Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(9)

A thin man with balding black hair and excessively bloodshot eyes was at the kitchen table. He was wearing a tight silky black shirt, and he was drinking Jose Cuervo tequila without benefit of a glass or straw.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said, eyeing Lula. “You looking for a booty job? I got an opening this afternoon. Soon as I’m done with lunch.”

“First off, I’m not your sweetie,” Lula said. “Second, do I look like I need any work? My booty is perfect just like the rest of me. And even if I wasn’t perfect, I wouldn’t let a drunk punk-ass like you touch me.”

“Sticks and stones,” he said.

“Rodney Trotter?” I asked.

“Yeah. How about you, cutie? You looking to get beautified? I got a special going this week on lips.” He squinted at the woman. “Hey, Ma, show her your lips.”

His mother did duck lips at me and shuffled off into the living room.

“I could give you lips like that,” Trotter said.

“Gee, hard to pass up, but no,” I told him. “I’m looking to take you downtown to reschedule your court date.”

“No can do. I got a big day ahead of me.”

His eyes rolled back in his head, he fell off his chair, and crashed to the floor.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “You think he’s dead?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I think he passed out from too much lunch.”

“This man should not be practicing medicine,” Lula said. “He’s a mess. He shouldn’t even be practicing fake medicine.”

“Mrs. Trotter!” I yelled. “We have a problem.”

The woman came into the kitchen and looked down at Rodney. “Sometimes he takes a nap after lunch,” she said.

“We could drag him out, throw him into your backseat, and turn him over to the police,” Lula said to me. “Problem is, the police might not want him being that he’s unconscious. They’ve been getting picky about that lately.”

I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket. “We can secure him and let him sleep it off at the office.”

I reached for his wrist. His eyes blinked open and he scrambled away from me.

“That was a short nap,” Lula said.

“Get away from me,” Trotter said. “I know my rights. I’m a doctor.”

“You aren’t no doctor,” Lula said, “and you got no rights. You signed them away when you got bonded out of jail.”

Trotter lurched to his feet and grabbed a large syringe off the kitchen counter. “One step closer and I’ll inject you.”

“What the hell is that?” Lula asked. “It looks like something you’d use on a horse.”

“Tools of the trade,” he said. “I can work miracles with this baby.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Put the syringe down.”

“Get out of my house or someone gets this in their face,” he said. “I’ll make your nose look like it should be a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

“You want me to shoot him?” Lula asked.

“No!” I said. “We don’t shoot people.”

“Sometimes we shoot people,” Lula said.

“Not this time. He isn’t armed.”

“He looks armed to me,” Lula said. “He’s threatening to rearrange my nose with butt filler.”

“Don’t get too close to him,” I said. “Let me handle this.”

“How are you going to handle it? You going to let him pump up your nose? I’ll tell you how I’m handling it. I’m leaving. If I can’t shoot him, then I’m out of here. Adios. Au revoir. Sayonara.”

Lula and I backed out of the kitchen, not taking our eyes off Trotter. We hurried through the living room, left the house, and jumped into my car. Okay, Stephanie, I told myself, so this wasn’t your finest hour, but you’ll have another chance to capture him. It’s all about dogged perseverance, right?

“That was a disappointing experience,” Lula said. “I need to elevate my endorphins. I say we go after the Cluck-in-a-Bucket fry cook, on account of I could try out those new donuts everyone’s talking about. They’re calling them chicken nuts because they fry the dough in the same oil as the fried chicken. I’m thinking some of those chicken nuts could take my endorphins to a whole new level. Besides it’s a real innovation in the world of fast-food frying. And you know I’m all about innovating.”

I pulled away from the curb. “Onward to the chicken nuts.”





CHAPTER FIVE


Cluck-in-a-Bucket is five minutes from the bail bonds office on a good day. Ten minutes if church is getting out or if there’s a funeral procession leaving the funeral home on Hamilton. It was twenty minutes from Trotter’s house.

We got to Cluck-in-a-Bucket after the lunch rush and before the dinner rush. There were a few cars in the parking lot. No cars in the drive-thru line.

“I’m feeling good about this,” Lula said. “This is gonna be a win-win. We capture the fry cook and we get chicken nuts as a bonus.”

I’d be happy with just a win. I wasn’t sold on the chicken nuts. I parked the car and got out and arranged my gear. Cuffs in jeans right-hand back pocket. Car keys in jeans left-hand back pocket. Pepper spray in right-hand sweatshirt pocket. Fake badge and legitimate right to apprehend papers in left sweatshirt pocket. Illegal stun gun left in car. Cell phone and credit card in sports bra. Lula kept her equipment in her purse. Lula rarely had pockets.