Free Motor Mouth by Janet Evanovich Page A

parts. How are you going to get rid of them?”
    “Dump truck,” Hooker said.
    “You got one?”
    “Not yet.”
    The last thing to come out of the bag was a thermos of coffee and two cups. “I know someone who has a dump truck,” Felicia said. “Rosa’s uncle owns a junkyard. Sells scrap metal. He’s got a nice big dump truck.” Felicia had her purse on her arm. She took her cell phone out of her purse and punched in a number. “You eat your dessert, and I’ll get the dump truck,” Felicia said.
    “We can’t have anyone else involved in this,” Hooker said.
    “Don’t worry. We keep it nice and quiet.”
    I poured the coffee and Hooker and I laid waste to the dessert. Bananas drenched in rum, some kind of fruitcake smothered in whipped cream, fried dough balls coated with cinnamon sugar, a chocolate cake that had obviously been soaked in booze, an assortment of little cookies, and some sort of parfait that was crumble cake, fruit, whipped cream, and liquor.
    “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten buzzed from dessert,” I told Hooker. “My life is dirt, but I’m suddenly feeling very happy.”
    Hooker gave me a sideways glance. “How happy are you?”
    “Not
that
happy,” I told him.
    Hooker blew out a sigh.
    “You wouldn’t take advantage of me in a drunken state, would you?” I asked him.
    “Darlin’, I drive stock cars. Of course I’d take advantage of your drunken state. It’s practically required.”
    A truck engine rumbled outside the warehouse, and there was a short blast from an air horn.
    “That’s Rosa,” Felicia said, going to the bay doors. “I’ll let her in.”
    “Tell her to back in,” Hooker said. “I’m going to cut some of the lights.”
    The door to the middle bay rolled up, and we could see red brake lights attached to a massive industrial-grade dump truck.
    “You’re clear,” Felicia yelled. “Back it up.”
    The truck inched into the warehouse, stopping a couple feet short of the pile of scrap metal. Felicia hit the button that rolled the bay door back down. The driver’s-side door to the truck opened, and Rosa swung out, wearing four-inch heels that were clear plastic and rhinestones, a tight black spandex skirt, and a red sweater with a low scoop neck that showed a
lot
of cleavage.
    “I was on a date when you called,” she said to Felicia. “You guys owe me big-time for ruining my love life.”
    Hooker was smiling, hands in pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Where’d you learn to drive a dump truck?” he asked Rosa.
    “My first husband was a truck driver. I used to go on the road with him sometimes. And sometimes I helped my uncle in the junkyard. You gotta know how to do a lot of different things in my family.”
    A car horn beeped outside the warehouse.
    “That’s probably my uncle,” Rosa said. “I told him you’d autograph his hat if he loaned us the truck.”
    I sensed Hooker do a mental grimace.
    “You didn’t tell him about the hauler, did you?” Hooker asked.
    “No. I told him there was a big secret in here and he couldn’t come in. So he’s waiting outside for you.”
    Rosa, Felicia, and I started throwing pieces onto the dump truck, and Hooker trotted to the door with a pen. He opened the door and took a step back.
    “Rosa, there must be fifteen people out here!”
    “Yeah,” Rosa said. “You’re such a popular guy. Everybody loves you. Just hurry up because we’re saving the big, heavy pieces for you to put in the truck.”
    Twenty minutes later Rosa went to the door, opened it, and stuck her head out. “Hey, Mr. Rock Star, you want to stop signing autographs and help us out here?”
    I could hear Hooker yelling though the open door. “This crowd keeps growing! Where are these people coming from?”
    “All you people,” Rosa shouted. “You gotta go home and let Hooker come in here now. We got some bimbos in here for him.”
    Felicia giggled. “I guess that’s us!”
    I didn’t think it was all that funny. I’d