Janet Evanovich - Wicked Business

“Hey, Morty,” Diesel said. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Morty said. “Just living the good life.”

“Everyone would feel better if you were living the good life at your son’s house.”

“My son’s a weenie.”

“We’re going to take a tour of the State House. Why don’t you come with us.”

“Is it a caper?”

“Yeah.”

“What about my baloney sandwich? Will I be back here in time for the food truck?”

“I’ll make sure you get a baloney sandwich.”

“Okay! I’m in.”

We retraced our steps through the park, hiked up Beacon Street, and then we hiked up about a million steps to the front of the State House. We followed signs to the visitors’ entrance to the right of the main gate. The door was locked. No one around. The State House was closed to visitors on Sunday.

“No problem,” Diesel said.

He moved his hand along the door, the locks tumbled, and he opened the door.

“This is the State House,” I said. “You can’t break into the State House!”

“I’m not breaking in,” he said. “The door is unlocked.”

“Oh boy,” Morty said. “This is good. Nothing like a little B &E to get your blood pumping.”

We walked in and looked around. Empty.

“There’s something going on in here somewhere,” Diesel said. “I can hear activity.”

I stood very still. “I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s because I’m the one with the heightened senses, and you’re the one…”

Diesel stopped in mid-sentence.

“And I’m the one who makes cupcakes?”

“Honey, there’s nothing wrong with making cupcakes.”

“You are so not going to see me naked.”

“You haven’t seen her naked yet?” Morty said to Diesel. “What’s with that? How long you two been together? Maybe we need one of those man-to-man talks. I would have nailed her by now. I got a way with women. Once they see I can bend a spoon, they’re all over me. It’s like taking candy from a baby. So, what are we gonna steal this time?”

“We don’t know,” I told him. “We’re scouting.”

We walked to the left, past the bookstore, and stopped at the elevators.

“Going up,” Diesel said, pushing the button.

I stepped back. “No way. This is as far as I’m going. We can come back tomorrow when the building is open.”

“I thought you were motivated.”

“I’m not motivated to go to prison!”

The elevator doors opened, and Diesel pushed me in. “You worry about rules too much.”

“She reminds me of my son,” Morty said. “Uptight fussbudget. I love him, but I’m not gonna lie to myself. He’s got problems. And he’s not even good-looking, like me. I don’t know how he ever found a woman to marry him. I guess it’s what they say… there’s a lid for every pot.”

We stepped out of the elevator at the second floor, and it was clear the noise was coming from the back of the building. We walked through the Hall of Flags toward the Great Hall. The glass doors to the Great Hall were open and the hall was being prepared for a party. Round tables seating eight each were set around the perimeter of the room. They were draped in red linen tablecloths and decorated with candles and flowers. Two bars were manned by bartenders in white shirt, black tie, and black slacks. Two carving stations were being prepared by chefs in silly hats and white chef coats. And two long buffet tables were getting stocked with a mountainous shrimp display, too many steaming chafing dishes to take a count, an artistic arrangement of breads, salads, sauces, pickled vegetables, exotic sliced fruit, smelly cheese, and smoked salmon.

“That’s some spread,” Morty said, “but I don’t see no baloney.”

A guy in a white chef coat came up to us. “You look like you’re lost. You must be from the agency.”

“Yep,” I said. “The agency sent us.”

“Doors are open in fifteen minutes, and I’m short. You can get changed downstairs. You know the drill, right? You’ve done this before?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Lots of times.”

He checked Morty out. “He looks kind of old.”

“I’m old as dirt,” Morty said, “but you should see what I can do with a spoon.”

The guy in the chef coat shook his head. “Sky-high unemployment, and this is the best they could send me.” And he hurried away.

“Now what?” I said to Diesel.

“We go downstairs and get changed. If we look like waiters, we won’t stand out, and we’ll have access to the building.”

“How do we get downstairs?”

“There’s a bunch of fancy-dressed waiters coming from the door over there,” Morty said.

Fifteen minutes later, we were dressed in white shirts, black bow ties, and black slacks, and we were back in the Great Hall. Morty and I looked halfway decent. Diesel looked like a Chippendale’s dancer ready to burst out of his clothes.

Men in black tie and women in cocktail dresses were entering, smiling, talking, looking for their tables. The wait-staff was circulating with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres on silver trays.

“When this hall gets filled with people, no one will notice if we leave to do our thing,” Diesel said. “Grab a tray and blend in until then.”

Morty got a tray of stuffed mushrooms. “Look at this,” he said. “Would you take something that looks like this from a stranger and eat it? I got a new rule since my time living in the park. I don’t eat food that’s brown.”

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Diesel said to me.

I trailed after Morty. He offered his mushrooms and I offered chicken on a skewer. Neither of us had a lot of takers. People were going directly to the buffet table and taking seats.

“It’s like I got cooties,” Morty said. “No one wants one of these crapola brown things. Not that I blame them. I feel like I’m serving goose turds. And look at this party. What a bunch of stiffs. There isn’t anybody here under eighty. They should be passing out Metamucil shooters. These people are falling asleep, and they’re not even talking to me. I bet I could liven it up.”

“We don’t want it livened up. We’re just waiting for a signal from Diesel to sneak out.”

“I used to be the life of the party,” Morty said. “Did I tell you about the time I bent three spoons at once? I was crafty about it, too. I don’t move my lips or anything.”

Oh dear God, I thought. Where the heck was Diesel? Five more minutes of Morty, and I was going to be stretched out under a buffet table.

I rearranged my meat on a stick and realized voices were raised two tables down from me. Everyone was focused on one of the women at the table.

“Look at her spoon,” someone said. “It bent all by itself.”

A collective gasp went up and attention turned to the man next to her.

“It’s a miracle!” one of the women said. “Another spoon just bent.”

“It’s a trick,” someone else said. “They must be trick spoons.”

I looked over at Morty. His face was red, his eyes were narrowed to slits, and he was sweating.

“I’ve got one, too,” someone yelled.

“Me, too!”

“I’m hot, baby,” Morty said. “I’m back! Morty Sandman’s still got it. It’s a record! No one’s ever bent more than four spoons at once. Boy, I feel like a million bucks. I bet I could bend every spoon here.”

Diesel appeared out of nowhere and ushered Morty out of the hall.

“What’s the rush?” Morty said. “I was just getting started. I was on a roll.”

“If you kept bending spoons in there, they’d clear the place out and call in an exorcist.”

We kept our trays in case we ran into security, and we walked to the front of the building.