Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(51)

“He looks okay,” Lula said. “That had to be some experience. I bet it was exhilarating.”

“He don’t look exhilarated,” the make-up ’ho said. “He’s a ways up there, but he looks gonzo nuts.”

We stepped a safe distance from the elevator and waited for Briggs to come down. We heard the car descend. The door opened. Briggs walked out. He didn’t have the benefit of his robe, and his winkie was stiff as a stick. His eyes were totally dilated. He looked around at us and licked his lips. His attention focused on Howie.

“Did you get it?” he asked Howie, his voice unnaturally shrill. “Was it good?”

“It was epic,” Howie said, “but it happened so fast I didn’t catch it. Could you do it again?”

Briggs launched himself at Howie and took him down to the ground. It was like a wild animal attacking prey. We all rushed over and pried Briggs off Howie.

“He bit me,” Howie said. “I need a shot or something.”

“This was a dumb idea,” Lula said. “Who’s idea was this anyway?”

We all stared at her.

“Well, it looked good on the Travel Channel,” Lula said. “Fortunately I still got my zip-lining idea.”

Briggs’s eyes got squinty, and he growled at Lula.

“He’s unstable,” Lula said. “Someone needs to take charge of him.”

I supposed that would be me.

“Come on, Randy,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

I walked him to his car and watched him get in.

“Do you have clothes?” I asked him.

“I had a bathrobe. I guess it’s still on the catwalk. Maybe someone will mail it to me.”

“You can’t drive home like this.”

He looked down at himself. “I’ve still got a stiffie.”

“So it’s not all bad,” I said.

“I’d sort of like it to go away.”

“Not my rodeo,” I said.

“You want to go to a bar? Get a drink?”

“You’re naked.”

“There must be a bar where nobody would care,” Briggs said.

“We could try Kranski’s in north Trenton. I know the bartender.”

Briggs followed me to Kranski’s, and we walked in like there was nothing unusual and climbed onto barstools. A couple guys were watching Monday Night Football, and an older woman was nursing a drink at one of the high tops.

Bertie sauntered over and looked at Briggs.

“Short Stuff hasn’t got any clothes on,” Bertie said.

“He’s had a hard day,” I said. “He went bungee jumping and it sort of went downhill from there.”

“I don’t mind, but I’m going to have to Lysol that stool when he leaves,” Bertie said.

“Vodka rocks with a bourbon chaser,” Briggs said. He cut his eyes to me. “No pockets. No wallet.”

“Run a tab,” I told Bertie. “I’ll have a beer. Surprise me. And we could use some nachos.”

“I know this is one of those pity things, but it’s still nice,” Briggs said. “It’s like we’re friends.”

“It’s not a pity thing. You got dropped a hundred feet. You deserve a drink.”

“It was sort of a rush.”

“Really?”

“No,” Briggs said. “It was heart attack scary. I thought I was going to die. For all I know I did die. Just not forever.”

“Are you going to do the zip-lining film?”

“Maybe. I’m getting to like being naked.”

Bertie brought our drinks and the nachos, and I asked him about Kenny Morris.

“I haven’t seen him today,” Bertie said. “He doesn’t usually come in on Mondays.”

“Do you still think he should be high on the list of suspects?” I asked.

“He has motivation and anger,” Bertie said. “I don’t know if he could pull the trigger.”

I nodded agreement. That was my assessment too.

“Don’t fool yourself,” Briggs said. “Under the right circumstances anyone could pull the trigger.”

We finished the nachos, and Briggs was looking more mellow. His stiffie had deflated, and his teeth had stopped chattering.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” I said. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Yeah, that would be great. I’m only about a mile away. I can walk back for my car tomorrow.”

“I thought you lived by the DMV.”

“That didn’t work out. I live on Poplar Street now.”

“Here’s the thing—I really don’t want you in my car naked.”

“I feel your pain,” Bertie said to me, handing over a big black garbage bag and some scissors. “See if you can dress him up in this.”

I cut holes in the bag for Briggs’s head and arms and dropped the bag over him. It came to below his knees. It was perfect.

Bertie looked down at Briggs. “The dude’s stylin’.”





TWENTY-TWO


IT WASN’T A sleepover night for Morelli so I went to bed in my most comfy, washed-out, ratty sleep shirt. I fell asleep when my head hit the pillow, and I wasn’t ready to wake up when the alarm went off. I fumbled for the clock, and as the fog of sleep cleared, I realized I wasn’t hearing the alarm. The phone was ringing.