Hot Six (Stephanie Plum 6)

I searched my pockets. “I don't have any money on me. I didn't bring my purse.”

“I won't take any less than five dollars,” the woman said.

“Turns out we don't have any money on us,” Lula said.

“Then it's my poop,” the woman said.

“The heck it is,” Lula said, muscling the old woman out of the way and scooping the poop up in the chicken bucket. “We need this poop.”

“Help!” the woman yelled. “They're taking my poop! Stop! Thief!”

“I got it,” Lula said. “I got it all.” And Lula and Bob and I ran like the wind back to the office with our bucket of poop.

We collected ourselves at the back door to the office. Bob was all happy, dancing around. But Lula and I were gasping for breath.

“Boy, for a while there I was afraid she was gonna catch us,” Lula said. “She could run pretty fast for an old lady.”

“She wasn't running,” I said. “The dog was dragging her, trying to get at Bob.”

I held the paper bag open, and Lula dumped the poop into it.

“This here's gonna be fun,” Lula said. “I can't wait to see those two guys stomping on this bag of shit.”

Lula went around front with the bag and a Bic. And Bob and I went into the office through the back door. Habib and Mitchell were parked curbside, in front of the office, directly behind my Buick.

Connie and Vinnie and I peeked out the front window while Lula crept up behind the carpet car. She put the bag on the ground just past the rear bumper. We saw the lighter flame, and Lula jumped away and scuttled off around the corner.

Connie stuck her head out the door. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, you guys in the car . . . there's something burning behind you!”

Mitchell rolled the window down. “What?”

“There's something on fire behind your car!”

Mitchell and Habib got out to take a look and we all hustled through the door to join them.

“It's just some trash,” Mitchell said to Habib. “Kick it out of the way so it don't damage the car.”

“It is flaming,” Habib said. “I do not want to touch a flaming bag with my shoe.”

“This is what happens when you hire a fucking camel jockey,” Mitchell said. “You people have no work ethic.”

“This is not true. I work very hard in Pakistan. In my village in Pakistan we have a rug factory, and my job is to beat the unruly children who work there. It is a very good job.”

“Wow,” Mitchell said. “You beat the little kids who work in the factory?”

“Yes. With a stick. It is a highly skilled position. You must be careful when beating the children not to crush their little fingers or they will not be able to tie the very fine knots.”

“That's disgusting,” I said.

“Oh no,” Habib said. “The children like it, and they make much money for their families.” He turned to Mitchell and shook his finger at him. “And I work very hard beating the little children, so you should not say such things about me.”

“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “Guess I was wrong about you.” He gave the bag a kick. The bag broke and some of the debris stuck to his shoe.

“What the hell?” Mitchell shook his foot, and flaming dog shit flew everywhere. A big glob landed on the carpet on the car; there was the hiss of ignition, and flames spread everywhere.

“Holy crap,” Mitchell said, grabbing Habib, falling backward over the curb.

The fire popped and crackled, and the interior went conflagration. There was a small explosion when the gas tank caught and the car was engulfed in black smoke and flame.