Read Finger Lickin' Fifteen Online

Authors: Janet Evanovich

Tags: #Fiction - General, #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Trenton (N.J.), #Mystery Fiction, #Humorous Fiction, #Large Type Books, #Mystery, #Plum, #Women bounty hunters, #Detective, #Mystery & Detective, #Humorous, #Fiction - Mystery, #New Jersey, #Stephanie (Fictitious character), #Suspense, #American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, #Bail bond agents, #Adult, #Humour, #Police, #Mystery & Thrillers, #Trenton (N. J.), #Cooks - Crimes against, #Cooks, #Police - New Jersey

Finger Lickin' Fifteen (8 page)

BOOK: Finger Lickin' Fifteen
6.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

I walked through his apartment in the dark and debated sleeping on the couch, but in the end Ranger’s bed was too alluring. He was working a double shift, doing drive-bys on accounts he felt were at highest risk for break-in. That meant he wouldn’t be back until six A.M. All I had to do was set the alarm so I’d be out of his bed before he rolled in.

The next morning, I was still in my pajamas and was standing in Ranger’s kitchen when he got home. I wasn’t entirely with the program, needing at least another two hours of sleep and a lot of hot coffee. Ranger had been up for more than twenty-four hours and looked annoyingly alert.

He wrapped an arm around me and kissed me just above my ear. “There’s something wrong with this picture,” Ranger said. “You’re in my bed a lot, but never with me.”

“It was nice of you to let me stay here. Lula has taken over my apartment.”

“Nice has nothing to do with it,” Ranger said.

“How was your night?”

“Long. And uneventful. I need to get some sleep. Are you coming back to bed with me?”

“No. I’m up for the day. Gotta get to work and solve all your problems.”

“If you call Ella, she’ll bring breakfast. Or you can get dressed and have breakfast on the fifth floor.”

“I haven’t got any clothes.”

“Ella has clothes for you.”

He took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, kissed me on the forehead, and left the kitchen. I called Ella, told her I was in Ranger’s apartment, and ten minutes later, Ella was at the door with a breakfast tray and a shopping bag filled with Rangeman gear.

Ella wore Rangeman black just like everyone else in the building. Today she was in a girl-style V-neck T-shirt and black jeans.

I took the bag and tray from her at the door and thanked her.

“Let me know if the clothes don’t fit,” she said. “I saw you in the building yesterday, and I took a guess at the size. I didn’t think you’d changed from the last time you worked here.”

“I didn’t see you,” I said. “I never see you! Food just mysteriously appears and disappears in the fifth floor kitchen.”

“I try to stay invisible and not disrupt the men’s routine.”

Ella left, and I ate a bagel with cream cheese, drank a couple cups of coffee, and picked at some fresh fruit. My eyes were pretty much open, but I wasn’t sure my heart was beating fast enough to propel me through the day. I collapsed on Ranger’s couch and woke up a little before eight A.M. I picked some clothes out of the shopping bag, tiptoed past Ranger, and quietly closed the bathroom door.

I took a shower, brushed my teeth, dressed in my new clothes, and emerged from the bathroom feeling like a functioning human being. I was awake. I was clean. The caffeine had kicked in and my heart was racing. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the caffeine. Maybe it was the sight of Ranger with a day-old beard, sleeping in the bed I’d recently vacated.

I left the apartment and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Roger King was monitoring the station that included the code computer. I paused in front of him to watch him work. He was on the phone with an account that had accidentally tripped their alarm. He was polite and professional. The conversation was short. The account gave King their password, King verified the password and ended the call.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen someone verify a password,” I said to King.

King was a nice-looking guy with a voice like velvet. I knew from his human resources file that he was twenty-seven years old and had a degree in criminal justice from a community college. He’d worked as a cop in a small town in Pennsylvania but quit to take the job with Rangeman.

“If you work this shift, you get a lot of bogus alarms,” King said. “People get up in the morning and forget the alarm is on. By the time Chet takes over, this desk is like a graveyard.”

When Chet showed up for his shift, I ventured out of my cubicle again and attempted small talk. Chet was polite but not stimulating, and I was feeling like I was contributing to the graveyard syndrome, so I moseyed on back to work, starting a computer search on a deadbeat client.

Louis had made good on the new chair, and my ass no longer cramped after a half hour. I was wearing black slacks that had some stretch, and a short-sleeved V-neck knit shirt with
stitched on it and my name stitched below the
. Ella had also given me cargo pants and matching button-down-collared shirts with roll-up sleeves, a couple stretchy little skirts, black running shoes, black socks, a black zippered sweatshirt, and a black windbreaker. I was on my own for underwear.

A little before noon, I sensed a shift in the climate and looked up to find Ranger on deck. He spoke briefly to each of the men at the monitoring stations, grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen, and stopped at my cubicle on his way to his office. He was freshly showered and shaved and perfectly pressed in black dress slacks and shirt.

“I have a client meeting in the boardroom in fifteen minutes,” he said. “After that, I need to catch up on paperwork, and then I’ll take another surveillance shift at six. How far did you get on the accounts list yesterday?”

“Not that far. I was getting ready to pack up here and spend the afternoon riding around.”

“Do you need a company car?”

“No. I’m okay in the Escort.”

I stuffed myself into my new Rangeman sweatshirt, hiked my purse onto my shoulder, and went to the kitchen to load up on free food. Ella had set out vegetable soup and crackers, assorted sandwiches, a salad bar, and a large display of fresh fruit. I looked it all over and blew out a sigh.

Ramon was behind me, and he burst out laughing. “Let me guess what that sigh was about. You want a hot dog, fries, and a brownie with ice cream.”

“I’d kill for a meatball sub and a hunk of birthday cake, but this is better for me,” I said, selecting a barbecue chicken sandwich.

“Yeah, I keep telling myself that. If I get shot dead on the job, there won’t be an ounce of fat on me.”

“Do you worry about that?”

“Getting shot dead? No. I don’t do a lot of worrying, but the reality is most of this job is routine, with the occasional potential for really bad shit.”

I dropped the sandwich into my purse, along with an apple and an organic granola bar. “Gotta go,” I said. “Things to do.”

“Knock yourself out.”

I took the elevator to the garage, wrenched open the rusted door on my p.o.s. Escort, and motored out to the street. Probably it was stupid to refuse Ranger’s offer of a company car, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I had lousy car karma, and I always felt crappy when I used Ranger’s Porsche and it got stolen or crushed by a garbage truck.

I had my map on the seat beside me, and I drove from one account to the next according to neighborhood. By four o’clock, I’d gone through all the accounts and had checked off a handful that I thought had the potential for a future break-in. I’d gone full circle around the city and ended on lower Hamilton, a half mile from the bonds office.

Lula hadn’t called about the door, but I felt confident the door had been replaced and everything was cool. I drove up Hamilton to talk to Connie and Lula and found Connie was manning the office all by herself.

“Where is everyone?” I asked Connie.

“Vinnie is writing bond for someone, and Lula is at your apartment. She said she lives there now.”

“I let her stay last night because her door was broken.”

“I guess her door is still broken,” Connie said.

“That’s ridiculous. How long does it take to replace a door? You go to Home Depot, buy a door, and hang it on those doohickey hinge things.”

“Something about it being a crime scene. The door can’t be replaced until the lab checks it out.”

“Who said that?”

“Morelli. He stopped by the office to talk to her after she reported the shooting.”

Unh! Mental head slap.

I dialed Morelli and did some anti-hyperventilation exercises while I waited for him to pick up.

“What?” Morelli said.

“Did you tell Lula she couldn’t replace her door?”


“That’s stupid. She has to replace her door. How can she live in her apartment without a door?”

“It’s a crime scene that’s part of an ongoing murder investigation, and we couldn’t schedule evidence collection today. I’ll have a guy out there tomorrow, and then she can replace her door.”

“You don’t understand. She’s camped out in my apartment.”


“I can’t live with her! She rumbles around. She takes up space.
Lots of space!
And she snores!!”

“Listen,” Morelli said. “I have my own problems.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t want to know.”

A woman’s voice called out in the background. “Get off the phone. I need help with my zipper.”

My heart felt like it had stopped dead in my chest. “Is that who I think it is?” I asked Morelli.

“Yeah, and I can’t get rid of her. Thank God her zipper’s stuck. I’m moving in with my brother.”

For a moment, my entire field of vision went red. Undoubtedly due to a sudden, violent rise in blood pressure once my heart started beating again. It was Joyce Barnhardt. I hated Joyce Barnhardt. She was a sneaky, mean little kid when we were in school together. She spread rumors, stole boyfriends, alienated girlfriends, cheated on tests, and looked under stall doors in the girls’ bathroom. And now that she was all grown up, she wasn’t much different. She stole husbands, boyfriends, and jobs, cheating in any way possible. Her very presence in Morelli’s house sent me into the irrationally enraged nutso zone.

I sucked in some air and pretended I was calm. “You’re a big strong guy,” I said, my voice mostly steady, well below the screaming level. “You could get rid of her if you wanted.”

“It’s not that easy. She walked right into my house. I’m going to have to start locking my doors. And she came in with a tray of lasagna. I’m afraid to touch it. She’s probably got it laced with roofies.”

Okay, get a grip here. She walked into Morelli’s house. She wasn’t invited. It could be worse, right?

“Why is she suddenly bringing you food?” I asked him.

“She’s been up my ass ever since you broke up with me.”

“Hey, stud,” Joyce yelled to Morelli. “Get over here.”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “Maybe I should just shoot her and get it done with.”

I had a bunch of bitchy comments rolling through my head, but I clamped my mouth shut to keep the comments from spewing out into the phone. I mean, honestly, how hard is it to shove a woman out your back door? What am I supposed to be thinking here?

“I have to go,” Morelli said. “I don’t like the way she’s looking at my olive oil.”

I made a sticking-my-finger-down-my-throat gagging motion and hung up.

“What was that about?” Connie wanted to know.

“Barnhardt is trying to feed her lasagna to Morelli.”

“She’s fungus,” Connie said.

“I’m not too happy with Morelli, either.”

“He’s a man,” Connie said. As if that explained it all.

“I suppose I should go home and see what Lula is doing.”

“I know what she’s doing,” Connie said. “She’s brewing barbecue sauce with your grandmother.”

“In my apartment?”

“That was the plan.”

Eek! Okay, so I know my apartment isn’t going to get a full-page spread in
Home Beautiful
, but it’s all I’ve got. Bad enough I have Lula in it. Lula and Grandma together are total facaca.

“Gotta go,” I said to Connie. “See you tomorrow.”

Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “Where are you going? Why are you dressed up in Rangeman stuff? Christ, you’re not moonlighting, are you? You aren’t any good when you’re working for me full-time. Now I’m sharing you with Ranger?”

“I brought two skips in this week.”

“Big deal. What about all the others still in the wind? This isn’t a goddamn charity. I’m not buying these idiots out of jail for my health. And it’s not like you’re the only bounty hunter out there,” Vinnie said. “You could be replaced.”

“Lucille’s been talking redecorating again,” Connie said to me. “Vinnie needs money.”

Lucille was Vinnie’s wife. She tortured Vinnie by constantly redecorating their house and by spending his money faster than he could make it. We figured this was retribution for Vinnie boinking anything that moved. The good part of the deal was that all Vinnie could do was pedal twice as fast, since Lucille’s father, Harry the Hammer, financed the bonds office. If Vinnie left Lucille, not only would he be unemployed, there was a good chance he’d be dining with Stanley Chipotle.

“She’s killing me,” Vinnie said. “I haven’t got money to buy a hot dog for lunch. My bookie took me off his iPhone.”

Actually, it wasn’t a good thing when Vinnie got this broke, because instead of buying favors from professionals on Stark Street, we suspected Vinnie was forced to chase down ducks at the park.


I LEFT THE bonds office, drove a couple blocks on Hamilton, and took a right into Morelli’s neighborhood. Best not to examine my motives too closely. I was telling myself morbid curiosity was the driving force, but my heart was beating pretty hard for something that benign. I left-turned onto Morelli’s street, cruised half a block, and stopped in front of his house. His SUV was gone, and there was no sign of Joyce’s car. No lights on in the house. No sign of activity. I turned at the next corner and headed for the Burg. I drove past Morelli’s brother’s house. No SUV there, either.

Okay, get a grip, I told myself. No reason to get crazy. Morelli is a free man. He can do whatever the heck he wants. If he wants to act like a jerk and get friendly with Barnhardt, it’s his problem. Anyway, I have to expect that he’ll be seeing other women. That’s what happens when people break up . . . they spend time with other people, right? Just because I don’t want to spend time with other people doesn’t mean Morelli has to feel that way. I’m one of those people who needs space between relationships. I don’t just jump into stuff. And I don’t do one-night stands. Usually. There was that time with Ranger, but you couldn’t really categorize it as a one-night stand. It was more like a onetime-only ticket to

I turned out of the Burg onto Hamilton, and five minutes later, I pulled into my parking lot. I parked next to Lula’s Firebird and looked up at my windows. No smoke. No sign of fire. No one running screaming out of the building. That was good. Maybe I wasn’t too late. Maybe they hadn’t started cooking yet. Maybe they’d discovered I only had one pot and decided to watch television.

I jogged across the lot, up the stairs, and down the hall to my apartment, reminding myself to stay calm. Lula and Grandma were in my kitchen and my counters were filled with bottles of barbecue sauce, dry rub, vinegar, cooking sherry, a half-empty bottle of rum, lemons, onions, oranges, a keg of ketchup, and a ten-pound can of tomato sauce. Grandma and Lula were in their chef’s clothes, except Lula was missing her hat. My sink was filled with dirty measuring cups, assorted utensils, bowls, and measuring spoons. There was a large pot hissing on the stove.

“What the heck is that?” I asked Lula.

“I got my pressure cooker goin’ here,” Lula said. “I saw it advertised on QVC. It cuts cookin’ time in half. Maybe more. And it preserves all the goodness of the food. It was real expensive on television, but I got this one off of Lenny Skulnik. It’s good quality, too, because it was made in China.”

Lenny Skulnik sold knock-off handbags and kitchen appliances out of the trunk of his car. I went to school with Lenny. He was totally without scruples, and one of the more successful graduates.

“Are you sure it’s supposed to make those noises?” I asked Lula. “And what about all that steam?”

“It’s supposed to steam,” Lula said. “It’s why you call it a pressure cooker. And if you look close, you could see the pressure indicator is all red. That’s the sign of good pressure cookin’. You wouldn’t want no green shit on a pressure-cookin’ indicator.”

“Are you sure? Did you read the instructions?”

“This one didn’t come with no instructions. This was the economy model.”

I kept Rex’s cage on the kitchen counter. It was lost behind the bottles and cans, but I could see Rex running on his wheel for all he was worth, every now and then sneaking a peek at the pot on the stove.

The pot had gone beyond hissing and was now whistling a high keening wail.
Red sauce was sputtering out of the steam hole and the pot was vibrating.

“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “It’s just workin’ itself up to maximum pressurizin’.”

“It’s a modern miracle,” Grandma said.

I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I always worried when the little bulb at the top of anything went red. And I recognized the sound the pot was making. I felt like that sometimes, and it never ended well.

“Maybe you should turn the heat down a little,” I said to Lula.

“I guess I could do that,” Lula said. “It must almost be done. We’ve been cooking it for over an hour.”

Lula reached for the knob on the stove and at that exact moment there was a
sound and the two latches flew off the lid.

“Holy cats,” Lula said.

“She’s gonna blow!” Grandma yelled. “Run for your life!”

Rex darted into his soup can. Lula and Grandma and I turned tail and bolted. And the lid exploded off the pot.
The lid hit the ceiling like it had been launched from a rocket, and barbecue sauce was thrown onto every exposed surface. There was a hole in the ceiling where the lid had impacted, and sauce dripped from the ceiling and slimed down cabinets.

“Guess we aren’t having barbecue for dinner tonight,” Grandma said, creeping back to the stove to look in the pot.

Lula swiped at some of the sauce on the counter and tasted it. “Not exactly right yet, anyways.”

A splotch of sauce dripped off the ceiling onto Grandma’s head, and she retreated out of the kitchen.

“I feel like getting some of that Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind the Clucky Dinner Tray with the extra-crispy chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lula said. “I could use some chicken, and I got a coupon for the Clucky Dinner Tray.”

“What about my kitchen?” I asked Lula.

“What about it?”

“It’s a mess!”

Lula glanced at the kitchen. “Yeah, it don’t look too good. You’re gonna have to use one of them degreasers on it.”

“I’m not cleaning this kitchen.”

“Well, somebody gotta do it,” Lula said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “That would be you.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “In my opinion, that pot manufacturer should be responsible for the cleanup. I got a faulty pot.”

“The manufacturer in China?” I asked her.

“Yeah. That’s the one. I’m gonna tell Lenny Skulnik he needs to get in touch with them.”

“And you think they’re going to send someone from China to clean my kitchen?”

“I see your point,” Lula said. “I guess I could do some cleaning, but I’d need a stepladder. Or else I’d need a big strong fireman to help me out.”

“I thought you pulled a gun on him.”

“Yeah, but he might be persuaded to overlook that if I let him wear my dress again.”

Twenty minutes later, Lula rolled her Firebird into the Cluck-in-a-Bucket parking lot. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is a fast-food hot spot in Trenton. The food is surprisingly good, if you like nice greasy chicken, heavily salted gelatinous potatoes, and gravy so thick you could walk across a vat of it. Lula, Grandma, and I gave it five stars. And the very best part of Cluck-in-a Bucket is the giant red, yellow, and white chicken impaled on a thirty-foot candy-striped pole that rotates high above the red-roofed building 24/7. Paris has the Eiffel Tower, New York has the Empire State Building, and Trenton has the revolving chicken.

On weekends and during the dinner rush, there was always some poor sap dressed up in a Mister Clucky chicken suit. He clucked at kids, and he danced around and annoyed the heck out of everyone. The guy who owned Cluck-in-a-Bucket thought the dancing chicken was great, but the truth was everyone would have been happy to pay more for the chicken if Mister Clucky never clucked again.

Lula was one of three people out of ten thousand who liked Mr. Clucky.

“Lookit here,” Lula said. “It’s the dancin’ chicken. I love that chicken. I like his red hat and his big chicken feet. I bet there’s a real cute guy inside that chicken suit. You’d have to be cute to get a job as Mister Clucky.”

I was betting there was a scrawny kid with a bad complexion inside the suit.

Lula got out of the car and went up to Mister Clucky. “You’re a big Mister Clucky,” Lula said. “You must be new. I got a bet with my friend that you’re a real cutie-pie. How’d you like to give us a look?”

“How’d you like my beak up your ass?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Fuck off, fatso.”

“Fatso? Did I hear you call me fatso? Because I better be mistaken.”

“Fatso. Fatso. Fatty fatty fatso.”

Lula took a closer look at Mister Clucky. “Hold on here. I recognize your voice.”

“No you don’t,” Mister Clucky said.

“Larry? Is that you?”


Lula turned to Grandma and me. “This is Larry, the fireman I was telling you about.”

“The one who wears dresses?” Grandma asked.

“Yep. That’s the one,” Lula said.

“Lots of men wear dresses,” Mister Clucky said. “It’s not against the law.”

“That’s real true,” Lula said. “And I’ve been reviewing our unfortunate date, and I decided you didn’t look all that bad in that turquoise cocktail dress. Now that I’m thinking about it, that gown might have brought out the color of your eyes.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. That gown was made for you,” Lula said. “In fact, if you want to let bygones be bygones I might let you try it on again.”

“I saw you had a beaded sweater that looked like it might match,” Mister Clucky said.

“Yeah, you can wear the sweater, too.”

He adjusted his clucky head and hiked up his privates. “I have to work until nine.”

“That’s fine,” Lula said. “Only thing is, I’m staying someplace else. I’ll get my food and come back with my new address.”

We put our orders in and moved to the pickup station.

“He seemed like a real nice chicken,” Grandma said.

“Yeah,” Lula said. “I guess he’s not so bad. And he’s a real good dancer in his chicken suit. And on top of that, I bet he could get me a discount on chicken. He just took me by surprise the other night, causing me to overreact about the dress.”

We all had the Clucky Dinner Tray, plus Lula supplemented hers with a side of biscuits and a bucket of barbecue chicken, which she said was research. She wrote my address on a napkin and handed it to Mister Clucky when we left.

“It must be fun to be Mister Clucky,” Lula said to him.

“Yeah, the suit is pretty cool, and I get to dance around. Mostly, I do it for spending money, though. I do okay as a fireman, but nice handbags don’t come cheap.”

We all piled into the Firebird, and Lula drove a couple blocks to the supermarket.

“I’ll be right back,” Lula said. “I just gotta get some cleaning products.”

“I’ll go with you,” Grandma said. “We could take another look at the barbecue aids.”

I stayed in the car and called Ranger. “Just checking in,” I said. “Anything interesting going on?”

“Nada. And you?”

“Lula and Grandma exploded a pot of barbecue sauce in my kitchen, Lula has a date later tonight with Mister Clucky, and it looks like I’ll be spending the night in your apartment again.”

“Something to look forward to,” Ranger said. “Do you have any thoughts on my accounts?”

“Yes. I picked out several that I think have break-in potential.” I gave him the addresses and told him Vinnie was having a cow over my open files. “I’m going to need some time off tomorrow to look for one of these guys,” I said.

“Done,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

Lula swung her ass out of the supermarket and Grandma trotted behind her. They hustled across the lot to the car, Lula rammed herself behind the wheel, and in moments we were back on the road.

“Next stop is my house,” Lula said. “I gotta get clothes for Larry.”

Grandma leaned forward from the backseat. “What if the killers are waiting for you?”

“That would be good luck,” Lula said. “We could take them down and get the reward. I’d shoot the heck out of them, and then we’d drag their carcasses to the police station.”

“We’d kick their asses,” Grandma said.

“Damn skippy,” Lula said.

Lula eased the Firebird to the curb in front of her house, and we all piled out. Lula lived in an emerging neighborhood of hardworking people. Homes were small, yards were postage stamp size, and aspirations were modest. Lula rented half of the second floor of a two-story Victorian house that had been painted lavender with pink gingerbread trim. It was possibly the most inappropriate house in the entire universe for Lula. It was too small, too dainty, and too lavender. Every time I saw her walk through the front door, I had the feeling she was going through a portal into another dimension . . . like Harry Potter at the train station.

We got to the top of the stairs and gaped at Lula’s bullet-hole-riddled door. Yellow-and-black crime scene tape had been plastered over the door, but it hadn’t been applied in such a way that it prevented the door from being used.

“Cheap-ass plywood hollow-core door,” Lula said. “Bird shot would go through this crap-ass door.”

Grandma and I followed Lula into the one-room apartment and waited by the door while she went to her giant closet.

“This won’t take long,” Lula said. “I got everything organized in here by collection, so depending who I want to be, it’s easy to find.”

Lula opened her closet door and two men jumped out at her.

One had a gun and the other had a cleaver, and they were both wearing gorilla masks.

“It’s the killers!
It’s the killers!
” Lula shrieked.

“Grab her,” the cleaver guy said. “Hold her still so I can chop off her head.” And then he giggled and all the hair stood up on my arms.

His partner was trying to sight his gun on Lula. “For crying out loud, get out of the way and let me shoot her. Big deal, you’re a butcher. Get over it.”

The guy with the cleaver swung out at Lula, giggling the whole time. Lula ducked, and the cleaver got stuck in the wall.

Lula scrambled hands and knees under a table, around an overstuffed chair, out her door, and thundered down the stairs.

The killers ran after Lula, not even noticing Grandma and me standing with our eyes bugged out and our mouths open.

“Don’t that beat all,” Grandma said.

She hauled her .45 long-barrel out of her big black patent-leather purse, stepped into the hall, planted her feet, and squeezed off a couple shots at the two guys running down the stairs.

The gorilla guys disappeared out the front door, into the night. There was the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. An engine caught, and I heard the car drive away. A moment later, Lula appeared at the front door. She had a bunch of leaves stuck in her hair and a big dirt smudge on her wraparound blouse.

BOOK: Finger Lickin' Fifteen
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