Seven Up (Stephanie Plum 7)

USUALLY PEOPLE MOVE out of the Burg when they get divorced. Melvin was one of the exceptions. I think at the time of his divorce he was simply too exhausted and down-trodden to conduct any kind of a search for a place to stay.

I parked in front of Selig's house and walked around back to the garage. It was a ramshackle two-car garage with a second-story, one-man, one-room ramshackle apartment. I climbed the stairs to the apartment and knocked. I listened at the door. Nothing. I banged on the door some more, put my ear to the scarred wood, and listened again. Someone was moving around in there.

“Hey Melvin,” I yelled. “Open up.”

“Go away,” Melvin said through the door. “I'm not

feeling well. Go away.”

“It's Stephanie Plum,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

The door opened and Melvin looked out. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bloodshot.

“You were supposed to appear in court this morning,” I said.

“I couldn't go. I feel sick.”

“You should have called Vinnie.”

“Oops. I didn't think of that.”

I sniffed at his breath. “Have you been drinking?”

He rocked back on his heels and a loopy grin spread across his face. “Nope.”

“You smell like cough medicine.”

“Cherry schnapps. Someone gave it to me for Christmas.” Oh boy. I couldn't take him in like this. “Melvin, we have to sober you up.”

“I'm okay. Except I can't feel my feet.” He looked down. “I could feel them a minute ago.”

I steered him out of the apartment, locked the door behind us, and went down the rickety stairs in front of him to prevent him from breaking his neck. I poured him into my CR-V and buckled him in. He hung there suspended by the shoulder harness, mouth open, eyes glazed. I drove him to my parents' house and half dragged him inside.

“Company, how nice,” Grandma Mazur said, helping me haul Melvin into the kitchen.

My mother was ironing and tunelessly singing.

“I've never heard her sing like that,” I said to Grandma.

“She's been doing it all day,” Grandma said. “I'm starting to get worried. And she's been ironing that same shirt for an hour.”

I sat Melvin at the table and gave him some black coffee and made him a ham sandwich.

“Mom?” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. I'm just ironing, dear.”

Melvin rolled his eyes in Grandma's direction. “Do you know what I did? I urrrrrinated on the cake at my ex-wife's wedding. Pissssssed all over the icing. In front of everyone.”

“It could have been worse,” Grandma said. “You could have pooped on the dance floor.”

“Do you know what happens when you pissss on icing? It gets rrrruined. Makes it all drippy.”

“How about the little bride and groom at the top of the cake,” Grandma said. “Did you piss on them, too?”

Melvin shook his head. “I couldn't reach them. I only got the bottom tier.” He put his head down on the table. “I can't believe I embarrassed myself like that.”

“Maybe if you practice you could get the top tier next time,” Grandma said.