Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(12)

Lula was wearing her blond Farrah Fawcett wig. I was guessing it was also from the Vegas ’ho collection. On anyone else the whole deal would look ridiculous, but it was oddly spectacular on Lula.

“The hair’s good,” I said.

“It shows off my beautiful mahogany complexion,” Lula said.

This was true.

The problem with trying to find a five-two man in a crowd is that he doesn’t stand out. It would be easier to spot Slick if he was six-five. I went seat by seat, row by row, trying to see around the signs. The protesters shouted at the poor man at the podium, and Grandma and her friends contributed to the chaos by chanting “We want bingo! We want bingo!”

“I’m getting a headache,” Lula said. “The only people here who make any sense are your granny and her lady friends.”

A woman carrying a HELL, NO sign tried to shove Lula out of the way so she could get to the front, and Lula planted her stiletto heel into the woman’s foot.

“I’m injured,” the woman shrieked. “This fat bitch broke my foot.”

Lula leaned in and narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Say what?”

“Fat bitch,” the woman said. “Fat ’ho bitch.”

Lula reached for her purse, and I grabbed her arm. “Do not shoot her,” I said. “I’ll be really pissed off if you shoot her.”

“How about if I just shoot her in the knee?”

“No!”

“Okay then, can I punch her in the face?”

“No.”

Grandma was at my side. “What’s going on? You need some muscle? I got my girls with me.”

“Nothing’s going on,” I said.

People were collecting around us, there was a lot of jostling, and voices were raised. I saw the television guy moving in our direction.

“We need to get out of here,” I said to Lula.

“I’m on it,” Lula said. “Stick close.”

I grabbed Grandma’s wrist and tugged her after me. An object flew past and hit Lula in the back of the head. It exploded on impact and gushed red. My first thought was bomb. My second was tomato. I turned to look behind me and took a raw egg to the forehead.

The entire room had broken out into a free-for-all. The police rushed in and set off a flash grenade. People were screaming and trampling one another to get to the door. Lula detoured into the firehouse kitchen, and I followed her, dragging Grandma and the ladies along with us. We exited through the back door into an alley. Grandma and the ladies ditched their signs, and we crept around the building and looked out at the street. The protesters were clustered in front of the lone television guy and his cameraman. They still looked angry, gesturing at the police who were mostly stoic, clearing the way so the buses could get through to pick up their passengers.

I recognized one of the cops and sidled up to him. “Will you make any arrests?”

He shook his head no. “This is the Camden group. They’re okay. They’re just out here making some pizza money. We’ll load them onto the buses, they’ll stop at White Castle for burgers, and they’ll be home before the ten o’clock news comes on.”

“What about the man who was speaking?”

“He’ll get elected,” the cop said. “He’s the only one running.”

“I was hoping Zero Slick would be here. He’s FTA, and I know he’s an activist.”

“He’s probably protesting the Korean grocery on Madison and State. I heard that gig was assigned to the locals. We’ll be heading over there as soon as we get these folks settled into their buses.”

“Aren’t you afraid there’ll be trouble before you get there?”

“The television guy is still here. No one’s going to act out on Madison until the television guy gets over there.” He made a small grimace. “You know you’ve got egg on you, right?”





FIVE


LULA AND I took Grandma home and then we went to the Korean grocery on Madison. A handful of people were standing in front of the store, blocking the entrance. They were holding signs that called for DIVERSITY NOW.

I parked and approached one of the sign holders. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Discriminatory hiring practices,” he said.

“This store is owned by the Park family,” Lula said. “I shop here all the time. They’re real nice people. The whole family works here.”

“Their hiring practices aren’t sympathetic to diversity,” the man said.

“That’s because they’re all Korean, you moron,” Lula said. “This here’s a family-run store. You see the sign over the door? It says ‘Park Korean Grocery.’ You know how many Parks there are? About forty. And they all live in two rooms over the store. What are all those people supposed to do if they can’t dribble down into the store to stack vegetables?”

“They’re fascists,” the man said.

“You don’t even know what that means,” Lula said. “Go ahead and tell me what makes up a fascist.”

I pulled Lula away. “We’re supposed to be looking for Zero Slick, not inciting another riot.”

“Well, I don’t see no chubby short guy with a brown ponytail here. The only short person I see with a brown ponytail is an unattractive woman wearing a dress that’s totally wrong for her. And she’s wearing it with sneakers.”