Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel by Janet Evanovich(20)

I was out of the Buick, running across the street, when the SUV took off. No Briggs on the sidewalk. I ran back to the Buick, jumped behind the wheel, and roared after the SUV.

“They’ve got him,” I said to Lula. “Have you found your gun yet?”

“I might have left it in my other purse. At the last minute I decided to wear these purple shoes, and you know how important it is to coordinate properly.”

I have two purses. One is a messenger bag I use every day. The other is a little evening bag I use three times a year. They’re both black.

The Buick has no pickup, but once it gets rolling it’s a tank. I was half a block behind the SUV when it stopped for a light. I rammed the Buick into the back of the SUV, bouncing it halfway into the intersection. One of the doors opened on the passenger side, and Briggs was tossed out. The light changed, and the crumpled SUV drove off.

Lula and I got out and picked Briggs up off the road.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“No thanks to you. I just got kidnapped.”

“Was it Poletti?”

“No. It was two whacked-out guys who said they always wanted to kidnap a midget. I mean, what the heck is wrong with this world? What has it come to?”

“Did you explain to them you aren’t a midget no more?” Lula asked. “That you are a very short person now?”

“No. I punched one of them in the nuts, and he threw me out of the car. I thought you were supposed to be protecting me. Suppose that was Poletti?”

“Hey, she crashed into that car for you,” Lula said. “She didn’t even care about damaging her own personal property.”

We all looked at the Buick. Not a scratch on it. The Buick is invincible.

Cars were pulling around us, beeping their horns. Briggs was giving them the finger.

“We should get in the car,” Lula said. “Not a good idea for a little white man to be giving the finger to people in this neighborhood.”

I drove us the length of Stark and turned left at State Street. I cut through town and took a small detour to check out Ranger’s building. The street was still cordoned off and filled with emergency vehicles. My heart stuttered in my chest, and a chill ripped through me. I circled the block and continued on to the bail bonds office. I dropped Lula off and brought Briggs back to my apartment.

“I thought we were going to your parents’ house for dinner,” he said. “Why are we here?”

“I have to change my clothes. I’m going to Mrs. Poletti’s viewing after dinner, and I can’t go in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Why not?”

“It would be disrespectful. And my mother would hear about it, and she’d yell at me and get out the ironing. She irons when she’s upset. You want to stay away from her when she’s ironing.”

“If you ask me, your whole family is goofy.”

“I like to think we’re normally dysfunctional.”

I set Briggs in front of the television, then changed into a tailored black suit and a stretchy white tanktop with a scoop neck. I stuffed my feet into black heels, brushed my hair out and pulled it up into a new ponytail, added an extra swipe of mascara to my lashes, and I was good to go.

“Well, la-di-da,” Briggs said when he saw me. “Look at you all dressed up. If Poletti comes after me, you can spear him with the heel on your shoe.”





NINE


GRANDMA WAS WEARING shocking pink lipstick, a shocking pink dress, and white tennis shoes.

“You’re right on time,” she said, opening the front door and motioning us inside. “We’re having beer with the meal, but you could have a snort now if you need it.”

“Sounds good,” Briggs said. “I wouldn’t mind a cocktail. What have you got?”

“We got whiskey,” Grandma said. “I could fancy it up with ice, or you could take it like a man.”

“Whatever,” Briggs said.

Grandma ran off to get the whiskey, and I wandered into the living room with Briggs. My father was in his chair, watching television and doing the Jumble.

“Oh jeez,” he said when he looked up and saw Briggs. “You again.”

“It’s always a delight to see you, sir,” Briggs said.

“Boy, you really want that chocolate cake bad,” I said to Briggs.

“Fuckin’ A,” Briggs said.

Grandma trotted in with a tumbler of whiskey for Briggs. Briggs looked at the glass, looked at my father, and belted back half the whiskey. He gasped, and choked, and his eyes watered.

“Good,” Briggs said. “Smooth.”

Grandma and I helped my mother get the food to the table, and we all took our seats.

“God bless,” my father said, offloading half a cow onto his plate. He added a mound of mashed potatoes and four green beans, then poured gravy over everything. My father never got the memo about red meat, colonoscopies, or heart disease. His philosophy was that if you never went to the doctor, you never found out there was something wrong with you. So far it was working for him.

“This is delicious,” Briggs said to my mother, taking the pot roast for a test drive. “How do you get the gravy to look black like this?”

“She burns the meat,” Grandma said. “That’s the secret to good gravy. It’s got to be full of them carcinogens.”