CHAPTER 1
When I was twelve years old I accidentally substituted
salt for sugar in a cake recipe. I baked the cake, iced
the cake, and served it up. It looked like a cake, but as
soon as you cut into it and took a taste, you knew
something else was going on. People are like that too.
Sometimes you just can't tell what's on the inside from
looking at the outside. Sometimes people are a big
surprise, just like the salt cake. Sometimes the surprise
turns out to be good. And sometimes the surprise turns
out
to be bad. And sometimes the surprise is just friggin'
confusing.
Joe Morelli is one of those good surprises. He's two
years
older than me, and for most of my school years, spending
time with Morelli was like a visit to the dark side,
alluring and frightening. He's a Trenton cop now, and
he's
my off-again, on-again boyfriend. He used to be the hair-
raising part of my life, but my life has had a lot of
changes, and now he's the normal part. He has a dog named
Bob, and a nice little house, and a toaster. On the
outside Morelli is still street tough and dangerously
alluring. On the inside Morelli is now the guy with the
toaster. Go figure.
I have a hamster named Rex, a utilitarian apartment, and
my toaster is broken. My name is Stephanie Plum, and I
work as a bond enforcement agent, AKA bounty hunter, for
my cousin Vinnie. It's not a great job, but it has its
moments, and if I mooch food off my parents the job
almost
pays enough to get me through the month. It would pay a
lot more but the truth is, I'm not all that good at it.
Sometimes I moonlight for a guy named Ranger who's
extremely bad in an incredibly good way. He's a security
expert, and a bounty hunter, and he moves like smoke.
Ranger is milk chocolate on the outside ...a delicious,
tempting, forbidden pleasure. And no one knows what's on
the inside. Ranger keeps his own counsel.
I work with two women I like a lot. Connie Rosolli is
Vinnie's office manager and junk-yard dog. She's a little
older than I am. A little smarter. A little tougher. A
little more Italian. She's got a lot more chest, and she
dresses like Betty Boop.
The other woman is my sometimes partner Lula. Lula was at
this moment, parading around in the bail bonds office,
showing Connie and me her new outfit. Lula is a way-
beyond-
voluptuous black woman who was currently squashed into
four-inch spike heels and a sparkly gold spandex dress
that had been constructed for a much smaller woman. The
neckline was low, and the only thing keeping Lula's big
boobs from popping out was the fact that the material was
snagged on her nipples. The skirt was stretched tight
across her ass and hung two inches below the full moon.
With Connie and Lula you get what you see.
Lula bent to take a look at the heel on her shoe, and
Connie was treated to a view of the night sky.
"Crikey," Connie said. "You need to put some underwear
on."
"I got underwear on," Lula said. "I'm wearing my best
thong. Just 'cause I used to be a 'ho don't mean I'm
cheap. Problem is that little thong stringy gets lost in
all my derriere."
"Tell me again what you're doing in this get-up," Connie
said.
"I'm gonna be a rock and roll singer. I got a gig singing
with Sally Sweet's new band. You heard of The Who? Well,
we're gonna be The What."
"You can't sing," Connie said. "I've heard you sing. You
can't hold a tune to Happy Birthday."
"The hell I can't," Lula said. "I could sing your ass
off.
Besides, half those rock singers can't sing. They just
open their big oversize mouth and yell. And you gotta
admit, I look good in this here dress. Nobody gonna be
paying attention to my singing when I'm wearing this
dress."
"She's got a point," I said to Connie.
"No argument," Connie said.
"I'm under-realized," Lula said. "I gotta lot of untapped
potential. Yesterday my horoscope said I gotta expand my
horizons."
"You expand anymore in that dress, and you'll get
yourself
arrested," Connie said.
The bonds office is on Hamilton Avenue, a couple blocks
from Saint Frances Hospital. Handy for bonding out guys
who've been shot. It's a small store front office
sandwiched between a beauty parlor and a used bookstore.
There's an outer room with a scarred imitation leather
couch, a couple folding chairs, Connie's desk and
computer
and a bank of files. Vinnie's office is located in a room
behind Connie's desk.
When I started working for Vinnie he used his office to
talk to his bookie and set up nooners with barnyard
animals, but Vinnie has recently discovered the internet,
and now Vinnie uses his office to surf porn sites and
online casinos. Behind the bank of file cabinets is a
storeroom filled with the nuts and bolts of the bailbonds
business. Confiscated televisions, dvd players, ipods,
computers, a velvet painting of Elvis, a set of cookware,
blenders, kids bikes, engagement rings, a tricked out
Hog,
a bunch of George Forman grills, and God knows what else.
Vinnie had some guns and ammo back there too. Plus a box
of cuffs that he got on ebay. There's a small bathroom
that Connie keeps spotless and a back door in case
there's
a need to sneak off.
"I hate to be a party pooper," Connie said, "but we're
going to have to put the fashion show on hold because we
have a problem." She slid a stack of folders across her
desk at me. "These are all unresolved skips. If we don't
find some of these guys we're going belly up."
Here's the way bailbonds works. If you're accused of a
crime and you don't want to sit and rot in jail while
you're waiting for your trial to come up, you can give
the
court a wad of money. The court takes the money and lets
you walk, and you get the money back when you show up on
your trial date. If you don't have that money stashed
under your mattress, a bail bondsman can give the court
the money on your behalf. He'll charge you a percentage
of
the money (maybe ten percent), and he'll keep that
percentage whether you're proven guilty or not. If the
accused shows up for court, the court gives the bail
bondsman his money back. If the accused doesn't show up,
the court keeps the money until the bondsman finds the
accused and drags his sorry butt back to jail.
So you see the problem, right? Too much money going out
and not enough money going in, and Vinnie might have to
refinance his house. Or worse, the insurance company that
backs Vinnie could yank the plug.
"Lula and I can't keep up with the skips," I said to
Connie. "There are too many of them."
"Yeah, and I'll tell you the problem," Lula
said. "Ranger's not pulling his weight. Any more there's
just Stephanie and me catching bad guys."
It was true. Ranger had moved most of his business toward
the security side and only went into tracking mode when
something came in that was over my head. There are some
who might argue everything is over my head, but for
practical purposes we've had to ignore that argument.
"I hate to say this," I told Connie, "but you need to
hire
another bond enforcement person."
"It's not that easy," Connie said. "Remember when we had
Joyce Barnhardt working here? That was a disaster."
Joyce Barnhardt is my archenemy. I went all through
school
with her, and she was a misery. And before the ink was
dry
on my marriage license she was in bed with my husband who
is now my ex-husband. Thank you Joyce.
"We could put a ad in the paper," Lula said. "That's how
I
got my filing job here. Look at how good that turned
out."
Connie and I did eye rolls.
Lula was about the worst file clerk ever. Lula kept her
job because no one else would tolerate Vinnie. The first
time Vinnie made a grab at Lula she clocked him on the
side of the head with a five-pound phone book and told
him
she'd staple his nuts to the wall if he didn't show
respect. And that was the end of sexual harassment in the
bail bonds office.
Connie read the names off the files on her desk. "Lonnie
Johnson, Kevin Gallager, Leon James, Dooby Biagi,
Caroline
Scarziolli, Melvin Pickle, Charles Chin, Bernard Brown,
Mary Lee Truk, Luis Queen, John Santos. These are all
current. You already have half of them. The rest came in
last night. Plus we have nine outstanding that we've
relegated to the "temporarily lost cause" file. Word's
getting out that we're not enforcing the bond."
When someone doesn't show up for a court appearance we
call them FTA. Failure To Appear. People fail to appear
for a bunch of reasons. Hookers and pushers can make more
money on the street than they can in jail so they only
show up in court when you finally stop bonding them out.
All other people just don't want to go to jail.
Connie gave me the new files and a wave of nausea slid
through my stomach. Lonnie Johnson was wanted for armed
robbery. Leon James was suspected of arson and attempted
murder. Kevin Gallager was wanted for grand theft auto.
Mary Lee Truk had inserted a carving knife into her
husband's left buttock during a domestic disturbance. And
Melvin Pickle was caught with his pants down in the third
row of the multiplex.
Lula was looking over my shoulder, reading along with me.
"Melvin Pickle sounds like fun," she said. "I think we
should start with Melvin."
"Maybe an ad in the paper isn't such a bad idea," I said
to Connie.
"Yeah," Lula said, "just be careful how you word it. You
probably want to fib a little. Like you don't want to say
we're looking for some gun happy lunatic to take down a
bunch of scum bags."
"I'll keep that in mind when I write it up," Connie said.
"I'm going down the street," I told Lula. "I need
something to settle my stomach. We'll go to work when I
get back."
"You going to the drugstore?" Lula wanted to know.
"No. The bakery."
"I wouldn't mind if you brought me back one of them cream
filled doughnuts with the chocolate frosting," Lula
said. "I could use to settle my stomach too."
At mid-morning the Garden State was heating up. Pavement
was steaming under a cloudless sky, petrochemical plants
were spewing to the north, and cars were emitting
hydrocarbons statewide. By mid-afternoon I'd feel the
toxic stew catch in the back of my throat, and I'd know
it
was truly summer in Jersey. For me, the stew is part of
the Jersey experience. The stew has attitude. And it
enhances the pull of Point Pleasant. How can you
completely appreciate the Jersey shore if the air is safe
to breath in the interior parts of the state?
I swung into the bakery and went straight to the doughnut
case. Marjorie Lando was behind the counter, filling
cannoli for a customer. Fine by me. I could wait my turn.
The bakery was always a soothing experience. My heart
rate
slowed in the presence of massive quantities of sugar and
lard. My mind floated over the acres of cookies and cakes
and doughnuts and cream pies topped with rainbow
sprinkles, chocolate frosting, whipped cream and
meringue.
I was in my zone, patiently contemplating my doughnut
selection when I sensed a familiar presence behind me. A
hand brushed my hair back, and Ranger leaned into me and
kissed me on the nape of my neck.
"I could get you to look at me like that if I had five
minutes alone with you," Ranger said.
"I'll give you five minutes alone with me if you'll take
over half my skips."
"Tempting," Ranger said, "but I'm on my way to the
airport, and I'm not sure when I'll be back. Tank is in
charge. Call him if you need help. And let him know if
you
decide to move into my apartment."
Not that long ago I needed a safe place to stay and sort
of commandeered Ranger's apartment when he was out of
town. Ranger had come home and found me sleeping in his
bed like Goldilocks. He'd very graciously not thrown me
out the seventh floor window. And in fact he'd allowed me
to stay with a minimum of sexual harassment. Okay, maybe
minimum isn't entirely accurate. Maybe it was a seven on
a
scale of ten, but he hadn't forced the issue.
"How did you know I was here?" I asked him.
"I stopped at the bonds office, and Lula told me you were
on a doughnut mission."
"Where are you going?"
"Miami."
"Is this business or pleasure?"
"It's bad business."
Marjorie finished with her customer and made her way over
to me. "What'll it be?" she wanted to know.
"A dozen Boston cream doughnuts."
"Babe," Ranger said.
"They're not all for me."
Ranger doesn't often smile. Mostly he thinks about
smiling, and this was one of those thinking smile times.
He wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulled me to him and
kissed me. The kiss was warm and short. No tongue in
front
of the bakery lady, thank God. He turned and walked away.
Tank was idling at the curb in a black SUV. Ranger got in
and they drove off.
Marjorie was behind the counter with a cardboard box in
her hand and her mouth dropped open. "Wow," she said.
That dragged a sigh out of me because she was right.
Ranger was definitely a wow. He stood half a head taller
than me. He was perfectly toned muscle, and he had
classic
Latino good looks. He always smelled great. He dressed
only in black. His skin was dark. His eyes were dark. His
hair was dark. His life was dark. Ranger had lots of
secrets.
"It's a work relationship," I told Marjorie.
"If he was in here any longer the chocolate would have
melted off the eclairs."