Free Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels) by Janet Evanovich

nose to the crack and sniffed. I didn’t smell boxer, so I closed the door, unhooked the chain, and reopened the door. I looked out with my gun drawn. The hall was empty. I locked my door and crept down the hall. The elevator binged, the door droned open, and I almost shot old Mrs. Moyer. I apologized profusely, told her the gun wasn’t real, and slunk off to the stairs, lugging the first load of junk out to the car.
    By the time Emilio opened his pawnshop, I was in caffeine withdrawal. I haggled over the earrings, but my heart wasn’t in it, and in the end I knew I’d gotten gypped. Not that I especially cared. I had what I needed. Money for a minor weapon, and the phone company, and enough change left over for a blueberry muffin and large coffee.
    I took five minutes out to luxuriate over my breakfast, and then I hustled to the phone office. I stopped at a light and got hooted at by two guys in a pickup. From the hand gestures they were making I supposed they liked my paint job. I couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the engine noise. Thank God for small favors.
    I noticed a haze building around me and realized I was smoking. Not the benign white exhaust of condensation on a cold day. This smoke was thick and black, and in the absence of a tailpipe was billowing out from my underbelly. I gave the dash a hard shot with my fist to see if any of the gauges would work, and sure enough, the red oil light blinked on. I pulled into a gas station on the next corner, bought a can of 1O-W-30, dumped it in the car, and checked the dipstick. It was still low, so I added a second can.
    Next stop, the phone company. Settling my account and arranging for service to be resumed were only slightly less complicated than getting a green card. Finally, I explained that my blind, senile grandmother was living with me between heart attacks and having a phone would possibly make the difference between life and death. I don’t think the woman behind the counter believed me, but I think I got a few entertainment points, and I was promised someone would throw a switch later in the day. Good deal. If Ramirez came back, I’d be able to dial the cops. As a backup, I intended to get a quart of defense spray. I wasn’t much good with a gun, but I was bitchin’ with an aerosol can.
    By the time I got to the gun store, the oil light was flickering again. I didn’t see any smoke, so I concluded the gauge must be stuck. And who cared anyway, I wasn’t squandering more money on oil. This car was just going to have to make do. When I collected my $10,000 bounty money, I’d buy it all the oil it wanted—then I’d push it off a bridge.
    I’d always imagined gun store owners to be big and burly and to wear baseball caps that advertised motorcycle companies. I’d always imagined them with names like Bubba and Billy Bob. This gun store was run by a woman named Sunny. She was in her forties with skin tanned the color and texture of a good cigar, hair that had been bleached to canary yellow frizz, and a two-pack-a-day voice. She was wearing rhinestone earrings, skintight jeans, and she had little palm trees painted on her fingernails.
    “Nice work,” I said, alluding to her nails.
    “Maura, at The Hair Palace, does them. She’s a genius with nails, and she’ll bikini wax you till you’re bald as a billiard ball.”
    “I’ll have to remember.”
    “Just ask for Maura. Tell her Sunny sent you. And what can I do for you today? Out of bullets already?”
    “I need some defense spray.”
    “What kind of spray do you use?”
    “There’s more than one kind?”
    “Goodness, yes. We carry a full line of self-defense sprays.” She reached into the case next to her and pulled out several shrink-wrapped packages. “This is the original Mace. Then we have Peppergard, the environmentally safe alternative now used by many police departments. And, last but certainly not least, is Sure Guard, a genuine chemical weapon. This can drop a