccy, which is the common link between Barnhardt and Mama Nowicki. Nowicki talks to Bernie, then Bernie talks to Barnhardt.”

“Joyce said it was a retail connection.”

“Ain't that the truth.”

“From what Connie got on the phone it seems he's also visually challenged.”

“Blind?”

“Ugly.”

She turned into the supermarket lot and rolled to a stop in a front slot. Not many people were shopping at this time of the night.

“Joyce said he was a horny little troll, so if you don't want to buy dope maybe you can promise him favors.”

“As in sexual favors?”

“You don't have to deliver,” Lula said. “All you gotta do is promise. I'd do it, but I think he's more your type.”

“What type is that?”

“White.”

“How do I find him?”

“Name's Bernie. Works in Produce. Looks like a horny little troll.”

I pulled the visor mirror down, fluffed my hair and applied fresh lip gloss. “Do I look okay?”

“From what I hear, this guy won't care if you bark and chase cars.”

I didn't have trouble finding him. He was stickering grapefruits with his back to me. He had a lot of curly black hair on the back and sides of his head and none on the top. The top of his head looked like a big pink egg. He was just under five feet, and built like a fireplug.

I put a sack of potatoes in my cart, and I cruised over to him. “Excuse me,” I said.

He turned, tilted his head back and looked at me. His fat fish lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“Nice apples,” I said.