Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(33)

I found a parking place on the third block, and Lula and I walked back to Fat Dave’s. We looked in through the large plate glass window and saw that Winkle was still there. We could tell by his gargantuan body overflowing the counter stool.

“You go in first,” I said. “You do your thing, and then I’ll come in and close the deal.”

Lula sashayed in and sat next to Winkle. I gave her five minutes, and then I went in and joined them. I had plasti-cuffs stuffed into my jeans waistband, hidden by my sweatshirt, and a canister of pepper spray in my sweatshirt pocket.

“Well, look who’s here,” Lula said. “It’s my friend Stephanie.”

Winkle gave a sound that was like a bull snorting. He had an empty plate in front of him, and there was ketchup everywhere. He was working on a basket of French fries.

“This is my new friend Eugene Winkle,” Lula said to me.

Eugene gave another snort and shoved French fries into his mouth.

“Is Eugene ready to party?” I asked Lula.

“Eugene’s thinking about it,” Lula said. “He’s gotta finish his fries first.”

“Did you tell Eugene about the deal?”

Eugene looked at me. “What deal?”

“Lula likes handcuffs.”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “I’m thinking about going into dominatrixing. I like to give a little and then I like to get a little.”

“Oh yeah?” he said. “What do you like to get?”

“I’m pretty much into spanking,” Lula said. “Are you any good at that?”

“Do I have to get spanked first?”

“Yeah.”

“And then I get to spank you?”

“Yeah.”

He shoved a wad of French fries into his mouth. “Let’s go.”

“First we have to cuff you,” I said.

He threw a twenty down on the counter and held his hands out. “Do it. This is going to be good. I’m going to spank you hard when it’s my turn.”

“I like that,” Lula said. “Nothing I like better than a hard spanker.” She looked over at me. “Make sure you pull those plasti-cuffs real tight.”

I had them around Winkle’s wrist, and I went for a second. “I’m doing double.”

“What are you going to use?” he wanted to know. “Are you going to use a switch or a paddle?”

I looked at Lula and read her mind. She was thinking she would use a couple thousand volts of electricity.

We walked Winkle to my car and secured him into the backseat. He had his hands double cuffed behind his back. Lula was in the front seat with her hand wrapped around the stun gun in her purse. I had one eye on the road and one eye on Winkle in my rearview mirror. If he somehow managed to get out of the cuffs I was going to stop the car, jump out, and run like hell.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“I got a place on Clinton Street,” Lula said.

“I don’t like Clinton Street,” Winkle said. “That’s where the police station is. Hey, wait a minute . . .”

“Drive faster,” Lula said to me. “A lot faster.”

“I think you tricked me,” Winkle said. “You don’t want to get spanked. I bet you’re cops. I don’t like this. I don’t like being tricked.”

Lula reached over the seat with her stun gun and Winkle head-butted her. Lula knocked against me, I jumped the curb, and crashed into a streetlight. By the time I fought my way free of the airbag, Winkle had disappeared.

Lula and I got out and looked at my car. The front was smushed in where it’d hit the pole.

“It’s not so bad,” Lula said. “The wheels look okay. And so far as I can see it’s not leaking anything. You probably could drive it.”

I got behind the wheel, backed off the sidewalk, and slowly drove away.

“Just like new,” Lula said, “except for that big dent in the front and the mold smell coming from the backseat.”

“Winkle has a high bond. If I could bring him in I might be able to buy a car.”

“I could help you,” Lula said. “I’m good at picking out cars. And I got connections.”

“Winkle is out here somewhere,” I said. “Eventually he’ll go home. I’m going to ride around a little and then stake out his house.”

“I don’t think I can charm him again,” Lula said. “I got a headache. I bet I got a big bump on my forehead.”

“If we find him we won’t fool around. We’ll rush him, and stun him right away. After we get him trussed up like a Sunday goose I’ll call for help transporting him.”

“Remember how you told me it was illegal to stun gun someone?”

“Extenuating circumstances,” I said. “And we’re going to lie about doing it.”

“You bet your ass,” Lula said.

I was two blocks from the police station. A low-income residential neighborhood sat between Winkle’s Stark Street apartment and me. Streets followed no logical pattern, and it was easy to get lost in the maze of modest two-story houses that were smashed together on tiny lots.

“He had to cut through this mess of houses,” Lula said. “You need to turn here.”