Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum, #2)

by Janet Evanovich

If Ranger ever had to use the flashlight to crack skulls while I was around, I intended to close my eyes … and then maybe I’d take up another profession.

“Fugitive apprehension agent,” he called out. “Open the door.” This drew a response, and the door was opened, not by Julia Cenetta or Kenny Mancuso, but by Joe Morelli, a Trenton Police Department plainclothesman.

Morelli had a long history of taking advantage of my naïveté. I’d recently had the opportunity to even the score, and now we were in a period of reevaluation, both of us jockeying around for position.

“What happened to your hair?” he asked. “It’s under my hat.” He had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, “Very sexy.” Morelli thought everything was sexy.

Last time I worked with Morelli I’d gotten shot in the ass.

“If they don’t pace themselves they’re going to kill the shocks on that little car.”

I liked the way rain sounded at night when I was snug in bed. I couldn’t get excited about rain in the morning.

I figured if you had to breathe New Jersey air there wasn’t much point in getting carried away with always eating healthy food.

“Okay, then let’s run down what we have. What do we know about Kenny?” After last night we knew he was a premature ejaculator, but that probably wasn’t what Morelli wanted to hear.

“There’s something I need to tell you before you leave.” “Yes?” “I hate those shoes you’re wearing.”

The legality of this was a tad gray, but it would only be bothersome if I got caught.

So much for Indian summer.

Okay, so I wasn’t the coolest, baddest bounty hunter ever. What mattered was that I was going to get my man, right?

It was dark and raining, with bad visibility, but this was Jersey, and we don’t slow down for anything.

“Do you think I should carry?” Grandma Mazur asked. “Just in case?” “Jesus,” my father said.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast and dark enough to look like the end of the world.

I didn’t trust Morelli, and I hated the possibility that he knew more than I did.

I was born a month premature, and I never did learn the value of patience.

On every side of the municipal complex is the ghetto. This is very convenient, as the police never have to go far to find crime.

“Take a vacation. It will be good for your health.” I didn’t see any travel agency brochures stuck in the envelope, so I assumed this wasn’t a cruise advertisement. I considered the other option. Threat.

I figured it would take all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to put Moogey Bues back together again.

He dragged the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. I figured he was trying to absorb as much tar as possible, the sooner to end his wretched life.

There was always a barbarous part of Morelli that hummed beneath the surface. I found myself helplessly sucked in by it, and at the same time it scared the hell out of me.

“I think you’re cute.” “Jesus.”

In other parts of Trenton the night might feel dangerous. In the burg the night felt soft and secure.

“Most women would be happy to have me follow them.” “I’m not most women.” “Tell me about it.”

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a wise-ass bounty hunter.”

In spite of all the sparring that went on between us, I sort of liked Morelli. Good judgment told me to stand clear of him, but then I’ve never been a slave to good judgment.

Morelli was wearing washed-out jeans that had suggestively molded to an impressive package in front and the state’s best buns in back.

Stuck between snakes was a red heart with the inscription I LOVE JEAN. Lucky girl.

“You got a problem?” “I don’t like cops. That includes pussy cops.” “I’m not a cop. I’m a bond enforcement agent.” “You’re a fucking pussy bounty hunter. I don’t talk to fucking pussy bounty hunters.”

What was it with this cop stuff? I looked down at my Doc Martens, wondering if it was the shoes.

Some people learn from books, some listen to the advice of others, some learn from mistakes. I fit into the last category.

Morelli had this habit of periodically screwing up my life. And I had a habit of letting him do it.

“He doesn’t usually bite,” I said. “He was just excited.” Morelli gave me a chuck under the chin. “Happens to me sometimes, too.”

There was a scraping sound from far away. My mind cleared, and I realized it had been the glasses crashing to the floor that had jolted me awake.

“You’re worried about me.” “Yeah.” We both shuffled our feet some at this. “Awkward,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

This was an excellent secret. This made life much more interesting.

There was already too much ugliness in this world without my having to look at Eugene’s Mr. Droopy.

At least I was giving up a date with Bill Murray for a good cause.

Needless to say, I wasn’t at the head of his commando-for-hire list. I wasn’t even on the bottom of it.

“I don’t fucking believe this. What do you do, sit in bed at night and think about ways to fuck up my life?”

“A Buick,” Morelli said. “Just like old times.” When I was eighteen I’d sort of run over Morelli with a similar car.

Frost sparkled on the Buick’s windows like pixie dust.

I wasn’t finding anything, but the list of items to look for was getting longer, so maybe I was making progress. If the list got long enough, sooner or later I was bound to find something.

It’s funny how people form alliances around the common denominator of simply needing a friend.

Life can get pretty strange. One minute you’re in high school, shooting baskets and stealing little kids’ lunch money, and then next thing you know you’re using mortician’s putty to fill in the holes in your best friend’s head.

What if this was all tied together? What if Kenny stole the guns and hid them in Spiro’s caskets? Then what? I didn’t know then what.

“Moon doesn’t know about anything. Moon has the IQ of a lizard.” I didn’t exactly know how to reply to this, since Spiro was so lizardlike himself.

The entire house was designed to keep noise to a minimum, and now Kenny was sneaking about and not being heard.