Stephanie Plum gift for anonymous_sibyl Plum Logic
Title: Plum Logic Author: dacro Gift for :anonymous_sibyl as part of the axial_tilt exchange Fandom: Book – Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich Pairing Mostly gen – Stephanie/Morelli, Stephanie/Ranger, Lula/Tank Characters: Stephanie, Lula, Grandma Mazur, Morelli, Ranger, and supporting cast of goodies and bad guys Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Guns, mild violence, sexual innuendo Summary: A day in the life of Stephanie Plum, Bounty Hunter. A tale of slutty shoes, a trip to the bank, details about my love life, and fashion tips from my Grandma. (May also contain donuts.)
A/N: The thing I love about the Stephanie Plum novels (other than the kick-ass characters) is that you can pretty much pick up any book in the series and know what's going on. I was so excited to see if I could pull off the same thing—write a story in her universe that anyone could read, even if they'd never heard of Stephanie before. What a challenge, but one I really enjoyed! Thank you anonymous_sibyl for making this request, and for saying 'Make it like the books, and I'll love it!' I sure hope you like your gift! Thanks to my betas saladbats and rayerai! *loves*
Plum Logic
I'm having a great dream. It includes a tropical paradise, soothing waves, warm, sweet breezes, and the two men in my life slowly making their way toward me over the warm sand—holding bakery bags.
And then I wake up.
I’m greeted by the familiar, but not so soothing sounds of my dripping bathroom tap, the buzzing of my cell phone, and the swearing of elderly men. The shouting seems to be drifting up from the parking lot outside. I roll over, grab for my phone and knock over a cold mug of coffee.
This is me: Stephanie Plum—graceful and articulate.
“Shit!” I say, flipping open my phone with dripping fingers.
“Morning Cupcake," says Morelli from the tiny speaker.
I glance at the time. Nine o’clock. “Crap!”
“And your mother wonders why you’re not married yet.”
I roll my eyes and try to mop up the liquid from my bedside table with an old t-shirt. I notice a small brown pool slowly disappearing into the speaker holes on the top of my alarm clock. It's a lost cause.
I’ve known Joseph Morelli all my life. He’s one of those boys that mothers, especially my mother, tell their daughters to stay away from. He’s tall, dark and handsome, looks like sin in blue jeans, grew up to be a cop and has a dangerous twinkle in his eye that always seems to make my panties disappear.
“Sorry,” I say. "I’m hungry, I spilled old coffee all over my clock, and I was supposed to meet Lula at the bonds office at nine!”
“She’ll wait.”
He's right. She’ll be pissed, but she’ll be there. And I’ll pick up donuts to make the peace. Lula and I are on the same page when it comes to comfort food. Anything can be forgiven as long as there's enough fluffy pastry to balance the offence.
Lula is my sometimes-partner, second-worst bonds enforcement agent in New Jersey, and the world’s worst file clerk. She avoids filing because she can’t bend over the drawers due to the fashionable clothing she likes to wear. Most of Lula’s wardrobe is left over from her former career as a hooker and barely contains her chocolate-toned, queen-sized frame. She tends to push the limits of spandex. There aren’t many people brave enough to criticize her fashion sense because it’s dangerous to piss her off. I’ve seen her sit on people when she gets mad enough. It’s never pretty.
“I’m off at six tonight,” Morelli tells me.
“Yeah?” I say, searching for a bra.
“Yeah. You should come over. Bob misses you.”
Bob is a giant orange eating machine that likes to knock me over and slobber on my face. We sort of share him, but since I’m not technically supposed to keep dogs in my apartment, he lives with Morelli and visits once in a while. Whenever Morelli says Bob misses you, he really means: I’m horny and I have beer and pizza to bribe you with.
“Ok, I’ll be there by seven—for Bob’s sake.”
Hey, I’m a simple girl with simple needs.
“Have fun with Lula. Don’t let her shoot anybody.”
“I’ll try.”
I hang up and wander to the window to check out the commotion outside. Two giant boat-like cars are positioned in a chevron, front bumpers touching. Both drivers shake their hats at each other and demonstrate the age old Italian hand gestures that make our neighbourhood both a good source of stories to tell your grand kids and an embarrassment to actually be from. Most of the people in my building are one Matlock episode away from a trip to the funeral home, but the rent is reasonable, my hamster Rex is allowed free run of his cage, and no one comments on my recycling tower of pizza boxes, beer bottles and donut bags.
I take a look in the mirror and make a face. There's still a mildly attractive thirty year old person staring back at me, with brown curly hair that looks coppery on the right side due to the sunbeam I'm blocking. I wiggle into the nearest jeans, happy that the button still does up after the two slices of cake I shovelled into my mouth last night after a suggestive ‘check-in’ call from Ranger.
Ranger’s the other man in my life. I’ve seen him in action plenty of times, and yet he still remains largely a mystery. All I know is that there’s nobody better at catching a skip, and he’s sex in sunglasses. I can’t help it! I’m positive he has some ‘make Stephanie melt’ button hidden somewhere in his cargo pants. Picture one of those SWAT guys, the ones trained to be invisible—those guys who track down the ‘target of the day’ and clean up after themselves. Now, dress him in all black, stand him in front of a shiny black SUV and make him Cuban-American. Instant Ranger.
Not too long ago I figured out that Morelli is my meat and potatoes, and Ranger is dessert. That about sums up my love life.
~*~
I pull onto Hamilton and wedge my 1986 tan Peugeot 505 into the last remaining space. There are only three good things about my new car: it was cheap, the air conditioning and heat still work, and it’s not my late grandfather’s Buick “Big Blue”. I have very little pride, but there’s just something unprofessional about trying to apprehend a skip in a boxy powder blue beast, although the sheer size and shock value have come in handy more than once.
Lula tugs at her black PVC mini skirt, glaring at me as I approach the office.
“You said you was going to drive me to Newark! If my Firebird was runnin’, I’d have left your skinny ass here, and then you wouldn’t be the first to see me buy my new shoes!”
“Sorry, slept in,” I say, shaking the bakery bag in my hand. “I have éclairs!”
“Oooh, that’s good,” Lula says, lunging for the bag. “Give me one and start driving. I could use a nice éclair.”
“I should check in with Connie first, see if there’s any new FTA’s.”
FTA is bond enforcement lingo for ‘failure-to-appear’. I talk the talk, but I’m not really much higher than Lula on the bounty hunter scale. I often lose the people I’m supposed to apprehend, I keep my gun in the cookie jar at home, and I go through cars like Spinal Tap goes through drummers. But, hey, it’s better than that wholesale lingerie buying thing I was doing before, and my job title is much cooler now.
“I already checked,” Lula says. “Same scumbags and perverts as yesterday.” She opens her mouth and most of the donut disappears. “I picked a few files off the top, in case we wanted to try our luck after I buy my shoes.”
“What’s so important about Newark shoes?” I ask while Lula squishes herself into the passenger’s seat.
“They’re alarm shoes, and you can only get ‘em in Newark—for now, anyways. They’re shiny gold platforms, but they have glowing buttons the in the heel. If someone does something you don’t like, you press one of the buttons and it sends out a secret signal to the cops! If you just want to scare someone off, you push another button, and the shoes make a lot of noise. Would have been great to have when I was a ho, but I figure everyone needs safety shoes, and they’re sexy as hell!”
I pull out onto the street, debating the dangers of questioning the sexiness of platform alarm shoes with Lula. “I need another éclair,” I say instead.
“Oh, me too.” She removes the last two from the bag. “I was so excited about my shoes I didn’t eat breakfast! I’m starving! Oh, and we need to make a stop at the bank. This place we’re going don’t take nothin' but cash.”
~*~
Fifteen minutes later, Lula and I are parked and have the bank in sights.
“Hey, there’s your granny,” Lula says, pointing a red-taloned finger.
Sure enough, my Grandma Mazur is making her way toward us wearing her favourite burgundy jogging suit, and bright pink Easter pill box hat with long-faded silk flowers sticking out at funny angles. I wave to her.
Lula and I have made a pact to be just like Grandma Mazur when we grow up. Lula likes her free sprit, and I like how she annoys my mother.
“Need a ride?” I ask.
“Nope. I’m where I’m supposed to be,” she says, nodding to the red, white and blue bank building across the street. “Your mother’s driving me crazy with her ironing—I need bingo money! The next game’s in a half an hour.”
“What’s with the hat?” Lula asks, poking at a dusty silk daisy.
“It makes my chances better—distracts the old folks from their bingo cards, you know.”
I hold the door open and watch the morning bank customers get their first glimpse of the Lula and Grandma show. I try to pretend I came in with the giant potted fern to my right.
“Where’s Stephanie?” Grandma asks Lula, who seems to be losing the tug-of war for her wallet from her skirt’s shiny back pocket.
“Be right there. You go ahead,” I say, turning to hold the door open for a young guy in a wheelchair.
I take a quick look around the non-remarkable bank. Two tellers smile tightly at Lula and Grandma, as an older lady behind Plexiglas counts rumpled bills. There’s a small sitting area with a few faded blue chairs along the opposite wall where a middle-aged security guard gazes out at the pizza parlour across the street. His name tag says Larry. Wheelchair Guy rolls over to him, says something, tucks his plaid wool blanket around his legs and rolls himself up behind Lula. Brave man.
There’s a muffled bang. Suddenly bits of ceiling plaster are raining down, and Wheelchair Guy stands up. He’s holding a sawed-off shotgun awkwardly in his left hand, and a Glock solidly in his right. His blanket slides to the floor, and I notice the new hole in the middle of it.
“Oh, no you don’t!" Lula yells at him. "Nobody’s robbin’ this bank until I get my money out!”
I come out of shock and glance quickly at Grandma who looks like she’s ready to kick Wheelchair Guy in the pants. The security guard moves a hand to his belt, and then makes a grunt of disbelief at the juice box sitting in his square holster.
“My radio’s gone!” he complains.
“Never heard of sleight of hand?” Wheelchair Guy says with a sneer. “How about we do this nice and quick?” He drops the shotgun on the seat, and points to the silent walkie-talkie hanging from his own belt. Security Guy turns red in the face.
Wheelchair Guy focuses in on the two tellers. "Got that? Nice and quick."
Good suggestion, I think to myself. I’m all for getting out of here. I only like to come into contact with bank-robbers after they’ve skipped their court appearance. They’re more pathetic and gun-free by that point—usually.
He throws two duffle bags at the youngest-looking of the tellers. Her white face tells me this is her first hold-up. Welcome to Trenton, sweetie.
“Fill the bags and no one gets hurt!”
I notice Plexiglas Lady has vanished, and I pray that the guy with the gun forgets she was even there in the first place. If she's as experienced as she is ancient, she'll have pushed the silent panic button by now.
Lula stomps a foot and lands her black fists on vinyl-covered hips. “Only one getting hurt is you if I get to Newark and they’re sold outta my shoes!”
This is not good.
Wheelchair Guy stares her down, reaches again for the shotgun, and points it threateningly at Lula’s pumps. “Big talk, baby, but if you don’t get on the floor right now, I’ll make it so you won't need shoes no more.”
“No need to be pushy,” Lula grumbles, getting onto her knees with a bit of effort and help from Grandma Mazur.
“Thugs in my day had much better manners. I should report you to the city.” Grandma says, still standing. The robber gives her the death glare. She ignores him to help Lula get into a more comfortable position.
Wheelchair Guy loses his patience. “ON THE FLOOR! NOW!”
On the way to the floor, Grandma drops her purse and the contents rattle noisily.
I give a little shake of my head, silently swearing by my mother’s superior pot roast, that I’ll marry Morelli in a massive church with all the fixings, if God will make Grandma Mazur forget all about the gun she always keeps in her handbag.
I try to think of a plan, any plan as I shuffle back toward the fern. The only thing that catches my eye is the big red fire extinguisher by the door. I feel his eyes on me before I get anywhere near it.
“All except you. You, come here, darlin’,” he says, moving to block my retreat, still holding both guns.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you’re my insurance. Have a seat,” he says, gesturing with the Glock to his empty wheelchair.
My legs feel like they’ve been replaced with sand, but I drag them to the chair anyway, telling myself that this could all be over in a few minutes, as long as no one, including me, does anything stupid. I listen for the sound of sirens and hear nothing. Maybe Plexiglas Lady doesn't have a button, or she's too frightened to push it.
“You,” he says to the security guard. “Go outside and tell anyone who wants in, that there’s been a flood or a power outage—something.”
“And what if I don’t?” Larry challenges. “How do I know you didn’t use up the only bullet you got on the ceiling? You could have nothin’, and I lose my job for being a schmuck and believin’ you!”
Wheelchair Guy tucks the shotgun under his arm, pulls back the chamber on the Glock and presses the barrel into my temple.
I stop breathing.
“You really wanna find out, Mac?”
Not good. Not good. Not good!
Larry throws up his hands. “Fine, I believe ya. I’m goin’. Don’t do anything crazy."
He sends me a guilty look before leaving.
"Sorry, lady.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Grandma says. She struggles to stand and her hat slides off. Thankfully, it lands on her handbag.
“It’s okay, Grandma.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady while wondering what's taking the money bag girl so long.
“You ask me—we’re a block or two away from ‘okay’,” Lula mutters as the gunman's hand starts to shake.
Dangerous situations occasionally find their way into my work. Usually, I try to stay calm, think clearly, and not give my mother an excuse to send another application form to the nice and safe button factory on my behalf, or give Morelli a reason to lock me away in my apartment for the next thirty or so years. Regardless, the seriousness of having a gun to my head as Grandma watches is enough to give my muscles permission to tremble and my tears the go-ahead to flow.
The robber makes a sound of disgust and tosses his hair out of his eyes. "Fuck. Don't cry. I hate it when chicks cry."
I do some blinking, but it doesn't help. The rational part of my brain has surrendered to the little girl on the wrong end of a loaded chamber.
The girl with the money bags pushes through the swinging gate at the far end of the counter and the robber waves her over.
She looks around nervously before shuffling our way. On her way past Grandma, she trips over the handbag, loses her balance, and crumples into Lula.
Grandma's bag sails across the floor and collides with the free-standing stone ashtray in the sitting area, there's a gunshot, several thuds, and the world goes white with smoke—powder—something that makes us all start choking. It's not pleasant.
But the gun is gone from my head.
I drop to the floor and crawl-slip blindly to where I last left Lula and Grandma.
"You all right?" I cough out.
"Yeah," Lula answers. "What is this shit? I can't see!"
I hear Grandma coughing on my right, as beams from the window start to cut through the haze.
"I bet it's laughing gas that just hasn't kicked in yet." Grandma offers.
"Stay here," I say, and try to locate the potted fern. When I do, I toss it through the window to get some air in fast.
Within a minute, the fog starts to clear and sirens are coming from every direction. Everything is covered in sticky white powder. I squint through the haze to see Wheelchair Guy passed out and handcuffed in the corner with a huge lump on his head and the big, red fire extinguisher laying beside him—a giant hole in its side. I recognise the cuffs as the painted pink ones Lula always carries with her.
"I put both his guns up on the counter, and cuffed him so he couldn't pull that again." Lula says. "Although it don't look like he's going to be going anywhere for a while. Fire extinguished in the head!" She says, bending over him to get a better look. "That's what you get for messing with a girl and her shoppin'!"
I look around for Grandma and nearly jump to find her right beside me.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" she asks.
"No, Grandma, I'm fine. Let's get you outside."
"All right, but I'm only staying long enough to give my statement."
"You still going to bingo?" Lula asks, trying to clean extinguisher residue from her skirt. It only ends up making slimy streaks on the shiny fabric.
"No," grandma says. "I'm going to skip bingo and meet some friends at the Old Country Buffet. You can buy a senior's card for a dollar, and it gets you fifty cents off your meal! Can't pass that up."
"Don't you want to get cleaned up, or rest?" I suggest. "We've just been through a bank robbery."
"That was only an attempted robbery. I'm fine. Besides, the discount card is only good until four o'clock."
"It's not even noon yet," I say, wiping off my watch on my shirt cuff.
The older teller opens the door to tell us the cops have arrived.
"You two go talk to em," Lula says. "I'll stay here and sit on him, just in case he wakes up and wants to make some trouble."
"Fine with me," I say, steering Grandma toward the door. She stops suddenly, and we both nearly fall on the slippery floor.
"What?"
"I need my purse. Where'd it go?"
I scan the room again and locate the bag under one of the chairs directly across from where the extinguisher used to be. I pick up the purse, and an odd assortment of trinkets, make-up and bullets drop out the hole in the bottom.
"Well, I'll be! Someone's shot it! I hope they didn't wreck my gun!"
~*~
Everyone's out on the sidewalk by the time the cops and a few camera crews arrive. The cops are busy questioning witnesses and hauling the still unconscious robber into a squad car when I see Tank come around the corner.
Tank, a man built like his name suggests, is Ranger's right-hand man, and Lula's boyfriend.
"Hi Tank. What brings you out this way?" I say, trying to sound cheery.
"Ranger sent me. Heard about the bank on the scanner. Said a guy getting knocked out with a blown-up fire extinguisher had you written all over it. Guess he was right."
"To tell the truth, Grandma and Lula did most of the work. I can't take all the credit."
It's really hard to look like a professional while covered in white muck, and blushing with embarrassment. Just once, I want Tank and Ranger to come to my rescue, only to find that I have everything in hand, and still look stunningly fresh.
It's never going to happen, but I can dream.
At least Morelli's unit wasn't the one dispatched. He'd probably hear about it, but by that time, I'd be showered, fed, and ready to freak out again about having a gun to my head earlier in the day. If he showed up now, I'd have to do the whole deal in front of his buddies, and again, there's the white muck. Really not a good look for me.
Lula interrupts my thoughts with a whoop of delight and runs up to Tank.
"There's my man!"
"You're a mess."
"Yeah, I know, but there's no time to change just now. Can you drive me to Newark?"
"Sure. I can take lunch. What's in Newark?"
"Don't ask," I say as Lula drags Tank down the street and around the corner.
I answer some questions, drive Grandma to the Old Country Buffet and then take the short-cut home to have a shower and pass out for a few hours before going to see 'Bob'.
Only in Trenton would this be considered an average day.
I need a new life.
~*~
I wake to the sound of pounding coming from my door. I look blearily at the clock, but only half of the digital numbers are working. Damn coffee. My watch says four fifteen.
I stumble to the front door and find Morelli on the other side looking either pissed off or worried. It's hard to tell sometimes.
"You turned off your phone."
"I'm fine, I just needed to rest. I'm still coming over tonight."
"No. We're coming here."
"I thought you weren't off until six?"
"I pulled a few strings."
"I'm fine, really. It was a little scary, but then it was over. No one got hurt."
"Except the robber."
"Yeah, but he had it coming."
Morelli steps into my apartment, closes the door and wraps me in his arms. I close my eyes and return the hug in a 'I'm very brave and I only need this because you're offering' kind of way.
"Ok, it was a lot scary, but I'm okay now."
"I see that," he says, holding me tight. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Lock me in the apartment for the rest of my life?"
"For starters."
I laugh weakly, give him one more squeeze and pull away just a bit.
"How much do you know?" I ask him.
"Everything. Guys at the station are still trying to figure out what would have happened if your Grandma wasn't packing."
"You only told me not to let Lula shoot anyone. You didn't say anything about Grandma and fire extinguishers."
"It's one for the books," he says, with a concerned smile. "You sure you're all right?"
I stretch up and give him a kiss. "Yeah. Go get beer and Bob. I'll order the pizza."
As soon as Morelli's out the door I get a call from Ranger.
"Quite the show today, babe."
I roll my eyes at the phone. "Thanks," I say, wandering into the kitchen. I push a stale Dorito into Rex's cage and watch him scamper out of his soup can for the treat.
"Thought you might want to know your guy woke up in the hospital at one. He'll be all right enough for that blow he took to the head."
"How do you know these things?"
"Common knowledge for anyone with a police scanner and friends in the ER. It gets better."
"What?" I ask, feeling my forehead crunch up. It's moments like these when I remember my mother's warnings about premature wrinkles.
"He's a repeat client of Vinny's. Gave him a call while Tank was down there dropping off Lula."
"No!" I pull the phone away to swear a blue streak at the fridge.
Rex sends me a dirty look and runs back into his soup can.
What can I say about Vinny? Better Known as Vincent Plumb of Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. He's my scumbag of a cousin who has trouble not having sex with anything that goes bump in the night—or day for that matter. He's also my boss.
"Tank says Vinny's set to appear with the bail tomorrow morning at the court house."
"But he held a gun to my head!" I say, fuming at the sheer unfairness of the whole thing.
"That's the business, babe."
"Well, it sucks."
I don't know what to say after that, so I continue to silently visualize a multitude of itchy boils suddenly appearing all over Vinny's sensitive bits. Eww.
The worst part of it all is that Ranger is completely right. The bad guys break the law and Vinny bails them out. If they don't make their court date, then people like Ranger and I get sent out to bring them in.
Maybe I should give the button factory another look.
"You all right? Need me to come over?"
"I'm fine," I say, felling like a broken record. "Morelli and Bob are bringing beer."
"That'll help. Give me a call when they leave."
I smile and shake my head. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for checking in."
I hang up and take a minute to throw all my chemically saturated clothes into the tub from where I'd dropped them on the bathroom floor. I pull the shower curtain across to hide them, find my phone again and hit Covello's Pizza & Italian on the speed-dial.
Nothing erases a bad day quite like pizza, Bob drool, and Morelli's quick fingers on the top button of my jeans.
I flop down on the couch, and think about finding a way to go to work tomorrow without throttling Vinny. With my luck, he won't even be in. I'll have to spend the day tracking down the same skips as last week, and listening to Lula demonstrate the many features of her new alarm shoes.
Still, it's way better than any other job I've had. I don't have to wear a uniform, I'm allowed an infinite number of donut breaks, and sometimes, I get my man.