Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(11)

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I drove to Diggery’s double-wide, parked, and peeked inside. No cats. No raccoons. No rats. No snake. Horrible smell. I didn’t spend a lot of time peeking. I jumped into my car and looked for Ethel as I inched my way along the road and out of the neighborhood. No luck.

Next stop was Morelli’s house. I opened the front door and heard Bob galloping at me from the kitchen. I braced myself, but he still knocked me back against the wall and gave me a lot of Bob kisses. I told him he was a good boy and thanked him for the kisses and he seemed happy with that. I hooked him up to his leash and walked him around several blocks. He pooped twice, and I didn’t pick it up. My feeling is if God wanted me to pick up dog poop he would have made it look like diamonds and smell like roses.

I fed Bob and helped myself to a frozen waffle. I was paging through my emails when I got a text from Lula saying she needed a ride, and she saw on the news that protesters were already collecting at the firehouse. Twenty minutes later I had Lula in my car, and I was driving back toward the Burg.

“Is something wrong with your car?” I asked her.

“No. My baby’s just fine, but I wasn’t gonna take it into no protest zone. Someone throws rocks at your car and turns it over wheels up, it’s no loss. I mean, sure it’s your transportation, but it’s not a classic like mine, right? I got a red Firebird. You don’t never want anybody throwing rocks at a red Firebird. And it’s got a custom sound system. That hummer’ll shake the fillings out of your teeth when I crank it up. It’s got bass, you see what I’m saying?”

I cut my eyes to her. “Next time you drive.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. What do you think of my outfit? We might get to be on television if this thing gets out of hand, so I want to look good. I hear you shouldn’t wear stuff with too much pattern, and that’s why I went with this solid purple tank top.”

Lula was wearing five-inch platform stilettos, a skirt that barely covered her ass, and a purple sequined tank top that was two sizes too small for her watermelon-size breasts.

“I like the tank top,” I said. “Lots of sparkle.”

“It’s from my Vegas collection from when I was a ’ho. I got a lot of action when I wore this top. ’Course some of that was on account of I had a good corner back then.”

I got a block away from the firehouse and passed two buses that were parked on the street.

“They’re the protester buses,” Lula said. “They bring in the professional protesters just in case there’s not enough locals. It’s just like Morelli said. And I read an article about this, too. I’m pretty sure you could get a degree in protesting if you go to the right college. It’s a big thing now.”

“I don’t think there’s a degree in protesting.”

“There’s a lot to learn,” Lula said. “You gotta know about making signs and holding them up in the right fashion. And there’s ways to be obnoxious and provoke a fight. Then you gotta shout slogans and such.”

There were about sixty people milling around in front of the firehouse. They looked peaceful enough, holding signs, taking selfies on their smartphones. A bunch of uniformed cops stood on the perimeter. No riot gear. No nervous pacing. No guns drawn. Looking like they’d rather be someplace else.

“This here’s disappointing,” Lula said. “I expected some nastiness.”

I parked a block away, and we walked back to the firehouse. “Remember, we’re here to tag Zero Slick. We’re not getting involved in the protest.”

“Nothing to get involved in,” Lula said. “This is a yawn. And I don’t get these signs some of them are holding. They say ‘Hell, no, we won’t go!’ What’s that mean, anyway?”

“I think they’re left over from the sixties when people were protesting the Vietnam War,” I said. “Someone probably grabbed the wrong signs from the warehouse.”

“Hey,” Lula said. “Look over by the street light. It’s your granny and two other old ladies. And they got signs.” Lula waved at Grandma. “Yoo-hoo! Granny!”

Grandma turned and saw us and waved her sign. It said BINGO MATTERS.

“Now, that’s a good sign,” Lula said. “It makes a real statement.”

We didn’t see Slick outside, so we went into the firehouse and stood to the back of the meeting room. There was a podium and an American flag at the far end, and rows of folding chairs had been set up for the audience. The room could probably accommodate seventy to eighty people if you squashed them in, but so far there were only fifteen people there.

“We must be early,” Lula said.

I checked my watch. “Nope. We’re right on time.”

A woman came out and introduced the speaker. He was a nice-looking man in a blue suit. Glasses. Sandy blond hair. In his fifties.

Lula leaned forward. “Who did she say this guy was? I didn’t catch it.”

“He’s running for some sort of council seat to replace a man who died.”

The candidate at the podium started to speak, and all the protesters filed in from outside.

“I see him!” Lula said. “I’d know him anywhere.”

“Slick?”

“No. The television guy. The one with the greased-up hair and the fake tan. And he’s got a camera guy with him. Do I look okay? This could be my big chance. Is my hair okay?”