Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

“I don’t suppose you have any weed on you?”

“Nope. No weed.”

I left him sitting under the tree, and I returned to Lula.

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

“He’s okay.”

“He see any zombies yet?”

“Nope. No zombies.”

“Well, they’re out there, sneaking around. I can feel them watching me. And I think they might be sending me mental messages.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’re saying . . . brains, brains, brains.”

I did a 360-degree scan. I didn’t see any zombies, and I wasn’t getting any mental messages.

“I need to get more food for Ethel,” I said to Lula. “Something inexpensive.”

“How inexpensive are you thinking? Roadkill? Dumpster pickings?”

“More like almost expired rotisserie chicken.”

“That’s still going to add up to money. If you could find a woodchuck on the side of the road it would last Ethel a couple days.”

“Are you going to pick it up?”

“Hell, no. You’re the one who promised to take care of Ethel. I’m not picking up no dead woodchuck.”

I pulled into a Shop and Bag and got six rotisserie chickens. Four for Ethel, one for me, and one for Lula.

“Those chickens smell delicious,” Lula said. “I’m having a feast tonight. I’m going to stop at the deli on my way home and get some potato salad and a banana cream pie.”

After buying all those chickens, banana cream pie would not fit into my budget. Roadkill for Ethel was looking more attractive.

I turned onto Broad, and saw Johnny Chucci come out of the hardware store and walk down the street.

“That’s him!” I said. “That’s Johnny Chucci in the blue shirt and jeans.”

I pulled to the side of the road and parked at a bus stop. Lula and I got out of the car, crossed the street, and ran after Chucci. He got into a silver Honda and drove away before we got to him. Lula and I ran back to my car and took off after him. He was in sight, with two cars between us. He turned off Broad and onto Liberty. He was heading into the Burg.

“When I get close enough I want you to get his plate,” I said to Lula. “Just in case we lose him.”

“I’m on it.”

I closed the distance between us, and Chucci suddenly turned into an alley and sped up.

“He’s onto us,” Lula said.

I was on his bumper. Chucci clipped a garbage can, and it flipped up and smashed into the side of the Lexus.

“Keep going,” Lula said. “That didn’t hardly do any damage.” She had her gun out and her window rolled down. “You want me to shoot him?” she asked. “I could shoot out his tires.”

Lula couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if she was two feet away. She is the worst shot of anyone I know.