Hard Eight

By Florence Sullivan,2014-11-04 20:16
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Amazon.com ReviewIn Hard Eight, Stephanie Plum picks up a case a little nastier than anything the wisecracking bounty hunter's seen before. Evelyn Soder and her young daughter have gone on the run, leaving an angry ex-husband who's planning to collect on a child custody bond that will leave Evelyn's grandmother homeless. Stephanie's first clue that there's more to it than that comes in the form of Eddie Abruzzi, a shady local businessman who warns her to butt out of the case. Stephanie doesn't scare easily, but when Abruzzi's henchmen leave a bag of snakes on her doorknob and tarantulas in her car, she has no choice but to call Ranger, the hunky man of mystery whom she already owes too many favors. Steph knows that Ranger will soon be calling in his marker, but with he Published by St. Martin's Press on 2003/05/29






    LATELY, I'VE BEEN spending a lot of time rolling on the ground with men who think a stiffyrepresents personal growth. The rolling around has nothing to do with my sex life. The rollingaround is what happens when a bust goes crapola and there's a last ditch effort to hog-tie abig, dumb bad guy possessing a congenitally defective frontal lobe.

    My name is Stephanie Plum, and I'm in the fugitive apprehension business . . . bondenforcement, to be exact, working for my cousin Vincent Plum. It wouldn't be such a bad jobexcept the direct result of bond enforcement is usually incarceration—and fugitives tend tonot like this. Go figure. To encourage fugitive cooperation on the way back to the pokey Iusually persuade the guys I capture to wear handcuffs and leg shackles. This works pretty goodmost of the time. And, if done right, cuts back on the rolling around on the ground stuff.

    Unfortunately, today wasn't most of the time. Martin Paulson, weighing in at 297 pounds andstanding five feet, eight inches tall, was arrested for credit card fraud and for being agenuinely obnoxious person. He failed to show for his court appearance last week, and this putMartin on my Most Wanted List. Since Martin is not too bright, he hadn't been too hard to find.Martin had, in fact, been at home engaged in what he does best . . . stealing merchandise offthe Internet. I'd managed to get Martin into cuffs and leg shackles and into my car. I'd evenmanaged to drive Martin to the police station on North Clinton Avenue. Unfortunately, when Iattempted to get Martin out of my car he tipped over and was now rolling around on his belly,trussed up like a Christmas goose, unable to right himself.

    We were in the parking lot adjacent to the municipal building. The back door leading to thedocket lieutenant was less than fifty feet away. I could call for help, but I'd be the brunt ofcop humor for days. I could unlock the cuffs or ankle shackles, but I didn't trust Paulson. Hewas royally pissed off, red-faced and swearing, making obscene threats and horrifying animalsounds.

    I was standing there, watching Paulson struggle, wondering what the hell I was going to do,because anything short of a forklift wasn't going to get Paulson up off the pavement. And justthen, Joe Juniak pulled into the lot. Juniak is a former police chief and is now mayor ofTrenton. He's a bunch of years older than me and about a foot taller. Juniak's second cousin,Ziggy, is married to my cousin-in-law Gloria Jean. So we're sort of family . . . in a remoteway.

    The driver's side window slid down, and Juniak grinned at me, cutting his eyes to Paulson. "Ishe yours?"


    "He's illegally parked. His ass is over the white line."

    I toed Paulson, causing him to start rocking again. "He's stuck."

    Juniak got out of his car and hauled Paulson up by his armpits. "You don't mind if I embellishthis story when I spread it all over town, do you?"

    "I do mind! Remember, I voted for you," I said. "And we're almost related."

    "Not gonna help you, cutie. Cops live for stuff like this."

    "You're not a cop anymore."

"Once a cop, always a cop."

    Paulson and I watched Juniak get back into his car and drive away.

    "I can't walk in these things," Paulson said, looking down at the shackles. "I'm gonna fallover again. I haven't got a good sense of balance."

    "Have you ever heard the bounty hunter slogan, Bring 'em back—dead or alive?"


    "Don't tempt me."

    Actually, bringing someone back dead is a big no-no, but this seemed like a good time to makean empty threat. It was late afternoon. It was spring. And I wanted to get on with my life.Spending another hour coaxing Paulson to walk across the parking lot wasn't high on my list offavored things to do.

    I wanted to be on a beach somewhere with the sun blistering my skin until I looked like a friedpork rind. Okay, truth is at this time of year that might have to be Cancun, and Cancun didn't

    here in this stupid parkingfigure into my budget. Still, the point was, I didn't want to be

    lot with Paulson.

    "You probably don't even have a gun," Paulson said.

    "Hey, give me a break. I haven't got all day for this. I have other things to do."

    "Like what?"

    "None of your business."

    "Hah! You haven't got anything better to do."

    I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and black Caterpillar boots, and I had a real urge to kickhim in the back of his leg with my size-seven CAT.

    "Tell me," he said.

    "I promised my parents I'd be home for dinner at six."

    Paulson burst out laughing. "That's pathetic. That's fucking pathetic." The laughter turnedinto a coughing fit. Paulson leaned forward, wobbled side to side, and fell over. I reached forhim, but it was too late. He was back on his belly, doing his beached whale imitation.


    MY PARENTS LIVE in a narrow duplex in a chunk of Trenton called the Burg. If the Burg was afood, it would be pasta-penne rigate, ziti, fettuccine, spaghetti, and elbow macaroni, swimmingin marinara, cheese sauce, or mayo. Good, dependable, all-occasion food that puts a smile onyour face and fat on your butt. The Burg is a solid neighborhood where people buy houses andlive in them until death kicks them out. Backyards are used to run a clothesline, store thegarbage can, and give the dog a place to poop. No fancy backyard decks and gazebos for Burgers.Burgers sit on their small front porches and cement stoops. The better to see the world go by.

    I rolled in just as my mother was pulling the roast chicken out of the oven. My father wasalready in his seat at the head of the table. He stared straight ahead, eyes glazed, thoughtsin limbo, knife and fork in hand. My sister, Valerie, who had recently moved back home afterleaving her husband, was at work whipping potatoes in the kitchen. When we were kids Valeriewas the perfect daughter. And I was the daughter who stepped in dog poo, sat on gum, andconstantly fell off the garage roof in an attempt to fly. As a last ditch effort to preserveher marriage, Valerie had traded in her Italian-Hungarian genes and turned herself into MegRyan. The marriage failed, but the blonde Meg-shag persists.

    Valerie's kids were at the table with my dad. The nine-year-old, Angie, was sitting primly withher hands folded, resigned to enduring the meal, an almost perfect clone of Valerie at thatage. The seven-year-old, Mary Alice, the kid from hell, had two sticks poked into her brownhair.

    "What's with the sticks?" I asked.

"They not sticks. They're antlers. I'm a reindeer."

    This was a surprise because usually she's a horse.

    "How was your day?" Grandma asked me, setting a bowl of green beans on the table. "Did youshoot anybody? Did you capture any bad guys?"

    Grandma Mazur moved in with my parents shortly after Grandpa Mazur took his fat cloggedarteries to the all-you-can-eat buffet in the sky. Grandma's in her midseventies and doesn'tlook a day over ninety. Her body is aging, but her mind seems to be going in the oppositedirection. She was wearing white tennis shoes and a lavender polyester warm-up suit. Her steelgray hair was cut short and permed to within an inch of its life. Her nails were paintedlavender to match the suit.

    "I didn't shoot anybody today," I said, "but I brought in a guy wanted for credit card fraud."

    There was a knock at the front door, and Mabel Markowitz stuck her head in and called,"Yoohoo."

    My parents live in a two-family duplex. They own the south half, and Mabel Markowitz owns thenorth half, the house divided by a common wall and years of disagreement over house paint. Outof necessity, Mabel's made thrift a religious experience, getting by on Social Security andgovernment-surplus peanut butter. Her husband, Izzy, was a good man but drank himself into anearly grave. Mabel's only daughter died of uterine cancer a year ago. The son-in-law died amonth later in a car crash.

    All forward progress stopped at the table, and everyone looked to the front door, because inall the years Mabel had lived next door, she'd never once yoohoo ed while we were eating.

    "I hate to disturb your meal," Mabel said. "I just wanted to ask Stephanie if she'd have aminute to stop over, later. I have a question about this bond business. It's for a friend."

    "Sure," I said. "I'll be over after dinner." I imagined it would be a short conversation sinceeverything I knew about bond could be said in two sentences.

    Mabel left and Grandma leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I bet that's a lot of hooey aboutwanting advice for a friend. I bet Mabel's been busted."

    Everyone simultaneously rolled their eyes at Grandma.

    "Okay then," she said. "Maybe she wants a job. Maybe she wants to be a bounty hunter. You knowhow she's always squeaking by."

    My father shoveled food into his mouth, keeping his head down. He reached for the potatoes andspooned seconds onto his plate. "Christ," he mumbled.

    "If there's anyone in that family who would need a bail bond, it would be Mabel's ex-grandson-in-law," my mother said. "He's mixed up with some bad people these days. Evelyn was smart todivorce him."

    "Yeah, and that divorce was real nasty," Grandma said to me. "Almost as nasty as yours."

    "I set a high standard."

    "You were a pip," Grandma said.

    My mother did another eye roll. "It was a disgrace."


    MABEL MARKOWITZ LIVES in a museum. She married in 1943 and still has her first table lamp, herfirst pot, her first chrome-and-Formica kitchen table. Her living room was newly wallpapered in1957. The flowers have faded but the paste has held. The carpet is dark Oriental. Theupholstered pieces sag slightly in the middle, imprinted with asses that have since moved on .. . either to God or Hamilton Township.

    Certainly the furniture doesn't bear the imprint of Mabel's ass as Mabel is a walking skeletonwho never sits. Mabel bakes and cleans and paces while she talks on the phone. Her eyes arebright, and she laughs easily, slapping her thigh, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hair isthin and gray, cut short and curled. Her face is powdered first thing in the morning to a

    chalky white. Her lipstick is pink and applied hourly, feathering out into the deep crevicesthat line her mouth.

    "Stephanie," she said, "how nice to see you. Come in. I have a coffee cake."

    always has a coffee cake. That's the way it is in the Burg. Windows are clean,Mrs. Markowitz

    cars are big, and there's always a coffee cake.

    I took a seat at the kitchen table. "The truth is, I don't know very much about bond. My cousinVinnie is the bond expert."

    "It's not so much about bond," Mabel said. "It's more about finding someone. And I fibbed aboutit being for a friend. I was embarrassed. I just don't know how to even begin telling youthis."

    Mabel's eyes filled with tears. She cut a piece of coffee cake and shoved it into her mouth.Angry. Mabel wasn't the sort of woman to comfortably fall victim to emotion. She washed thecoffee cake down with coffee that was strong enough to dissolve a spoon if you let it sit inthe cup too long. Never accept coffee from Mrs. Markowitz.

    "I guess you know Evelyn's marriage didn't work out. She and Steven got a divorce a while back,and it was pretty bitter," Mabel finally said.

    Evelyn is Mabel's granddaughter. I've known Evelyn all my life, but we were never closefriends. She lived several blocks away, and she went to Catholic school. Our paths onlyintersected on Sundays when she'd come to dinner at Mabel's house. Valerie and I called her theGiggler because she giggled at everything. She'd come over to play board games in her Sundayclothes, and she'd giggle when she rolled the dice, giggle when she moved her piece, gigglewhen she lost. She giggled so much she got dimples. And when she got older, she was one ofthose girls that boys love. Evelyn was all round softness and dimples and vivacious energy.

    I hardly ever saw Evelyn anymore, but when I did there wasn't much vivacious energy left inher.

    Mabel pressed her thin lips together. "There was so much arguing and hard feelings over thedivorce that the judge made Evelyn take out one of these new child custody bonds. I guess hewas afraid Evelyn wouldn't let Steven see Annie. Anyway, Evelyn didn't have any money to put upfor the bond. Steven took the money that Evelyn got when my daughter died, and he never gaveEvelyn anything. Evelyn was like a prisoner in that house on Key Street. I'm almost the onlyrelative left for Evelyn and Annie now, so I put my house here up for collateral. Evelynwouldn't have gotten custody if I didn't do that."

    This was all new to me. I'd never heard of a custody bond. The people I tracked down were in

    violation of a bail bond.

    Mabel wiped the table clean of crumbs and dumped the crumbs in the sink. Mabel wasn't good atsitting. "It was all just fine until last week when I got a note from Evelyn, saying she andAnnie were going away for a while. I didn't think much of it, but all of a sudden everyone islooking for Annie. Steven came to my house a couple days ago, raising his voice and sayingterrible things about Evelyn. He said she had no business taking Annie off like she did, takingher away from him and taking her out of first grade. And he said he was invoking the custodybond. And then this morning I got a phone call from the bond company telling me they were goingto take my house if I didn't help them get Annie back."

    Mabel looked around her kitchen. "I don't know what I'd do without the house. Can they reallytake it from me?"

    "I don't know," I told Mabel. "I've never been involved in anything like this."

    "And now they all got me worried. How do I know if Evelyn and Annie are okay? I don't have anyway of getting in touch. And it was just a note. It wasn't even like I talked to Evelyn."

    Mabel's eyes filled up again, and I was really hoping she wasn't going to flat-out cry becauseI wasn't great with big displays of emotion. My mother and I expressed affection through veiledcompliments about gravy.

    "I feel just terrible," Mabel said. "I don't know what to do. I thought maybe you could findEvelyn and talk to her . . . make sure her and Annie are all right. I could put up with losingthe house, but I don't want to lose Evelyn and Annie. I've got some money set aside. I don'tknow how much you charge for this sort of thing."

    "I don't charge anything. I'm not a private investigator. I don't take on private cases likethis." Hell, I'm not even a very good bounty hunter!

    Mabel picked at her apron, tears rolling down her cheeks now. "I don't know who else to ask."

    Oh man, I don't believe this. Mabel Markowitz, crying! This was at about the same comfort levelas getting a gyno exam in the middle of Main Street at high noon.

    "Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do . . . as a neighbor."

    Mabel nodded and wiped her eyes. "I'd appreciate it." She took an envelope from the sideboard."I have a picture for you. It's Annie and Evelyn. It was taken last year when Annie turnedseven. And I wrote Evelyn's address on a piece of paper for you, too. And her car and licenseplate."

    "Do you have a key to her house?"

    "No," Mabel said. "She never gave me one."

    "Do you have any ideas about where Evelyn might have gone? Anything at all?"

    Mabel shook her head. "I can't imagine where she's taken off to. She grew up here in the Burg.Never lived anyplace else. Didn't go away to college. Most all our relatives are right here."

    "Did Vinnie write the bond?"

    "No. It's some other company. I wrote it down." She reached into her apron pocket and pulledout a folded piece of paper. "It's True Blue Bonds, and the man's name is Les Sebring."

    My cousin Vinnie owns Vincent Plum Bail Bonds and runs his business out of a small storefrontoffice on Hamilton Avenue. A while back when I'd been desperate for a job, I'd sort ofblackmailed Vinnie into taking me on. The Trenton economy has since improved, and I'm not surewhy I'm still working for Vinnie, except that the office is across from a bakery.

    Sebring has offices downtown, and his operation makes Vinnie's look like chump change. I'venever met Sebring but I've heard stories. He's supposed to be extremely professional. And he'srumored to have legs second only to Tina Turner's.

    I gave Mabel an awkward hug, told her I'd look into things for her, and I left.

    My mother and my grandmother were waiting for me. They were at my parents' front door with thedoor cracked an inch, their noses pressed to the glass.

    " Pssst ," my grandmother said. "Hurry up over here. We're dying."

    "I can't tell you," I said.

    Both women sucked in air. This went against the code of the Burg. In the Burg, blood was always thicker than water. Professional ethics didn't count for much when held up to a juicypiece of gossip among family members.

    "Okay," I said, ducking inside. "I might as well tell you. You'll find out anyway." Werationalize a lot in the Burg, too. "When Evelyn got divorced she had to take out somethingcalled a child custody bond. Mabel put her house up as collateral. Now Evelyn and Annie are offsomewhere, and Mabel is getting pressured by the bond company."

    "Oh my goodness," my mother said. "I had no idea."

    "Mabel is worried about Evelyn and Annie. Evelyn sent her a note and said she and Annie weregoing away for a while, but Mabel hasn't heard from them since."

    "If I was Mabel I'd be worried about her house ," Grandma said. "Sounds to me like she could

    be living in a cardboard box under the railroad bridge."

    "I told her I'd help her, but this isn't really my thing. I'm not a private investigator."

    "Maybe you could get your friend Ranger to help her," Grandma said. "That might be betteranyway, on account of he's hot. I wouldn't mind having him hang around the neighborhood."

    Ranger is more associate than friend, although I guess friendship is mixed in there somehow,too. Plus a scary sexual attraction. A few months ago we made a deal that has haunted me.Another one of those jumping-off-the-garage-roof things, except this deal involved my bedroom.Ranger is Cuban-American with skin the color of a mocha latte, heavy on the mocha, and a body

     . He's got a big-time stock portfolio, an endless,that can best be described as yum

    inexplicable supply of expensive black cars, and skills that make Rambo look like an amateur.I'm pretty sure he only kills bad guys, and I think he might be able to fly like Superman,although the flying part has never been confirmed. Ranger works in bond enforcement, amongother things. And Ranger always gets his man.

    My black Honda CR-V was parked curbside. Grandma walked me to the car. "Just let me know ifthere's anything I can do to help," she said. "I always thought I'd make a good detective, onaccount of I'm so nosy."

    "Maybe you could ask around the neighborhood."

    "You bet. And I could go to Stiva's tomorrow. Charlie Shleckner is laid out. I hear Stiva did areal good job on him."

    New York has Lincoln Center. Florida has Disney World. The Burg has Stiva's Funeral Home. Notonly is Stiva's the premier entertainment facility for the Burg, it's also the nerve center ofthe news network. If you can't get the dirt on someone at Stiva's, then there isn't any dirt toget.


    IT WAS STILL early when I left Mabel's, so I drove past Evelyn's house on Key Street. It was atwo-family house very much like my parents'. Small front yard, small front porch, small two-story house. No sign of life in Evelyn's half. No car parked in front. No lights shining behinddrawn drapes. According to Grandma Mazur, Evelyn had lived in the house when she'd been marriedto Steven Soder and had stayed there with Annie when Soder moved out. Eddie Abruzzi owns theproperty and rents out both units. Abruzzi owns several houses in the Burg and a couple largeoffice buildings in downtown Trenton. I don't know him personally, but I've heard he's not theworld's nicest guy.

    I parked and walked to Evelyn's front porch. I rapped lightly on her door. No answer. I triedto peek in the front window, but the drapes were drawn tight. I walked around the side of thehouse and stood on tippy toes, looking in. No luck with the side windows in the front room anddining room, but my snoopiness paid off with the kitchen. No curtains drawn in the kitchen.There were two cereal bowls and two glasses on the counter next to the sink. Everything elseseemed tidy. No sign of Evelyn or Annie. I returned to the front and knocked on the neighbor'sdoor.

    The door opened, and Carol Nadich looked out at me.

    "Stephanie!" she said. "How the hell are you?"

    I went to school with Carol. She got a job at the button factory when we graduated and twomonths later married Lenny Nadich. Once in a while I run into her at Giovichinni's Meat Market,but beyond that we've lost touch.

    "I didn't realize you were living here," I said. "I was looking for Evelyn."

    Carol did an eye roll. "Everyone's looking for Evelyn. And to tell you the truth, I hope no onefinds her. Except for you, of course. Those other jerks I wouldn't wish on anyone."

    "What other jerks?"

    "Her ex-husband and his friends. And the landlord, Abruzzi, and his goons."

    "You and Evelyn were close?"

    "As close as anyone could get to Evelyn. We moved here two years ago, before the divorce. She'dspend all day popping pills and then drink herself into a stupor at night."

"What kind of pills?"

    "Prescription. For depression, I think. Understandable, since she was married to Soder. Do youknow him?"

    "Not well." I met Steven Soder for the first time at Evelyn's wedding nine years ago, and Itook an instant dislike to him. In my brief dealings with him over the following years I foundnothing to change my original bad impression.

    "He's a real manipulative bastard. And abusive," Carol said.

    "He'd hit her?"

    "Not that I know. Just mental abuse. I could hear him yelling at her all the time. Telling hershe was stupid. She was kind of heavy, and he used to call her 'the cow.' Then one day he movedout and moved in with some other woman. Joanne Something. Evelyn's lucky day."

    "Do you think Evelyn and Annie are safe?"

    "God, I hope so. Those two deserve a break."

    I looked over at Evelyn's front door. "I don't suppose you have a key?"

    Carol shook her head. "Evelyn didn't trust anyone. She was real paranoid. I don't think hergrandma even has a key. And she didn't tell me where she was going, if that's your nextquestion. One day she just loaded a bunch of bags into her car and took off."

    I gave Carol my card and headed for home. I live in a three-story brick apartment buildingabout ten minutes from the Burg . . . five, if I'm late for dinner and I hit the lights right.The building was constructed at a time when energy was cheap and architecture was inspired byeconomy. My bathroom is orange and brown, my refrigerator is avocado green, and my windows wereborn before Thermopane. Fine by me. The rent is reasonable, and the other tenants are okay.Mostly the building is inhabited by seniors on fixed incomes. The seniors are, for the mostpart, nice people . . . as long as you don't let them get behind the wheel of a car.

    I parked in the lot and pushed through the double glass door that led to the small lobby. I wasfilled with chicken and potatoes and gravy and chocolate layer cake and Mabel's coffee cake, soI bypassed the elevator and took the stairs as penance. All right, so I'm only one flight up,but it's a start, right?

    My hamster, Rex, was waiting for me when I opened the door to my apartment. Rex lives in a soupcan in a glass aquarium in my kitchen. He stopped running on his wheel when I switched thelight on and blinked out at me, whiskers whirring. I like to think it was welcome home but

    probably it was who put the damn light on? I gave him a raisin and a small piece of cheese.

    He stuffed the food into his cheeks and disappeared into his soup can. So much for roommateinteraction.

    In the past, Rex has sometimes shared his roommate status with a Trenton cop named Joe Morelli.Morelli's two years older than I am, half a foot taller, and his gun is bigger than mine.Morelli started looking up my skirt when I was six, and he's just never gotten out of thehabit. We've had some differences of opinion lately, and Morelli's toothbrush is not currentlyin my bathroom. Unfortunately, it's a lot harder to get Morelli out of my heart and my mindthan out of my bathroom. Nevertheless, I'm making an effort.

    I got a beer from the fridge and settled in front of the television. I flipped through thestations, hitting the high points, not finding much. I had the photo of Evelyn and Annie infront of me. They were standing together, looking happy. Annie had curly red hair and the paleskin of a natural redhead. Evelyn had her brown hair pulled back. Conservative makeup. She wassmiling, but not enough to bring out the dimples.

    A mom and her kid . . . and I was supposed to find them.


    CONNIE ROSOLLI HAD a doughnut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other when I walked intothe bail bonds office the next morning. She pushed the doughnut box across the top of her deskwith her elbow and white powdered sugar sifted off her doughnut, down onto her boobs. "Have a

doughnut," she said. "You look like you need one."

    Connie is the office manager. She's in charge of petty cash and she uses it wisely, buyingdoughnuts and file folders, and financing the occasional gaming trip to Atlantic City. It was alittle after eight, and Connie was ready for the day, eyes lined, lashes mascara-ed, lipspainted bright red, hair curled into a big bush around her face. I, on the other hand, wasletting the day creep up on me. I had my hair pulled into a half-assed ponytail and was wearingmy usual stretchy little T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Waving a mascara wand in the vicinity of myeye seemed like a dangerous maneuver this morning, so I was au naturel.

    I took a doughnut and looked around. "Where's Lula?"

    "She's late. She's been late all week. Not that it matters."

    Lula was hired to do filing, but mostly she does what she wants.

    "Hey, I heard that," Lula said, swinging through the door. "You better not be talking about me.I'm late on account of I'm going to night school now."

    "You go one day a week," Connie said.

    "Yeah, but I gotta study. It's not like this shit comes easy. It's not like my formeroccupation as a ho helps me out, you know. I don't think my final exam's gonna be about handjobs."

    Lula is a couple inches shorter and a lot of pounds heavier than me. She buys her clothes inthe petite department and then shoehorns herself into them. This wouldn't work for most people,

    life .but it seems right for Lula. Lula shoehorns herself into

    "So what's up?" Lula said. "I miss anything?"

    I gave Connie the body receipt for Paulson. "Do you guys know anything about child custodybonds?"

    "They're relatively new," Connie said. "Vinnie isn't doing them yet. They're high-risk bonds.Sebring is the only one in the area taking them on."

    "Sebring," Lula said. "Isn't he the guy with the good legs? I hear he's got legs like TinaTurner." She looked down at her own legs. "My legs are the right color but I just got more ofthem."

    "Sebring's legs are white," Connie said. "And I hear they're good at running down blondes."

    I swallowed the last of my doughnut and wiped my hands on my jeans. "I need to talk to him."

    "You'll be safe today," Lula said. "Not only aren't you blonde, but you aren't exactly deckedout. You have a hard night?"

    "I'm not a morning person."

    "It's your love life," Lula said. "You aren't getting any, and you got nothing to put a smileon your face. You're letting yourself go, is what you're doing."

    "I could get plenty if I wanted."

    "Well, then?"

    "It's complicated."

    Connie gave me a check for the Paulson capture. "You aren't thinking about going to work forSebring, are you?"

    I told them about Evelyn and Annie.

    "Maybe I should talk to Sebring with you," Lula said. "Maybe we can get him to show us hislegs."

    "Not necessary," I said. "I can manage this myself." And I didn't especially want to see LesSebring's legs.

    "Look here. I didn't even put my bag down," Lula said. "I'm ready to go."

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