Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)
“Not long. I hear sirens.”
“This is gonna be embarrassing. This is the second thing we burned up this week.”
I dialed Ranger. “Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No. I’m up and functioning. I just got a report that the GPS unit we attached to your car stopped working.”
“You know how when you toast a marshmallow it catches fire and gets all black and melted?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be my car.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I’m stranded,” I told him.
“I’ll send Tank.”
_______
I WATCHED THE fire truck disappear down the street, followed by the last remaining cop car. What was left of my Escort was on a flatbed.
“Where do you want me to take this?” the flatbed guy asked me.
“Dump it in the river.”
“You got it,” he said. And he climbed into the cab and rumbled away.
“Guess you gotta be careful when you’re going after someone who likes fire,” Lula said.
I had a shiny new black Porsche Cayenne waiting for me. Tank had dropped it off, made sure I didn’t need help, and returned to Rangeman. The car was one of several in Ranger’s personal fleet. It was immaculate inside, with no trace of Ranger other than a secret drawer under the driver’s seat. The drawer held a loaded gun. All cars in Ranger’s personal fleet had guns hidden under the seat.
I remoted the car open, and Lula and I got in.
“Now what?” Lula said.
“Lunch.”
“I like that idea. And I think we should take something to Larry on account of he’s still working on your kitchen.”
“It sounds like things went okay last night.”
“One thing you learn when you’re a ’ho is there’s all kinds in this world. Bein’ a ’ho is a broadening experience. It’s not just all hand jobs, you know. It’s listenin’ to people sometimes and tryin’ to figure out how to make them happy. That’s why I was a good ’ho. I didn’t charge by the hour.”
“And Larry fits in there somewhere.”
“Yeah. He’s a real interesting person. He was a professional wrestler. His professional name was Lady Death, but he was one of them niche market wrestlers, and his feelings got hurt when the fans didn’t like him in his pink outfits. So he quit, and he got a job as a fireman. Turns out he’s a hottie, too. He likes wearing ladies’ clothes, but he isn’t gay.”
We decided Larry was probably tired of chicken, so we got ham and cheese and hot pepper subs and brought them back to my apartment.
“Boy, that’s great of you to bring me lunch,” Larry said. “I’m starving.”
He was still wearing the Dolly Parton number. It had a fitted bodice with spaghetti straps and a swirly chiffon skirt, and there was a lot of chest hair and back hair sticking out of the top of the dress. There was also a lot of armpit hair, leg hair, and knuckle hair. He’d accessorized the dress with heels and rubber gloves.
“I know this looks funny,” he said, “but I like to feel pretty when I clean.”
“Go for it,” I told him. And I meant it. I didn’t care