“You should have been here in the beginning when Vinnie was making sounds like a cow. Think Joyce must have been milking him,” Lula said.
Some low-key grunting and moaning was going on beyond the closed door. The grunting stopped and Lula and Connie leaned forward expectantly.
“This is my favorite part,” Lula said. “This is where they get to the spanking and Joyce barks like a dog.”
I leaned forward with them, listening for the spanking, wanting Joyce to bark like a dog, feeling embarrassed but not able to walk away.
I was firmly pulled back by my ponytail. Ranger had come in behind me and had me by the hair. “Glad to see you're hard at work looking for Mooner.”
“Shhh. I want to hear Joyce bark like a dog.”
Ranger had me flat against him, and I could feel the heat from his body seeping into mine. “Not sure that's worth waiting for, babe.”
There was some slapping and some squealing and then there was silence.
“Well, that was fun,” Lula said, “but there's gonna be a price for the entertainment. Joyce only goes in there when she wants something. And there's only one high-bond case pending right now.”
I looked at Connie. “Eddie DeChooch? Vinnie wouldn't give Eddie over to Joyce, would he?”
“Usually he only sinks that low when there are horses involved,” Connie said.
“Yeah, equine sex is the dollar ticket,” Lula said.
The door opened and Joyce flounced out. “I'll need the paperwork on DeChooch,” she said.
I lunged at her, but Ranger still had hold of my lair, so I didn't get very far. “Vinnie,” I yelled, “get out here!”
The door to Vinnie's inner office crashed closed and there was the sound of the lock clicking into place.
Lula and Connie glared at Joyce.
“It's going to take a while to get the paperwork together,” Connie said. “Maybe days.”
“No problem,” Joyce said. “I'll be back.” She glanced over at me. “Nice eye. Very attractive.”
I was going to have to do another Bob on her lawn. Maybe I could sneak into her house somehow and do a Bob on her bed.
Ranger released my ponytail but kept a hand on my neck. I tried to act calm, but his touch was humming through me all the way to my toes and points in between.
“None of my contacts have seen anyone meeting Mooner's description,” Ranger said. “I thought we might discuss the subject with Dave Vincent.”
Lula and Connie looked my way. “What's happened to Mooner?”
“Disappeared,” I said. “Just like Dougie.”
Stephanie Plum 7 - Seven Up
8
RANGER WAS DRIVING a black Mercedes that looked fresh off the showroom floor. Ranger's cars were always black and always new and always of questionable ownership. He had a pager and a cell phone clipped to his visor and a police scanner under the dash. And I knew from past experience that there'd be a sawed-off shotgun and an assault weapon hidden somewhere in the car and a semi-automatic clipped to his belt. Ranger is one of the few civilians in Trenton with a permit to carry concealed. He owns office buildings in Boston, has a daughter in Florida by a failed marriage, has worked worldwide as a mercenary, and has a moral code that isn't entirely in sync with our legal system. I have no idea who the heck he is . . . but I like him.
The Snake Pit wasn't open for business, but there were cars parked in the small lot adjacent to the building and the front door was ajar. Ranger parked next to a black BMW, and we went inside. A cleaning crew worked at polishing the bar and washing the floor. Three muscle-bound guys stood to one side, drinking coffee and talking. I assumed they were wrestlers going over the game plan. And I could see why Grandma left bingo early to come to The Snake Pit. The possibility that one or more of the coffee drinkers could have his underwear ripped off in the mud held some appeal. Truth is, I think naked men are kind of strange looking what with their doodles and ding-dong hanging loose like they do. Nevertheless, there's the curiosity thing. I guess it's another one of those car crash experiences, where you feel compelled to look even if you know you'll be horrified.
Two men were sitting at a table reviewing what looked like a spreadsheet. They were in their fifties with health club bodies, dressed in slacks and lightweight sweaters. They looked up when we entered. One of them acknowledged Ranger.
“Dave Vincent and his accountant,” Ranger said to me. “Vincent is the one in the tan sweater. The one who nodded hello.”
Perfect for the house in Princeton.