Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(69)

“His pickup truck is parked in front of the house,” I said to Lula. “That’s a good sign.”

A chicken flew out of the tall grass, flapping and squawking. It crashed into the Rangeman windshield and lay on the hood momentarily stunned. It got up, pooped, and flapped away.

“That’s it for me,” Lula said. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this vehicle. Call Boot on the phone and tell him we’re parked and waiting for him.”

I dialed Boot’s number. “He’s not picking up,” I said. “I’m going in.”

“You could take Carl with you,” Lula said.

Taking Carl with me had some appeal. Leaving Lula alone in the car had no appeal. In the past, Lula has sometimes decided she needed nachos and forgot she was supposed to wait for me.

“Carl can stay here,” I said. “Darren won’t be a problem.”

I kept my eyes on the path and made it to the house without getting pecked. Minnie Mouse answered and invited me in.

“Darren is out back,” she said. “He’s working on the food truck.”

“I didn’t know you had a food truck.”

“Goodness, yes. It uses up the excess eggs and it brings in a nice amount of money. Just go through the kitchen and out the back door.”

Darren was a slim man with thinning brown hair and a large Captain Hook nose. He was hosing down a food truck that looked like a refugee from the junkyard.

“Howdy,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I just gotta get this washed off. The chickens make a terrible mess of it.”

“What do you sell?” I asked him.

“Breakfast burritos, mostly. We don’t sell them for breakfast, but they’re called that on account of we fill them with scrambled eggs. When you got a night of hard drugs and drinking there’s nothing better than a breakfast burrito. People stand in line forever for our burritos.”

It suddenly clicked in my head. “I saw this truck at the Snake Pit,” I said.

“Yep. That’s where we sell them. Every Thursday and Friday night. We’re famous because the big star of Rockin’ Armpits, Victor Waggle, won’t go onstage until he’s had one of our burritos. It’s a ritual for him. He shows up around ten o’clock. The security people bring him around to the back side of the truck so he doesn’t get mobbed.” Darren turned the hose off. “I guess you came to take me back to jail.”

“Yes. You missed your court date.”

“It’s hard to keep track of things like that. Problem is, this isn’t a good time for me. I’d appreciate it if you could come back in a couple days. I already bought the tortillas for tonight, and I’m in eggs up to my ears. And I don’t know what’ll happen if Victor doesn’t get his burrito.”

“If we go now, court is in session, and I can get you rebonded and back home for dinner.”

“I guess that would be okay.”

I loaded Darren into the back seat of the Rangeman SUV, and called Connie.

“We have to get him bonded out today,” I said. “He has to be working on his food truck tonight.”

How good is this, I thought. I know exactly where Victor Waggle will be at ten o’clock. I can have everyone in place to make a capture with a minimum amount of fuss. We’ll get Waggle in cuffs, and hopefully he’ll know where the kidnap victims are being held.

It was late afternoon when we went before the judge and the paperwork was completed. Lula returned to the office with Connie, and Carl and I took Darren home.

“This turned out to be a real relaxing day,” Darren said. “It’s not often I get to sit around and do nothing. I’m usually collecting eggs or feeding chickens or selling eggs or feeding eggs or selling chickens or . . .”

I was sitting in the front next to Carl, and I checked Darren out in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay back there?” I asked.

“I’m freaking fine,” Darren said. “Why wouldn’t I be fine? I’m in this nice car and you even have bottled water and cookies back here for me. And by the way these cookies taste a little funny, but I like them anyway. They’re freaking fine.”

I swiveled around and looked at him. “Cookies?”

“Yep. The ones in the tin. I ate them all. I hope that was okay.”

“Omigod,” I said to Carl. “He ate the Hashy Smashies.”

“I don’t know from personal experience,” Carl said, “but I hear the edibles stay with you for a longer time than just smoking weed. And they aren’t always well tolerated.”

“I feel a little sick,” Darren said.

I squelched a grimace, and told Carl to drive faster.

“Maybe I’m just hungry,” Darren said. “Are there any more cookies?”

“No!”

We had to detour around the Snake Pit. A flatbed was off-loading two giant spotlights. Vendors were finding their assigned spots on the street. Several black Escalades were lined up on the far end of the block.

Carl blew past the junkyard, turned into Darren’s driveway, and skidded to a stop. I ran around and got Darren out of the car. He took two steps and projectile vomited half-digested Hashy Smashies.

“Do you think he’ll be okay now?” I asked Carl.