Between the Plums Page 7

  I pulled the phone out of my bag and pressed the off button. I knew it was my sister. And there was an outside chance Diesel was serious about throwing the phone in the river.

  “Now what?” I asked Diesel.

  “Lester knows where the factory is.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going back to the employment office.”

  Diesel smiled down at me. “What’s the matter? Is the big bad bounty hunter afraid of the little people?”

  “Those fake elves were crazy. And they were mean!”

  Diesel ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them be mean to you.”

  Swell.

  Diesel parked half a block from the employment office and we sat wordlessly staring at the emergency vehicles in front of us. A fire truck, an EMT truck, and four police cars. The windows and the front door to the office were shattered, and a charred chair had been dragged out to the sidewalk.

  We left the car and walked over to a couple cops I recognized. Carl Costanza and Big Dog. They were standing back on their heels, hands resting on their utility belts, surveying the damage with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for watching grass grow.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Fire. Riot. The usual. It’s pretty ugly in there,” Carl said.

  “Bodies?”

  “Cookies. Smashed cookies all over the place.”

  Big Dog had an elf ear in his hand. He held it up and looked at it. “And these things.”

  “It’s an elf ear,” I said.

  “Yeah. These ears are all that’s left of the little buggers.”

  “Did they burn?” I asked.

  “No. They ran,” Carl said. “Who would have thought the little guys could run that fast? Couldn’t catch a single one of them. We arrived on the scene, and they took off like roaches when the light goes on.”

  “How did the fire get started?”

  Carl shrugged and looked up at Diesel. “Who’s he?”

  “Diesel.”

  “Does Joe know about him?”

  “Diesel is from out of town.” Way out. “We’re working a skip together.”

  There wasn’t anything more to be learned from the employment office, so we left Carl and Big Dog and returned to the car. The sun was shining some place other than Trenton. Streetlights were on. And the temperature had dropped by ten degrees. My feet were wet from slogging through two fire scenes and my nose was numb, frozen like a popsicle.

  “Take me home,” I said to Diesel. “I’m done.”

  “What? No shopping? No Christmas cheer? Are you going to let your sister beat you out in the present race?”

  “I’ll shop tomorrow. I swear I will.”

  ______

  Diesel parked the Jag in my apartment building parking lot and got out of the car.

  “It’s not necessary to see me to the door,” I said. “I imagine you want to get back to the Ring search.”

  “Nope. I’m done for the day. I thought we’d have something to eat and then chill in front of the TV.”

  I was momentarily speechless. That wasn’t the evening I had planned out in my mind. I was going to stand in a scalding hot shower until I was all wrinkly. Then I was going to make myself a peanut butter and marshmallow Fluff sandwich. I like peanut butter and Fluff because it combines the main course with the dessert and it doesn’t involve pots. Maybe I’d watch some television after dinner. And if I was lucky I’d be watching it with Morelli.

  “That sounds great,” I said, “but I have plans for tonight. Maybe some other time.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m seeing Morelli.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” No. I wasn’t sure. I figured the possibility was about fifty percent. “And I wanted to take a shower.”

  “Hey, you can take a shower while I make dinner.”

  “You can cook?”

  “No,” he said. “I can dial.”

  “Okay, so here’s the thing, I don’t feel entirely comfortable with you in my apartment.”

  “I thought you were getting used to the Super Diesel thing.”

  Old Mr. Feinstein shuffled past us on his way to his car. “Hey, chicky,” he said to me. “How’s it going? You need any help here? This guy looks shifty.”

  “I’m fine,” I told Mr. Feinstein. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “See that,” I said to Diesel. “You look shifty.”

  “I’m a pussycat,” Diesel said. “I haven’t even come on to you. Okay, maybe a little teasing, but nothing serious. I haven’t grabbed you . . . like this.” He wrapped his fingers around my jacket lapels and pulled me to him. “And I haven’t kissed you . . . like this.” And he kissed me.

  My toes curled in my shoes. And heat slashed through my stomach and headed south.

  Damn.

  He broke from the kiss and smiled down at me. “It isn’t as if I’ve done anything like that, right?”

  I gave him a two-handed shot to the chest, but he didn’t budge, so I took a step back. “There will be no kissing, no fooling around, no anything.”

  “Sure.”

  I did an I give up gesture, turned, and went into the building. Diesel followed after me, and we waited in silence for the elevator. The doors opened, and Mrs. Bestler smiled out at me. Mrs. Bestler is just about the oldest person I’ve ever seen. She lives alone on the third floor, and she likes to play elevator operator when she gets bored.

  “Going up,” she called out.

  “Second floor,” I said.

  The elevator doors closed, and Mrs. Bestler chanted, “Ladies’ handbags, Santa’s workshop, better dresses.” She looked at me and shook her finger. “Only three shopping days left.”

  “I know. I know!” I said. “I’ll go shopping tomorrow. I swear, I will.”

  Diesel and I stepped out of the elevator, and Mrs. Bestler sang, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” as we walked down the hall.

  “I’m laying odds she’s eighty proof,” Diesel said, opening my door.

  My apartment was dark, lit only by the blue digital clock on my microwave and the single, red, blinking diode on my answering machine.

  Rex ran on his wheel in the kitchen. The soft whir of his wheel reassured me that Rex was safe and probably there weren’t any bridge trolls hiding in my closet tonight. I flipped the light, and Rex immediately stopped running and blinked out at me. I dropped a couple Fruit Loops into his cage from the box on the counter, and Rex was a happy camper.

  I hit the play button on the answering machine and unbuttoned my jacket.

  First message. “It’s Joe. Give me a call.”

  Next message. “Stephanie? It’s your mother. You don’t have your cell phone on. Is something wrong? Where are you?”

  Third message. “It’s Joe again. I’m stuck on this job, and I won’t make it over tonight. And don’t call me. I can’t always talk. I’ll call back when I can.”

  Fourth message. “Christ,” Morelli said.

  “Guess it’s just you and me,” Diesel said, grinning. “Good thing I’m here. You’d be lonely.”

  And the terrible part was that he was right. I had one foot on the slippery slope of Christmas depression. Christmas was sliding away from me. Five days, four days, three days . . . and before my eyes, Christmas would come and go without me. And I’d have to wait an entire year to take another crack at a ribbons and bows, candy canes, and eggnog Christmas.

  “Christmas isn’t ribbons and bows and presents,” I said to Diesel. “Christmas is about good will, right?”

  “Wrong. Christmas is about presents. And Christmas trees. And office parties. Boy, you don’t know much, do you?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Aside from all the religious blah, blah, blah, which we won’t get into . . . I think Christmas is whatever turns you on. That’s what I really believe. Everyone decides what they want out of Christmas. Then everyone gets a shot at making it happe
n.”

  “Suppose every year you blow it? Suppose every year you screw up Christmas?”

  He crooked his arm around my neck. “Are you screwing up Christmas, kiddo?”

  “I can’t seem to get to it.”

  Diesel looked around. “I noticed. No garlands of green shit. No angels, no Rudolphs, no kerplunkers or tartoofers.”

  “I used to have some tartoofers but my apartment got firebombed and they all went up in smoke.”

  Diesel shook his head. “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

  I woke up in a sweat. I was having a nightmare. There were only two days left until Christmas, and I still hadn’t bought a single present. I gave myself a mental head smack. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was true. Two days until Christmas.

  I jumped out of bed and scurried into the bathroom. I took a fast shower and power-dried my hair. Yikes. I tamed it with some gel, got dressed in my usual jeans, boots, and T-shirt, and went to the kitchen.

  Diesel lounged against the sink, coffee cup in hand. There was a white bakery bag on the counter, and Rex was awake in his cage, leisurely working his way to the heart of a jelly doughnut.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Diesel said.

  “There are only two days left until Christmas,” I said. “Two days! And I wish you would stop letting yourself into my apartment.”

  “Yeah, right, that’s gonna happen. Have you given Santa your list? Have you been naughty?”

  It was early in the morning for an eye roll, but I managed one anyway. I poured myself coffee and took a doughnut.

  “It was nice of you to bring doughnuts,” I said. “But Rex will get a cavity in his fang if he eats that whole thing.”

  “We’re making progress,” Diesel said. “You didn’t shriek when you saw me here. And you didn’t check the coffee and doughnuts for alien poison.”

  I looked down at the coffee and had a rush of panic. “I wasn’t thinking,” I said.

  Half an hour later we were on a side street with a good view of Briggs’ apartment building. Briggs was going to work today. And we were going to follow him. He’d lead us to the toy factory, I’d locate Sandy Claws, I’d snap the cuffs on him, and then I could have Christmas.

  At exactly eight-fifteen, Randy Briggs strutted out of his building and got into a specially equipped car. He cranked the engine over and drove out of the lot, heading for Route 1. We followed a couple cars back, keeping Briggs in sight.

  “Okay,” I said to Diesel. “You flunked levitation and obviously you can’t do the lightning thing. What’s your specialty? What tools have you got on your utility belt?”

  “I told you, I’m good at finding people. I have heightened sensory perception.” He cut his eyes to me. “Bet you didn’t think I knew big words like that.”

  “Anything else? Can you fly?”

  Diesel blew out a sigh. “No. I can’t fly.”

  Briggs stayed on Route 1 for a little over a mile and then exited. He left-turned at the corner and entered a light industrial complex. He drove past three businesses before pulling into a parking lot, adjacent to a one-story redbrick building that was maybe five thousand square feet. There were no signs announcing the name or the nature of the business. A toy soldier on the door was the only ornamentation.

  We gave Briggs a half hour to get into the building and settle himself. Then we crossed the lot and pushed through the double glass doors, into the small reception area. The walls were brightly colored in yellow and blue. There were several chairs lined up against one wall. Half the chairs were big and half were small. The boundary to the reception area was set by a desk. Behind the desk were a couple cubbies. Briggs was sitting in one of them.

  The woman behind the desk looked at Diesel and me and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Sandy Claws,” Diesel said.

  “Mr. Claws isn’t in this morning,” the woman said. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  Briggs’ head snapped up at the sound of Diesel’s voice. He looked over at us and worry lines creased his high forehead.

  “Do you expect him in later today?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. He keeps his own schedule.”

  We left the building, and I called and asked for Briggs.

  “Don’t call me here,” Briggs said. “This is a great job. I don’t want it screwed up. And I’m not going to inform for you, either.” And he hung up.

  “I guess we could stake out the building,” I said to Diesel. I wanted to do this just behind poke out my eye with a burning stick.

  Diesel pushed his seat back and stretched his legs. “I’m beat,” he said. “I worked the night shift. How about if you take the first watch.”

  “The night shift?”

  “Sandor and Ring have a long history in Trenton. I made the rounds of some of Ring’s old haunts after I left you last night, but I didn’t turn anything up.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and almost instantly seemed to be asleep. At ten-thirty my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Lula said. “What’s up?”

  Lula does filing for the bonds office. She was a ho’ in a previous life but has since amended her ways. Her wardrobe has pretty much stayed the same. Lula’s a big woman who likes the challenge of buying clothes that are two sizes too small.

  “Not much is up,” I said. “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m going shopping. Two days to Christmas and I don’t have nothing. I’m heading for Quakerbridge Mall. You want to ride shotgun?”

  “Yes!”

  ______

  Lula checked her rearview mirror for one last look at Diesel before leaving the toy factory parking lot. “That man is fine. I don’t know where you find these guys, but it isn’t fair. You got the market cornered on hot.”

  “He’s actually a superhero, sort of.”

  “Don’t I know it. I bet he got superhero boys, too.”

  Lula was sounding a lot like Grandma. I didn’t want to think about Diesel’s boys, so I put the radio on. “I have to be back to relieve him at three o’clock,” I said.

  “Dang,” Lula said, pulling into Quakerbridge. “Look here at this parking lot. It’s full. This mother is full. Where am I supposed to park? I only got two days to shop. I can’t deal with this parking thing. And what’s with all the best spots going to the handicapped? You see any handicap cars in all these handicap places? How many handicap people they think we got in Jersey?”

  Lula rode around the lot for twenty minutes, but she didn’t find a parking space. “Look at this itty bitty Sentra nosed up to a wreck of a Pinto,” Lula said, wheeling around so she had the front bumper of her Firebird inches from the back bumper of the Sentra. “Uh-oh,” she said, easing forward, “look how that Sentra’s moving forward all by itself. Before you know it, there’s gonna be a parking space available on account of that Pinto is rolling into the driving lane.”

  “You can’t just push a car out of its space!” I said.

  “Sure I can,” Lula said. “See? I already did it.” Lula had her handbag over her shoulder, and she was out of the Firebird, booking toward the mall entrance. “I got a lot to do,” Lula said. “I’ll meet you back at the car at two-thirty.”

  I glanced down at my watch. It was two-thirty. And I only had one present. I’d gotten a pair of gloves for my dad. That was a no-brainer. I got him gloves every year. He counted on it. I was at a loss for everyone else. I’d given Valerie all my good gift ideas. And the mall was a mob scene. Too many shoppers. Not enough clerks at registers. Picked-over merchandise. Why did I let this go to the last minute? Why do I go through this every year? Next year I’m getting my Christmas presents in July. I swear, I am.

  Lula and I reached the car simultaneously. I had my little bag with the gloves, and Lula had four huge shopping bags filled to bursting.

  “Wow,” I said, “you’re good. I only got gloves.”

  “Hell, I don’t even know what’s in these bags,” Lula said. “I just
started grabbing stuff that was close to a register. I figure I’ll sort it out later. Everybody always takes their shit back anyway, so it don’t really matter what you buy the first time around.”

  Lula cruised toward the exit and her eyes lit when she came to the edge of the lot. “Do you believe this?” she said. “They set up a Christmas tree lot here. I need a Christmas tree. I’m gonna stop. I’ll only be a minute. I’m gonna get myself a Christmas tree.”

  Fifteen minutes later we had two six-foot Christmas trees stuffed into Lula’s four-foot trunk. One tree for Lula. And one tree for me. We secured the trunk lid with a bungee cord, and we were on our way.

  “Good thing we saw that tree lot so you could get a tree, too,” Lula said. “You can’t have Christmas without a Christmas tree. Boy, I love Christmas.”

  Lula was dressed in knee-high, white fake-fur boots that made her look like Sasquatch. She had her bottom half stuffed into skin-tight red spandex pants that magically had gold glitter embedded in them. She was wearing a red sweater with a green felt Christmas tree appliqué. And she had it topped off with a yellow-dyed rabbit-fur jacket. Every time Lula moved, yellow rabbit hairs escaped from the jacket and floated on the air like dandelion fluff. Behind us, the tree lot was lost in a yellow haze.

  “Okay,” Lula said, stopping for a light. “We got Christmas knocked. We’re on our way to Christmas.” The light turned and the guy in front of us hesitated. Lula leaned on the horn and gave him the finger. “Move it,” she yelled. “You think we got all day? It’s Christmas, for chrissake. We got things to do.” She reached the highway and took off, ripping into “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the wa-a-a-ay,” she sang.

  I put my finger to my eye.

  “Hey, you got that eye twitch again?” she asked. “You should do something about that eye twitch. You should see a doctor.”

  Lula was on the third chorus of “Silent Night” when she parked next to the black Jag. I got out of the Firebird and bent to talk to Diesel.

  “Lula and I can take the next watch,” I told him. “If anything happens, I’ll call you.”