Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(43)

I opened my computer and was about to check my email when I got a call from Lula.

“Gaylord got a car for you,” Lula said. “They’re getting it detailed now, and then it’ll get brought over to your building. Wayne’s got all the paperwork, and all you gotta do is give him the money.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“Don’t know,” Lula said. “I forgot to ask, but Gaylord said it didn’t have no dents and it wasn’t leaking nothing.”

“I need to go to Kranski’s Bar in north Trenton. Do you want to tag along?”

“Sure. We were going to do a filming but it got canceled, so I got the night free.”

“Was this another Naked and Afraid episode?”

“No. It was this other idea I had where I say I feel like I’m a guy today, and I go into a public men’s room. And then we film my positive experience. Only problem was I did a test run this afternoon and there were already a bunch of women in there with the men. The men were all standing back, looking confused, and the women were taking selfie videos of themselves trying to use the urinals. It was a ugly scene. Those women weren’t having any luck with those urinals. I like to think I’m a open-minded person, but I don’t see where this whole unisex thing is going to work. It don’t even make good television. I mean, if you can’t make a decent reality show out of a situation, what’s the point of going there?”

This was wrong on so many levels I almost had a seizure from rolling my eyes, and yet in the end her point was sort of valid.

“I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock,” I said. “Hopefully I won’t have to spend a lot of time at Kranski’s, because I’d like to also take another look at Butchy’s house.”

“What kind of bar is Kranski’s? I need to know so I make the appropriate wardrobe choice.”

“I’ve never been there, but I think it might be a small neighborhood dive. And if we get lucky and Butchy isn’t home we might try to break into his garage, so dark colors would be good.”

Wayne delivered my car at seven-fifteen. He was excessively polite and neatly dressed in a three-button collared knit polo shirt and dress slacks. He handed me an envelope with my registration and bill of sale, plus information on Bua’s Takeout Chicken, Renee Nails, Fancy Dan’s Detailing, and Kitty’s Escort Service.

“I’d like to see the car first,” I said.

“Of course. Let’s go take a look.”

We took the stairs to the parking lot. Wayne led me over to a black Lexus GS F and gave me the keys.

I was speechless for a full minute. “This is it?”

“It’s not new,” Wayne said. “It’s a 2013, but it’s in excellent condition.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It has a little scratch on the left rear quarter panel, but you can hardly see it. I know Lula said she liked red, but this car came available and Gaylord thought it suited you.”

“It’s hot, isn’t it?”

Wayne smiled, showing a lot of really white teeth. “It will be with you in it.”

“I mean it’s hot like stolen.”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Yes!”

“Then it’s definitely not stolen.”

“Good to know,” I said.

Crap! It was for sure stolen.

“We’ve attached your plates and taken care of all the title transfers. The nonstolen VIN number is displayed wherever required. And we’ve given you a full tank of gas.”

I handed him an envelope with my $5,000 in cash.

“Enjoy,” Wayne said.

A Cadillac Escalade pulled up, Wayne got in, and the SUV drove off.

Little black dots floated in front of my eyes, and there was a roaring sound in my ears. I put my hand out onto the Lexus to steady myself and sucked in air.

Okay, so he said it wasn’t stolen. And he was very nice and neatly dressed. And he thought I’d look hot in the car. True, it was a $30,000 car that I got for $5,000, but there were reasons for the discrepancy, right? Like low overhead and sales incentives. And it had a scratch. And best not to dwell on how the title transfer was accomplished on a Saturday night.

When the vertigo cleared and my breathing was more or less normal, I got into the car and drove it around the parking lot. It was a great car. And even if it was stolen, chances were good that by the time the police caught up with me, the car would already have been flattened by a cement truck. My cars didn’t last all that long.





NINETEEN


I DRESSED IN black jeans, a black V-neck stretchy T-shirt, and a black hoodie. It was the perfect outfit for breaking and entering, with the exception of my nose, which was shining like Rudolph’s. I told Rex I’d be home later, I hiked my messenger bag onto my shoulder, and I left my apartment. It was almost nine o’clock, and the sun had set. I got into my new car and drove to Lula’s apartment.

“Girlfriend,” Lula said, “look at you! This is an excellent car. It isn’t red, but it’s excellent all the same.”

“I think it’s stolen.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Lula said, belting herself in. “Mostly Gaylord deals with insurance scamming. He takes a car off a lot and the insurance company pays.”