FOUR TO SCOREThanks to Shannon Hendrix for suggesting the title for this book.
ONELIVING IN TRENTON in July is like living inside a big pizza oven. Hot, airless, aromatic.Because I didnt want to miss any of the summer experience I had the sunroof open on my Honda CRX. My brown hair was pulled up into a wind-snarled, curls-gone-to-frizz ponytail. The sun baked the top of my head, and sweat trickled under my black spandex sports bra. I was wearing matching spandex shorts and a sleeveless oversized Trenton Thunders baseball jersey. It was an excellent outfit except it gave me no place to stick my .38. Which meant I was going to have to borrow a gun to shoot my cousin Vinnie.I parked the CRX in front of Vinnies storefront bail bonds office, lunged out of the car, stalked across the sidewalk, and yanked the office door open. “Where is he? Where is that miserable little excuse for a human being?”“Uh oh,” Lula said from behind the file cabinet. “Rhino alert.”Lula is a retired hooker who helps clean up the filing and sometimes rides shotgun for me when I do my fugitive apprehension thing. If people were cars, Lula would be a big, black 53 Packard with a high-gloss chrome grille, oversized headlights, and a growl like a junkyard dog. Lots of muscle. Never fit in a compact space.Connie Rosolli, the office manager, pushed back at her desk when I entered. Connies domain was this one front room where friends and relatives of miscreants came to beg money. And to the rear, in an inner office, my cousin Vinnie slapped Mr. Johnson around and conversed with his bookie.“Hey,” Connie said, “I know what youre bummed about, and this wasnt my decision. Personally, if I were you, Id kick your cousins pervert ass around the block.”I pushed a clump of hair that had strayed from the ponytail back from my face. “Kicking isnt good enough. I think Ill shoot him.”“Go for it!” Lula said.“Yeah,” Connie agreed. “Shoot him.”Lula checked out my clothes. “You need a gun? I dont see no gun bulges in that spandex.” She hiked up her T-shirt and pulled a Chiefs Special out of her cut-off denim shorts. “You could use mine. Just be careful; it sights high.”“You dont want a little peashooter like that,” Connie said, opening her desk drawer. “Ive got a forty-five. You can make a nice big hole with a forty-five.”Lula went for her purse. “Hold on here. If thats what you want, let me give you the big stud. Ive got a forty-four magnum loaded up with hydroshocks. This babyll do
real damage, you see what Im saying? You could drive a Volkswagen through the hole this sweetheart makes.”“I was sort of kidding about shooting him,” I told them.“Too bad,” Connie said.Lula shoved her gun back in her shorts. “Yeah, thats damn disappointing.”“So where is he? Is he in?”“Hey, Vinnie!” Connie yelled. “Stephanies here to see you!”The door to the inner office opened and Vinnie poked his head out. “What?”Vinnie was 57”, looked like a weasel, thought like a weasel, smelled like a French whore and was once in love with a duck.“You know what!” I said, hands fisted on hips. “Joyce Barnhardt, thats what. My grandma was at the beauty parlor and heard you hired Joyce to do skip tracing.”“So whats the big deal? I hired Joyce Barnhardt.”“Joyce Barnhardt does makeovers at Macys.”“And you used to sell ladies panties.”“That was entirely different. I blackmailed you into giving me this job.”“Exactly,” Vinnie said. “So whats your point?”“Fine!” I shouted. “Just keep her out of my way! I
hate Joyce Barnhardt!”And everybody knew why. At the tender age of twenty-four, after less than a year of marriage, Id caught Joyce bare-assed on my dining room table, playing hide-the-salami with my husband. It was the only time shed ever done me a favor. Wed gone through school together, where shed spread rumors, told fibs, ruined friendships and peeked under the stall doors in the girls bathroom to see peoples underpants.Shed been a fat kid with a terrible overbite. The overbite had been minimalized by braces, and by the time Joyce was fifteen shed trimmed down to look like Barbie on steroids. She had chemically enhanced red hair done up in big teased curls. Her nails were long and painted, her lips were high gloss, her eyes were rimmed in navy liquid liner, her lashes gunked up with blue-black mascara. She was an inch shorter than me, five pounds heavier and had me beat by two cup sizes. She had three ex-husbands and no children. It was rumored she had sex with large dogs.Joyce and Vinnie were a match made in heaven. Too bad Vinnie was already married to a perfectly nice woman whose father happened to be Harry the Hammer. Harrys job description read “expediter,” and Harry spent a lot of his time in the presence of men who wore fedoras and long black overcoats.“Just do your job,” Vinnie said. “Be a professional.” He waved his hand at Connie. “Give her something. Give her that new skip we just got in.”Connie took a manila folder from her desktop. “Maxine Nowicki. Charged with stealing her former boyfriends car. Posted bond with us and failed to show for her court appearance.”By securing a cash bond Nowicki had been free to leave the lockup behind and return to society at large while awaiting trial. Now shed failed to appear. Or in bounty-hunter speak, she was FTA. This lapse of judicial etiquette changed Nowickis status to felon and had my cousin Vinnie worrying that the court might see fit to keep his bond money.As a bond enforcement officer I was expected to find Nowicki and bring her back into the system. For performing this service in a timely manner Id get ten percent of her bond amount. Pretty good money since this sounded like a domestic dispute, and I didnt think Maxine Nowicki would be interested in blowing the back of my head off with a .45 hollow tip.I riffled through the paperwork, which consisted of Nowickis bond agreement, a photo, and a copy of the police report.“Know what Id do?” Lula said. “Id talk to the boyfriend. Anybody pissed off enough to get his girlfriend arrested for stealing his car is pissed off enough to snitch on her. Probably hes just waiting to tell someone where to go find her.”It was my thought too. I read aloud from Nowickis charge sheet. “Edward Kuntz. Single white male. Age twenty-seven. Residing at Seventeen Muffet Street. Says here hes a cook.”
I PARKED in front of Kuntzs house and wondered about the man inside. The house was white clapboard with aqua trim around the windows and tangerine paint on the door. It was half of a well-cared-for duplex with a minuscule front yard. A three-foot-tall statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in pale blue and white had been planted on the perfectly clipped patch of lawn. A carved wood heart with red lettering and little white daisies had been hung on the neighboring door, proclaiming that the Glicks lived there. The Kuntz side was free of ornamentation.I followed the sidewalk to the porch, which had been carpeted in green indoor-outdoor carpet, and rang the Kuntz doorbell. The door opened and a sweaty, muscle-bulging, half-naked man looked out at me. “What?”“Eddie Kuntz?”“Yeah?”I passed him my business card. “Stephanie Plum. Im a bond enforcement officer, and Im looking for Maxine Nowicki. I was hoping you could help me.”“You bet I can help you. She took my car. Can you believe it?” He jerked his stubbled chin toward the curb. “Thats it right there. Lucky for her she didnt scratch it up. The cops picked her up driving through town in it, and they brought the car back to me.”I glanced back at the car. A white Chevy Blazer. Freshly washed. I almost was tempted to steal it myself.“You were living together?”“Well, yeah, for a while. About four months. And then we had this disagreement, and next thing I know, shes gone with my car. It wasnt that I wanted her arrested … it was just that I wanted my car back. That was why I called the police. I wanted my car.”“Do you have any idea where she might be now?”“No. I tried to get in touch with her to sort of patch things up, but I couldnt find her. She quit her job at the diner and nobodys seen her. I stopped around her apartment a couple times, and there was never anybody home. I tried calling her mother. I called a couple of her girlfriends. No one seems to know anything. I guess they could have been lying to me, but I dont think so.” He winked at me. “Women dont lie to me, you know what I mean?”“No,” I said. “I dont know what you mean.”“Well, I dont like to brag, but I have a way with women.”“Uh huh.” It must have been the pungent aroma they found so attractive. Or maybe the overdeveloped, steroid-pumped muscles that made him look like he needed a bra. Or maybe it was the way he couldnt conduct a conversation without scratching his balls.“So what can I do for you?” Kuntz asked.Half an hour later I left with a list of Maxines friends and relatives. I knew where Maxine banked, bought her booze, shopped for groceries, dry-cleaned her clothes and had her hair done. Kuntz promised to call me if he heard from Maxine, and Id promised to reciprocate in kind if I turned up anything interesting. Of course, Id had my fingers crossed when Id made the promise. I suspected Eddie Kuntzs way with women was to make them run screaming in the opposite direction.He stood on the porch and watched me angle into my car.“Cute,” he called. “I like when a chick drives a sporty little car.”I sent him a smile that felt a lot like a grimace and peeled away from the curb. Id gotten the CRX in February, sucked in by a shiny new paint job and an odometer that read 12,000 miles. Cherry condition, the owner had said. Hardly ever driven. And that was partly true. It was hardly ever driven with the odometer cable connected. Not that it mattered. The price had been right, and I looked good in the drivers seat. Id recently developed a dime-sized lesion on my exhaust pipe, but if I played Metallica loud enough I could hardly hear the muffler noise. I might have thought twice about buying the car if Id known Eddie Kuntz thought it was cute.My first stop was the Silver Dollar Diner. Maxine had worked there for seven years and had listed no other source of income. The Silver Dollar was open twenty-four hours. It served good food in generous portions and was always packed with overweight people and penny-pinching seniors. The families of fatties cleaned their plates, and the seniors took leftovers home in doggy bags … butter pats, baskets of rolls, packets of sugar, half-eaten pieces of deep-fried haddock, coleslaw, fruit cup, grease-logged french fries. A senior could eat for three days off one meal at the Silver Dollar.The Silver Dollar was in Hamilton Township on a stretch of road that was clogged with discount stores and small strip malls. It was almost noon, and diner patrons were scarfing down burgers and BLTs. I introduced myself to the woman behind the register and asked about Maxine.“I cant believe shes in all this trouble,” the woman said. “Maxine was responsible. Real dependable.” She straightened a stack of menus. “And that business about the car!” She did some eye rolling. “Maxine drove it to work lots of times. He gave her the keys. And then all of a sudden shes arrested for stealing.” She gave a grunt of disgust. “Men!”I stepped back to allow a couple to pay their bill. When theyd pocketed their complimentary mints, matchbooks and toothpicks and exited the diner I turned back to the cashier. “Maxine failed to show for her court appearance. Did she give any indication that she might be leaving town?”“She said she was going on vacation, and we all thought she was due. Been working here for seven years and never once took a vacation.”“Has anyone heard from her since shes left?”“Not that I know of. Maybe Margie. Maxine and Margie always worked the same shift. Four to ten. If you want to talk to Margie you should come back around eight. We get real busy with the early-bird specials at four, but then around eight it starts to slack off.”I thanked the woman and went back to my CRX. My next stop would be Nowickis apartment. According to Kuntz, Nowicki had lived with him for four months but had never gotten around to moving out of her place. The apartment was a quarter mile from the diner, and Nowicki had stated on her bond agreement that shed resided there for six years. All previous addresses were local. Maxine Nowicki was Trenton clear to the roots of her bleached blond hair.The apartment was in a complex of two-story, blocky, red-brick buildings anchored in islands of parched grass, arranged around macadam parking lots. Nowicki was on the second floor with a first-floor entrance. Inside private stairwell. Not good for window snooping. All second-floor apartments had small balconies on the back side, but Id need a ladder to get to the balcony. Probably a woman climbing up a ladder would look suspicious.I decided to go with the obvious and knock on the door. If no one answered Id ask the super to let me in. Many times the super was cooperative in this way, especially if he was confused as to the authenticity of my fake badge.There were two front doors side by side. One was for upstairs and one was for downstairs. The name under the upstairs doorbell read Nowicki. The name under the downstairs doorbell read Pease.I rang the upstairs doorbell and the downstairs door opened and an elderly woman looked out at me.“She isnt home.”“Are you Mrs. Pease?” I asked.“Yes.”“Are you sure Maxine isnt home?”“Well, I guess Id know. You can hear everything in this cheapskate apartment. If she was home Id hear her TV. Id hear her walking around. And besides, shed stop in to tell me she was home and collect her mail.”Ah hah! The woman was collecting Maxines mail. Maybe she also had Maxines key.“Yes, but suppose she came home late one night and didnt want to wake you?” I said. “And then suppose she had a stroke?”“I never thought of that.”“She could be upstairs right now, gasping her last breath of air.”The woman rolled her eyes upward, as if she could see through walls. “Hmmm.”“Do you have a key?”“Well, yes …”“And what about her plants? Have you been watering her plants?”“She didnt ask me to water her plants.”“Maybe we should go take a look. Make sure everything is okay.”“Are you a friend of Maxines?”I held up two fingers side by side. “Like this.”“I suppose it wouldnt hurt to check. Ill be right back with the key. Ive got it in the kitchen.”Okay, so I fibbed a little. But it wasnt such a bad fib because it was for a good cause. And besides, she could be dead in her bed. And her plants could be dying of thirst.“Here it is,” Mrs. Pease said, brandishing the key.She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.“Hell-oo-o,” she called in her warbling old ladys voice. “Anybody home?”No one answered, so we crept up the stairs. We stood in the little entrance area and looked into the living room—dining room.“Not much of a housekeeper,” Mrs. Pease said.Housekeeping had nothing to do with it. The apartment had been trashed. It wasnt a fight because nothing was smashed. And it wasnt clutter from a last-minute scurry to leave. Cushions were pulled off the couch and flung onto the floor. Cupboard doors were open. Drawers were pulled from the hutch and turned upside down, contents spilled out. I did a quick walk-through and saw more of the same in the bedroom and bath. Someone had been looking for something. Money? Drugs? If it was robbery it had been very specific, because the TV and VCR were untouched.“Someone has ransacked this apartment,” I said to Mrs. Pease. “Im surprised you didnt hear the drawers being flung around.”“If I was home I would have heard it. It must have been when I was out to bingo. I go to bingo every Wednesday and Friday. I dont get home until eleven. Do you think we should report this to the police?”“It wouldnt serve much purpose right now.” Except to notify the police that Id been in Maxines apartment sort of illegally. “We dont know if anythings been taken. Probably we should wait for Maxine to come home and let her call the police.”We didnt see any plants to water, so we tippytoed back down the stairs and locked the door.I gave Mrs. Pease my card and asked her to call me if she should see or hear anything suspicious.She studied the card. “A bounty hunter,” she said, her voice showing surprise.“A womans got to do what a womans got to do,” I said.She looked up and nodded in agreement. “I suppose thats true.”I squinted into the lot. “According to my information Maxine owns an 84 Fairlane. I dont see it here.”“She took off in it,” Mrs. Pease said. “Wasnt much of a car. Always something or other broken on it, but she loaded it up with her suitcase and took off.”“Did she say where she was going?”“On vacation.”“That was it?”“Yep,” Mrs. Pease said, “that was it. Usually Maxines real talkative, but she wasnt saying anything this time. She was in a hurry, and she wasnt saying anything.”
NOWICKIS MOTHER lived on Howser Street. Shed posted the bond and had put up her house as collateral. At first glance this seemed like a safe investment for my cousin Vinnie. Truth was, getting a person kicked out of his or her house was a chore and did nothing to endear a bail bondsman to the community.I got out my street map and found Howser. It was in north Trenton, so I retraced my route and discovered that Mrs. Nowicki lived two blocks from Eddie Kuntz. Same neighborhood of well-kept houses. Except for the Nowicki house. The Nowicki house was single-family, and it was a wreck. Peeling paint, crumbling roof shingles, saggy front porch, front yard more dirt than grass.I picked my way over rotting porch steps and knocked on the door. The woman who answered was faded glory in a bathrobe. It was getting to be mid-afternoon, but Mrs. Nowicki looked like shed just rolled out of bed. She was a sixty-year-old woman wearing the ravages of booze and disenchantment with life. Her doughy face showed traces of makeup not removed before calling it a night. Her voice had the rasp of two packs a day, and her breath was hundred proof.“Mrs. Nowicki?”“Yeah,” she said.“Im looking for Maxine.”“You a friend of Maxys?”I gave her my card. “Im with the Plum Agency. Maxine missed her court date. Im trying to find her so we can get her rescheduled.”Mrs. Nowicki raised a crayoned brown eyebrow. “I wasnt born yesterday, honey. Youre a bounty hunter, and youre out to get my little girl.”“Do you know where she is?”“Wouldnt tell you if I did. Shell get found when she wants to.”“You put your house up as security against the bond. If Maxine doesnt come forward you could lose your house.”“Oh yeah, thatd be a tragedy,” she said, rummaging in the pocket of her chenille robe, coming up with a pack of Kools. “Architectural Digest keeps wanting to do a spread, but I cant find the time.” She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit up. She sucked hard and squinted at me through the smoke haze. “I owe five years back taxes. You want this house youre gonna hafta take a number and get in line.”Sometimes bail jumpers are simply at home, trying to pretend their life isnt in the toilet, hoping the whole mess will go away if they ignore the order to appear in court. Id originally thought Maxine would be one of these people. She wasnt a career criminal, and the charges werent serious. She really had no reason to skip out.Now I wasnt so sure. I was getting an uncomfortable feeling about Maxine. Her apartment had been trashed, and her mother had me thinking maybe Maxine didnt want to be found right now. I slunk back to my car and decided my deductive reasoning would be vastly improved if I ate a doughnut. So I cut across town to Hamilton and parked in front of Tasty Pastry Bakery.Id worked part-time at Tasty Pastry when I was in high school. It hadnt changed much since then. Same green-and-white linoleum floor. Same sparkling clean display cases filled with Italian cookies, chocolate chip cannoli, biscotti, napoleons, fresh bread and coffee cakes. Same happy smell of fried sweet dough and cinnamon.Lennie Smulenski and Anthony Zuck bake the goodies in the back room in big steel ovens and troughs of hot oil. Clouds of flour and sugar sift onto table surfaces and slip under foot. And lard is transferred daily from commercial-sized vats directly to local butts.I choose two Boston cremes and pocketed some napkins. When I came out I found Joe Morelli lounging against my car. Id known Morelli all of my life. First when he was a lecherous little kid, then as a dangerous teen. And finally as the guy who at age eighteen, sweet-talked me out of my underwear, laid me down on the floor behind the eclair case one day after work and relieved me of my virginity. Morelli was a cop now, and the only way hed get back into my pants would be at gunpoint. He worked Vice, and he looked like he knew a lot about it firsthand. He was wearing washed-out Levis and a navy T-shirt. His hair needed cutting, and his body was perfect. Lean and hard-muscled with the best ass in Trenton … maybe the world. Buns you wanted to sink your teeth into.Not that I intended to nibble on Morelli. He had an annoying habit of periodically popping up in my life, frustrating the hell out of me and then walking off into the sunset. I couldnt do much about the popping up or the walking off. I could do something about the frustrating. From here on out, Morelli was erotica non grata. Look but Dont Touch, that was my motto. And he could keep his tongue to himself, thank you.Morelli grinned by way of hello. “Youre not going to eat both those doughnuts all by yourself, are you?”“That was the plan. What are you doing here?”“Drove by. Saw your car. Thought youd need some help with those Boston cremes.”“How do you know theyre Boston cremes?”“You always get Boston cremes.”Last time I saw Morelli was back in February. One minute we were in a clinch on my couch with his hand halfway up my thigh, and then next thing I knew, his pager went off and he was gone. Not to be seen for five months. And now here he was … sniffing at my doughnuts.“Long time, no see,” I said.“Ive been undercover.”Yeah, right.“Okay,” he said. “I could have called.”“I thought maybe you were dead.”The smile tightened. “Wishful thinking?”“Youre scum, Morelli.”He blew out a sigh. “Youre not going to share those doughnuts, are you?”I got into my car, slammed the door, squealed out of the lot and headed for home. By the time I got to my apartment Id eaten both the doughnuts, and I was feeling much better. And I was thinking about Nowicki. She was five years older than Kuntz. High school graduate. Twice married. No children. Her file photo showed me a blowzy blonde with big Jersey hair, lots of makeup and a slim frame. She was squinting into the sun and smiling, wearing four-inch heels, tight black stretch pants and a loose flowing sweater with sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a V neck deep enough to show cleavage. I half expected to find writing on the back of the picture … “If you want a good time, call Maxine Nowicki.”Probably shed done exactly what shed said. Probably shed stressed out and gone on vacation. Probably I shouldnt exert myself because shed come home any day now.And what about her apartment? The apartment was bothersome. The apartment told me Maxine had bigger problems than a simple auto theft charge. Best not to think about the apartment. The apartment only muddied the waters and had nothing to do with my job. My job was simple. Find Maxine. Bring her in.I locked the CRX and crossed the lot. Mr. Landowsky stepped out the buildings back door as I approached. Mr. Landowsky was eighty-two and somehow his chest had shrunk over the years, and now he was forced to hike his pants up under his armpits.“Oi,” he said. “This heat! I cant breathe. Somebody should do something.”I assumed he was talking about God.“That weatherman on the morning news. He should be shot. How can I go out in weather like this? And then when it gets so hot they keep the supermarkets too cold. Hot, cold. Hot, cold. It gives me the runs.”I was glad I owned a gun, because when I got as old as Mr. Landowsky I was going to eat a bullet. The first time I got the runs in the supermarket, that was it. BANG! It would all be over.I took the elevator to the second floor and let myself into my apartment. One bedroom, one bath, living room—dining room, uninspired but adequate kitchen, small foyer with a strip of pegs for hanging coats and hats and gun belts.My hamster, Rex, was running on his wheel when I came in. I told him about my day and apologized for not saving him some doughnut. He looked disappointed at the doughnut part so I rooted around in my refrigerator and came up with a few grapes. Rex took the grapes and disappeared into his soup can. Life is pretty simple when youre a hamster.I moseyed back into the kitchen and checked my phone messages.“Stephanie, this is your mother. Dont forget about dinner. I have a nice roast chicken.”Saturday night and I was having chicken dinner with my parents. And it wasnt the first time. It was a weekly occurrence. I had no life.I dragged myself into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed and watched the minute hand creep around the dial on my wristwatch until it was time to go to my parents. My parents eat dinner at six oclock. Not a minute sooner or later. Thats the way it is. Dinner at six or your life is ruined.
MY PARENTS live in a narrow duplex on a narrow lot on a narrow street in a residential part of Trenton called the Burg. When I arrived my mother was waiting at the door.“What is this outfit youre wearing?” she asked. “You have no clothes on. How is this to dress?”“This is a Thunders baseball jersey,” I told her. “Im supporting local sports.”My Grandma Mazur peeked from behind my mother. Grandma Mazur moved in with my parents shortly after my grandfather went heavenward to dine with Elvis. Grandma figures shes of an age to be beyond convention. My father thinks shes of an age to be beyond life.“I need one of those jerseys,” Grandma said. “Bet Id have men following me down the block if I was dressed up like that.”“Stiva, the undertaker,” my father murmured from the living room, head buried in the paper. “With his tape measure.”Grandma linked her arm in mine. “Ive got a treat for you today. Just wait till you see what Ive cooked up.”In the living room the paper was lowered, and my fathers eyebrows raised.My mother made the sign of the cross.“Maybe you should tell me,” I said to Grandma.“I was gonna keep it as a surprise, but I suppose I could let you in on it. Being that hell be here any minute now.”There was dead silence in the house.“I invited your boyfriend over for dinner,” Grandma said.“I dont have a boyfriend!”“Well, you do now. I arranged everything.”I spun on my heel and headed for the door. “Im leaving.”“You cant do that!” Grandma yelled. “Hell be real disappointed. We had a nice long talk. And he said he didnt mind that you shoot people for a living.”“I dont shoot people for a living. I almost never shoot people.” I thunked my head against the wall. “I hate fix-ups. Fix-ups are always awful.”“Cant be any more awful than that bozo you married,” Grandma said. “Only one way to go after that fiasco.”She was right. My short-lived marriage had been a fiasco.There was a knock on the door, and we swiveled our heads to look down the hall.“Eddie Kuntz!” I gasped.“Yep,” Grandma said. “Thats his name. He called up here looking for you, and so I invited him to dinner.”“Hey,” Eddie said through the screen.He was wearing a gray short-sleeved shirt open halfway down his chest, pleated slacks and Gucci loafers, no socks. He had a bottle of red wine in his hand.“Hello,” we said in unison.“Can I come in?”“Sure you can come in,” Grandma said. “I guess we dont leave handsome men standing at the door.”He handed the wine to Grandma and winked. “Here you go, cutie.”Grandma giggled. “Arent you the one.”“I almost never shoot people,” I said. “Almost never.”“Me too,” he said. “I hate unnecessary violence.”I took a step backward. “Excuse me. I need to help in the kitchen.”My mother hurried after me. “Dont even think about it!”“What?”“You know what. You were going to sneak out the back door.”“Hes not my type.”My mother started filling serving dishes with food from the stove. Mashed potatoes, green beans, red cabbage. “Whats wrong with him?”“Hes got too many buttons open on his shirt.”“He could turn out to be a nice person,” my mother said. “You should give him a chance. What would it take? And what about supper? I have this nice chicken that will go to waste. What will you eat for supper if you dont eat here?”“He called Grandma cutie!”My mother had been slicing up the chicken. She took a drumstick and dropped it on the floor. She kicked it around a little, picked it up and put it on the edge of the plate. “There,” she said, “well give him this drumstick.”“Deal.”“And I have banana cream pie for dessert,” she added to seal the bargain. “So you want to make sure you stay to the end.”Be still my heart.FOUR TO SCORE. Copyright © 1998 by Evanovich, Inc. HIGH FIVE. Copyright © 1999 by Evanovich, Inc. HOT six. Copyright © 2000 by Evanovich, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.