Seven Up (Stephanie Plum 7)

“This is the first time I've used one of these things,” Connie said. “They're kind of fun.”

Bob crept out from under the desk to take a look at Joyce.

“So, how long you been taking care of Bob?” Lula asked, heaving herself to her feet.

“He spent the night.”

“You suppose it was Bob-size poop on Joyce's lawn?”

“Anything's possible.”

“How possible? Ten percent possible? Fifty percent possible?”

We looked down at Joyce. She was starting to twitch, so Connie gave her another buzz with the stun gun.

“It's just that I hate to use the pooper-scooper . . .” I said.

“Hah!” Lula said on a bark of laughter. “I knew it!”

Connie gave Bob a doughnut from the box on her desk. “What a good boy!”

Stephanie Plum 7 - Seven Up

3

“SINCE BOB WAS such a good boy, and I'm in such a good mood, I'm gonna help you find Eddie DeChooch,” Lula said.

Her hair was sticking straight up from where Joyce had pulled it, and she'd popped a button off her shirt. Taking her along would probably ensure my safety because she looked genuinely deranged and dangerous.

Joyce was still on the floor, but she had one eye open and her fingers were moving. Best that Lula and Bob and I left before Joyce got her other eye open.

“So what do you think?” Lula wanted to know when we were all in the car and on our way to Front Street. “Do you think I'm fat?”

Lula didn't look like she had a lot of fat on her. She looked solid. Bratwurst solid. But it was a lot of bratwurst.

“Not exactly fat,” I said. “More like big.”

“I haven't got none of that cellulite, either.”

This was true. A bratwurst does not have cellulite.

I drove west on Hamilton, toward the river, to Front Street. Lula was in front riding shotgun, and Bob was in back with his head out the window, his eyes slitty and his ears flapping in the breeze. The sun was shining and the air was just a couple degrees short of spring. If it hadn't been for Loretta Ricci I'd have bagged the search for Eddie DeChooch and taken off for the shore. The fact that I needed to make a car payment gave me added incentive to point the CR-V in the direction of Ace Pavers.

Ace Pavers rolled asphalt and they were easy to find. The office was small. The garage was large. A behemoth paver sat in the chain-link holding pen attached to the garage, along with other assorted tar-blackened machinery.

I parked on the street, locked Bob in the car, and Lula and I marched up to the office. I'd expected an office manager. What I found was Ronald DeChooch playing cards with three other guys. They were all in their forties, dressed in casual dress slacks and three-button knit shirts. Not looking like executives and not looking like laborers. Sort of looking like wise guys on HBO. Good thing for television because now New Jersey knew how to dress.

They were playing cards on a rickety card table and sitting on metal folding chairs. There was a pile of money on the table, and no one appeared happy to see Lula or me.

DeChooch looked like a younger, taller version of his uncle with an extra sixty pounds evenly distributed. He put his cards facedown on the table and stood. “Can I help you ladies?”

I introduced myself and told them I was looking for Eddie.

Everyone at the table smiled.

“That DeChooch,” one of the men said, “he's something. I heard he left you two sitting in the parlor while he jumped out the bedroom window.”

This got a lot of laughs.