Джанет Иванович - Fortune and Glory

“Elastic waistbands are excellent, especially if you have intestinal issues,” Potts said.

“Who are you?” Grandma asked Potts.

“I’m Potts,” Potts said.

I brought Grandma home and suggested she not share this adventure with my mother.

“No problem,” Grandma said. “I have enough problems getting out of the house as it is.”

I returned to the office and left Potts outside, guarding the door.

“I stopped in at the Mole Hole,” I told Connie. “The back room was getting a makeover. New chairs, new rug, and a poker table. New goons.”

“Who ordered the makeover?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you knew.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

I set my messenger bag on the floor and sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “There were two young guys moving furniture around. Looked like wiseguy wannabes. And there were two guys in suits. Ed and Chick. They were in their forties. Chunky. Looked like muscle. They said someone wanted to see me and Grandma, and the two morons pulled guns on us.”

“Grandma was with you?”

“I caught up with her there. Anyway, Potts came bumbling in and created enough chaos that we were able to get out.”

“It sounds like someone is reorganizing the La-Z-Boys,” Connie said.

“Or someone is taking over the La-Z-Boy territory.”

“I’ll call Mom,” Connie said. “She’ll find out what’s going on. We haven’t got as much inside pull since Uncle Jimmy died, but we’re still in the network.”

I looked toward the front of the office. I could see Potts standing at attention, super alert.

“I can’t get rid of him,” I said. “He won’t go away.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Connie said. “And while we’re on the subject of good deeds, it would be good for my end-of-the-month balance sheet if you could snag Trotter.”

Potts was sitting on the edge of the Buick’s backseat, looking over my shoulder.

“Where are we going? Is it going to be dangerous? Should I have a gun? Do you have a gun?”

“We’re going to Stiller Street. And no, no, and no.”

There was a good chance that Trotter would be home for lunch. It didn’t go well last time I approached him, but I was better prepared this time. I knew what to expect. And with any luck at all, he’d be passed out.

I turned onto Stiller and parked behind Trotter’s van.

“Is this it?” Potts asked. “What should I do? Should I go in first and make sure it’s safe for you? I’m okay with taking a bullet. Just in case, I’m wearing a medical bracelet that has my blood type.”

“Wait in the car. I won’t be long.”

“You said that last time, but you didn’t come out right away.”

I walked to the door and rang the bell. I had my stun gun in one pocket and cuffs in another. Potts was behind me.

“I know you said to stay in the car,” he said, “but bodyguards in the movies are always close to the bodies they’re guarding. Besides, I could be helpful. I could tell this person about my positive experience with the bail bonds system.”

“No. No talking. I do the talking.”

The door opened, and Trotter’s mother squinted at me. “Do I know you?”

“Stephanie Plum,” I said. “Is Rodney home?”

“He’s in the kitchen, eating a late lunch. He had a big procedure this morning.”

I stepped around her and threaded my way through the hoarded groceries and stuffed dead animals. I could hear Potts wheezing, following in my footsteps.

“I need my inhaler,” he said. “Did I tell you I was claustrophobic? Do I smell formaldehyde? I’m pretty sure I smell formaldehyde.”

If he crashed to the floor and his lips were blue and his eyes were rolled back in his head, I’d drag him out to the sidewalk and call 911. Otherwise I was going to ignore him.

“I don’t like these dead animals,” he said. “They aren’t smiling. They don’t look happy. When I’m laid out, I want to be smiling. Not a big smile like the joker. Just a little smile, like I know a secret.”

Trotter was at the table when I walked into the kitchen. There was a half-eaten sandwich and a half-empty vodka bottle in front of him.

“Hi,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Yes, I remember you. Go away.”

“If you would come with me to get re-bonded, you would never have to see me again. It would take a half hour.”

“I’m not wasting a half hour on bogus charges. I’m a renowned dermatological enhancement specialist. I have a wait-list of customers.” He reached down, took a tackle box off the floor, and opened it. “The syringes in this box are filled with my unique enhancement formula. If you go away, I’ll give you one free of charge.”

“What would I do with it?”

“Inject it somewhere. Blow up your lips. Puff up your cheek bones. Inject it in the pencil dick standing behind you and he’ll have a custard launcher the size of a horse.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but we aren’t in need of a syringe, and you’re going to have to check back with the court. Because you failed to appear for your first date, you’re now officially a felon.”

“Screw the court. I have a business to run.”

He threw a syringe at me and I jumped away. The syringe missed me and tagged Potts in the thigh, sticking in him like a dart in a corkboard.

“Omigod, omigod, omigod,” Potts said, staring down at the dart. “What should I do? Should I take it out? I’m afraid to touch it. I’m paralyzed with anxiety.”

I grabbed the dart and yanked it out.

“I think my leg is going numb,” he said. “I’m having one of my allergic reactions. I’m having a panic attack. Is my face getting blotchy? It feels blotchy. Next thing my tongue will swell up and I’ll choke to death.”

“Has that ever happened?” I asked him.

“All the time,” he said. “Except I don’t usually die.”

“What exactly was in the syringe?” I asked Trotter.

“Nothing. It was empty. Look at the syringe.”

“I need air,” Potts said. “I need to get out of here. Where’s the door? Everything is going black.”

He staggered into the living room, knocking over a stack of Ritz cracker boxes, a taxidermied groundhog that was missing a leg, and a tower of toilet paper.

“That was a mean thing to do,” I said to Trotter.

“Bite me,” he said. “And anyway, I was aiming for you.”

I caught up to Potts on the sidewalk. He had his finger on his jugular, taking his pulse.

“There was nothing in the syringe,” I said. “You just got stuck.”

“Are you sure? I could feel the serum going into me.”

“I have the syringe. It was empty.”

“My heart is racing,” he said.

“No doubt. Get in the car and I’ll buy you some ice cream. Do you like soft-serve?”

“Yeah. I like when they swirl the chocolate and vanilla together.”

“Me, too.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Connie looked up from her computer when I walked into the office. “Where’s your new best friend?”

“He had a tough afternoon. I bought him ice cream and took him home. Any news from your mom?”

“Yes. None of it good. Charlie Shine arranged the back room remodel. It’s primarily for some bad guys he brought in from Miami. He felt like he needed new muscle to run his operation.”

“He has an operation?”

“Apparently he’s coming out of retirement. My mother thinks he’s two cans short of a case. I think he needs money to hire lawyers to keep him out of jail.”

“Do we know what the operation includes?”

“The usual. Prostitution. Extortion. Old-school stuff. Plus, I don’t know what Jimmy had stashed away, but the word is that Shine wants it bad. And there are people who think the only reason the two witnesses in Shine’s murder charge are still alive is the fact that one or both of them holds the road map to the La-Z-Boys’ treasure.”