Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

Appropriate, I thought. Empowering. I’d practically grown testicles.
    I drove to Mercado Mews, parked in Joyce’s driveway, and went in search of the fake rock. I found the rock, got the key to the front door, opened the door, and decoded the alarm. I went straight to Joyce’s bedroom and rifled the top drawer to her dresser. I found the small padlock key, slipped it into my jeans pocket, and left. I reset the alarm for her, locked her door, put the key back in the fake rock, and drove off. I pulled into the parking area for the model home and called Joyce. No answer. No way to leave a message.
    Forty minutes later, I eased the truck to the curb in front of the new office. A makeshift sign in the window advertised Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. Connie was at one of the two desks, and Lula was looking uncomfortable in a folding chair.
    “Who designs these things anyways?” Lula said when I walked in. “My ass don’t fit. They think everybody got some bony ass? What about us big-and-beautiful-ass people? Where are we supposed to sit? I’m gonna have an ass crease from hangin’ off this thing. And it don’t got arms or nothin’. Couldn’t you get a chair with arms? Where am I supposed to set my chicken bucket?”
    “You haven’t got a chicken bucket,” Connie said.
    “Yeah, but I’m gonna,” Lula told her. “And where am I gonna set it?”
    The office was beyond bare bones. Voices echoed in the empty room. The walls were army-surplus khaki. The floorwas liquidation linoleum. It was lit by light from the storefront window and an overhead forty-watt bulb.
    “This is sort of depressing,” I said to Connie.
    “This is nothing,” Connie said. “Wait until it rains. You’ll want to eat a bullet.”
    I saw Vinnie’s Caddy angle in behind my truck. Vinnie literally sprang out and skipped into the office.
    “I don’t know what he’s on, but I want some,” Lula said.
    Vinnie stopped in the middle of the room, stuffed his hands into his pants pockets, and rocked back on his heels. He was grinning and snorting with happiness. “I did it,” he said. “I fixed DeAngelo good. You don’t mess with Vincent Plum. No way. You pay the price.” And Vinnie did one of those spike-the-ball things you see football players do when they make a touchdown. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “
Yeah
!”
    “What did you do?” Lula asked.
    “I filled his Mercedes with horse shit,” Vinnie said. “I know this guy who has horses, and I got him to take his dung pile and dump it into DeAngelo’s Mercedes last night. Filled that Mercedes from the floor to the roof. Had to break a window to get it all in. DeAngelo blew up my bus, so I filled his car with shit. Genius, right?”
    “DeAngelo didn’t blow up the bus,” Connie said. “I just got the report from the fire marshal. The coffeemaker shorted out and started the fire.”
    Some of the color left Vinnie’s face. “Say what?”
    “Oh man,” Lula said. “DeAngelo is gonna be pissed. Least he won’t know who did it.”
    “I left a note,” Vinnie said.
    Lula gave a hoot of laughter and fell off her chair.
    “But we all thought he did it,” Vinnie said.
    “This could be bad,” Connie said. “DeAngelo is connected. And I don’t think he has a sense of humor.”
    I caught a flash of black on the street and saw an Escalade double-park.
    “Uh-oh,” I said. “I think this is DeAngelo.”
    Vinnie dove for cover under Connie’s desk.
    The front door banged open, and DeAngelo stormed in, red-faced and crazy-eyed.
    “Where is he? I know he’s here,” DeAngelo said. “Perverted, slimy little weasel.”
    Lula stood. “Hey, look who’s here. It’s Spanky.”
    DeAngelo looked over at Lula. “Your asshole boss filled my car with horse shit.”
    Lula brushed herself off and adjusted her girls. “That car was all wrong for you anyways,” Lula said. “You should be driving something hot, like a Ferrari or one of them Lamborghinis. Or maybe some big ol’ muscle car. You just don’t belong in that plain-ass Mercedes. He did you a favor. You’d get a lot more complimentary BJs if you was driving a Ferrari.”
    “You’re right,” DeAngelo said. “Tell your boss if he delivers on a Ferrari, I won’t kill him.”
    DeAngelo turned on his heel, left the office, and was whisked away in the Escalade.
    “That went pretty good,” Lula said.
    Vinnie crawled out from under the desk. “Where am I going to get a Ferrari? Do you have any idea what a Ferrari costs? It