12 Twelve Sharp (2 page)

'It's a work relationship,' I told Marjorie.

'If he was in here any longer the chocolate would have melted off the eclairs.'

'I don't like this,' Lula said. 'I wanted to go after the pervert. I personally think it's a bad choice to go after the guy who likes guns.'

'He's got the highest bond. The fastest way to dig Vinnie out of the hole is to get the guy with the highest bond.'

We were in Lula's red Firebird, sitting across the street from Lonnie Johnson's last known address. It was a small clapboard bungalow in a depressed neighborhood that backed up to the hockey arena. It was close to noon and not a great time to roust a bad guy. If he's still in bed, it's because he's drunk and mean. If he's not in bed, it's most likely because he's at a bar getting drunk and mean.

'What's the plan?' Lula wanted to know. 'We gonna just bust in like gangsta bounty hunters and kick his ass?'

I looked at Lula. 'Have we ever done that?'

'Don't mean we can't.'

'We'd look like idiots. We're incompetent.'

'That's harsh,' Lula said. 'And I don't think we're completely incompetent. I think we're closer to eighty percent incompetent. Remember the time you wrestled that naked greased-up fat guy? You did a good job with that one.'

'Too early in the day to do the pizza delivery routine,' I said.

'Can't do the flower delivery either. Nobody believe someone sending flowers to this dope.'

'If you hadn't changed clothes you could do the hooker delivery routine,' I said to Lula. 'He would have opened the door to you in that gold thing.'

'Maybe we pretend we're selling cookies. Like Girl Scouts. All we gotta do is go back to the 7-Eleven and get some cookies.'

I looked Johnson's phone number up on the bond sheet and called him from my cell.

'Yeah?' a man said.

'Lonnie Johnson?'

'What the fuck you want? Fuckin' bitch calling me at this hour. You think I got nothin' better to do than answer this phone?' And he hung up.

'Well?' Lula asked.

'He didn't feel like talking. And he's angry.'

A shiny black Hummer with tinted windows and bling wheel covers rolled down the street and stopped in front of Johnson's house.

'Uh-oh,' Lula said. 'Company.'

The Hummer sat there for a moment and then opened fire on Johnson's house. Multiple weapons. At least one was automatic, firing continuous rounds. Windows blew out and the house was drilled with shots. Gunfire was returned from the house, and I saw the nose of a rocket launcher poke out a front window. Obviously the Hummer saw it too because it laid rubber taking off.

'Maybe this isn't a good time,' I said to Lula.

'I told you to go for the pervert.'

Melvin Pickle worked in a shoe store. The store was part of the mall that attached to the multiplex where he'd been caught shaking hands with the devil. I didn't have a lot of enthusiasm for this capture, since I had some sympathetic feelings for Pickle. If I had to work in a shoe store all day I might go to the multiplex to whack off once in a while too.

'Not only is this going to be an easy catch,' Lula said, parking at the food court entrance, 'but we can get pizza and go shopping.'

A half hour later, we were full of pizza and had taken a couple new perfumes out for a test drive. We'd moseyed down the mall and were standing in front of Pickle's shoe store, scoping out the employees. I had a photo of Pickle that had come with his bond agreement.

That's him,' Lula said, looking into the store. 'That's him on his knees, trying to sell that dumb woman those ugly-ass shoes.'

According to Pickle's paperwork he'd just turned forty. He had sandy-colored hair that looked like it had been cut in boot camp. His skin was pale, his eyes hidden behind round-rimmed glasses, his mouth accented by a big herpes sore. He was five-foot-seven and had an average build gone soft. His slacks and dress shirt were just short of shabby. He didn't look like he cared a whole lot if the woman bought the shoes.

I moved my cuffs from my shoulder bag to my jeans pocket. 'I can manage this,' I said to Lula. 'You stay here in case he bolts.'

'I don't think he looks like a bolter,' Lula said. 'I think he looks more like the walking dead.'

I agreed with Lula. Pickle looked like he was two steps away from putting a bullet in his brain. I moved behind him and waited for him to stand.

'I love this shoe,' the woman said. 'But I need a size nine.'

'I don't have a size nine,' Pickle said.

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah.'

'Maybe you should go back and look again.'

Pickle sucked air for a couple beats and nodded. 'Sure,' he said.

He stood and turned and bumped into me.

'You're going to leave, aren't you?' I said. 'I bet you're going to go out the back door and go home and never come back.'

'It's a recurring fantasy,' he said.

I glanced at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. 'Have you had lunch?' I asked him.

'No.'

'Take your lunch now and come with me, and I'll buy you a piece of pizza.'

'There's something wrong with this picture,' Pickle said. 'Are you one of those religious nuts who wants to save me?'

'No. I'm not a religious nut.' I held my hand out. 'Stephanie Plum.'

He automatically shook my hand. 'Melvin Pickle.'

'I work for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds,' I said. 'You missed a court date, and you need to reschedule.'

'Sure,' he said.

'Now.'

'I can't go now. I gotta work.'

'You can take your lunch break.'

'I had plans for lunch.'

Probably going to see a movie. I was still holding his hand, and with my other hand I clapped a bracelet on him.

He looked down at the cuff. 'What's this? You can't do this. People will ask questions. And then what will I tell them? I'll have to tell them I'm a pervert!'

Two women looked over at him and raised their eyebrows.

'No one will care,' I said. I turned to the women. 'You don't care, right?'

'Right,' they murmured and hurried out of the store.

'Just walk out into the mall quietly with me,' I said. 'I'll take you to court and get you rebonded.'

Actually Vinnie would rebond him. Vinnie and Connie could write bond. Lula and I did the capture thing.

'Darn,' Pickle said. 'Darn it all.'

And he took off with the cuff dangling from his wrist. Lula stepped in front of him, but he had momentum and knocked her on her ass. He faltered for a moment, got his footing and ran off, into the mall. I was ten steps behind him. I stumbled over Lula, scrambled to my feet, and kept going. I chased him through the mall and up an escalator.

A hotel with an open atrium was attached to one end of the mall. Pickle ran into the hotel and barreled through the fire door into the stairwell. I chased him up five flights of stairs and thought my lungs were going to explode. He exited the stairwell, and I dragged myself, gasping, to the door.

There were seven floors in the hotel. All rooms opened to a hallway that overlooked the hotel atrium. We were on the sixth floor. I staggered out of the stairwell and saw that Pickle had made it halfway around the atrium and was straddling the balcony railing.

'Don't come near me,' he yelled. 'I'll jump.'

'Fine with me,' I said. 'I get my money dead or alive.'

Pickle looked depressed at that fact. Or maybe Pickle just always looked depressed.

'You're in pretty good shape,' I said, still winded. 'How do you stay in such good shape?'

'My car got repossessed. I walk everywhere. And all day long I'm up and down with the shoes. At the end of the day my knees are killing me.'

I was talking to him, creeping closer. 'Why don't you get a different job? One that's easier on your knees.'

'Are you kidding me? I'm lucky to have this job. Look at me. I'm a loser. And now everybody's going to know I'm a pervert. I'm a pervert loser. And I have a big herpes. I'm a pervert loser with a herpes!'

'You need to get a grip. You don't have to be a pervert loser if you don't want to be.'

He sat on the railing and swung both legs over. 'Easy for you to say You aren't named Melvin Pickle. And I bet you were a baton twirler in high school. You probably had friends. You probably date.'

'I don't exactly date, but I sort of have a boyfriend.'

'What does sort of mean?'

'It means that he looks like my boyfriend, but I don't say it out loud.'

'Why not?' Pickle wanted to know.

'It feels weird. I'm not sure why.' Okay, I knew why, but I wasn't going to say that out loud either. I had feelings for two men, and I didn't know how to choose between them. 'And I wish you wouldn't sit like that. It's creeping me out.'

'Are you afraid I'll fall? I thought you didn't care. Remember dead or alive?'

My cell phone was ringing in my bag.

'For crying out loud, answer it,' Pickle said. 'Don't worry about me, I'm only going to kill myself.'

I did an exaggerated eye roll and answered the phone.

'Hey,' Lula said. 'Where are you? I been looking all over.'

'I'm in the hotel at the end of the mall.'

'I'm right outside of that hotel. What are you doing there? Do you have Pickle?'

'I don't exactly have Pickle. We're on the sixth floor, and he's thinking about jumping off the balcony.'

I looked over the railing and saw Lula walk into the atrium. She looked up, and I waved at her.

'I see you,' Lula said. 'Tell Pickle he's gonna make a big mess if he jumps. This floor's marble, and his head's gonna crack open like a fresh egg, and there's gonna be brains and blood all over the place.'

I disconnected and relayed the message to Pickle.

'I have a plan,' he said. 'I'm going to jump feet first. That way my head won't make such an impact when I land.'

Pickle was getting noticed. People were dotted around the atrium, looking up at him. The elevator opened behind me and a man in a suit stepped out.

'What's going on here?' he wanted to know.

'Don't come near me!' Pickle yelled. 'If you come near me, I'll jump.'

'I'm the hotel manager,' the man said. 'Is there something I can do?'

'Do you have a giant net?' I asked him.

'Just go away,' Pickle said. 'I have big problems. I'm a pervert.'

'You don't look like a pervert,' the manager said.

'I whacked off in the multiplex,' Pickle told him.

'Everybody whacks off in the multiplex,' the manager said. 'I like to go when there's one of those chick flicks playing, and I wear my wife's panties and I—'

'Jeez,' Pickle said. 'Too much information.'

The manager disappeared behind the elevator doors and minutes later reappeared in the lobby. He stood in a small cluster of hotel employees, everyone with their head back, their eyes glued to Pickle.

'You're making a scene,' I said to Pickle.

'Yeah,' Pickle said. 'Pretty soon they're going to start yelling “jump.” The human race is lacking. Have you noticed?'

'There are some good people,' I told him.

'Oh yeah? Who's the best person you know? Of all the people you know personally, is there anyone who has a sense of right and wrong and lives by it?'

This was a sticky question because it would have to be Ranger… but I suspected he occasionally killed people. Only bad people, of course, but still…

The crowd in the atrium was growing and now included some uniformed security guys and two Trenton cops. One of the cops was on his two-way, probably calling Morelli to tell him I was involved in yet another disaster. A cameraman and his assistant joined the crowd.

'We're on television,' I told Pickle.

Pickle looked down, waved at the camera, and everyone cheered.

'This is getting too weird,' I told Pickle. 'I'm leaving.'

'You can't leave. If you leave, I'll jump.'

'I don't care, remember?'

'Of course you care. You'll be responsible for my death.'

'Oh no. No, no, no.' I wagged my finger at him. 'That won't work with me. I grew up in the Burg. I was raised Catholic. I know guilt in and out. The first thirty years of my life were ruled by guilt. Not that guilt is an entirely bad thing. But you're not going to lay it on me. Whether you live or die is your choice. I have nothing to do with it. I'm not taking responsibility for the state of the pot roast anymore.'

'Pot roast?'

'Every Friday I'm expected for dinner at my parents' house. Every Friday my mom makes pot roast. If I'm late, the pot roast cooks too long and gets dry, and it's all my fault.'

'And?'

'And it's not my fault!'

'Of course it's your fault. You were late. They were nice enough to make a pot roast for you. Then they were nice enough to hold dinner for you even though it meant ruining the pot roast. Boy, you should learn some manners.'

My cell phone rang again. It was my Grandma Mazur. She lives with my mom and dad. She moved in when Grandpa Mazur sailed off in a heaven-bound gravy boat.

'You're on television,' she said. 'I was trying to find Judge Judy, and you popped up. They said you were breaking news. Are you trying to rescue that guy on the railing, or are you trying to get him to jump?'

'In the beginning I was trying to rescue him,' I said. 'But I'm starting to change my mind.'

'I gotta go now,' Grandma said. 'I gotta call Ruth Biablocki and tell her you're on television. She's always going on about her granddaughter and how she's got that good job at the bank. Well let's see her top this one. Her granddaughter don't get on television!'

'What are you so depressed about that you want to jump off this balcony?' I asked Pickle. 'Jumping to your death is pretty severe.'

'My life sucks! My wife left me and took everything, including my clothes and my dog. I got fired from my job and had to go to work in a shoe store. I have no money, so I had to move back home and live with my mother. And I got caught whacking off in a multiplex. Could it possibly get any worse?'

'You have your health.'

'I think I'm getting a cold. I have a huge oozing cold sore!'

My phone rang again.

'Cupcake,' Morelli said. 'I don't like finding you in a hotel with another guy.'