Seven Up - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,50

neighbor got married. The neighbor is still unemployed but now driving a new BMW and watching his game shows on a big-screen TV. Melvin, meanwhile, lives in a one-room apartment over Virgil Selig's garage and drives a ten-year-old brown Nova. On the night of his ex's wedding Melvin gulped down his usual dinner of cold cereal and skim milk and in profound depression drove his sputtering Nova to Casey's Bar. Not being any kind of a drinker, Melvin got properly snockered after two martinis. He then got into his wreck of a car, and for the first time in his life showed some backbone by crashing his ex-wife's wedding reception and relieving himself on the cake in front of two hundred people. He was roundly applauded by every man in the room.

Lois's mother, having paid eighty-five dollars for the three-tiered extravaganza, had Melvin arrested for indecent exposure, lewd conduct, trespass on a private party, and destruction of private property.

"I'll be right there," I said. "Have the paperwork ready for me. And I'll get Mason's number when I come in."

I grabbed my bag and yelled to Rex that I wouldn't be gone long. I ran down the hall, down the stairs, and slammed into Joyce in the lobby.

"I heard from people that you've been going all over this morning asking about DeChooch," Joyce said. "DeChooch is mine now. So back off."

"Sure."

"And I want the file."

"I lost it."

"Bitch," Joyce said.

"Snot."

"Fat ass."

"Douche bag."

Joyce whirled around and stormed out of the building. Next time my mother had chicken I was going to wish on the wishbone that Joyce got herpes.

The office was quiet when I got there. Vinnie's door was closed. Lula was asleep on the couch. Connie had Mary Maggie's phone number and Melvin's permission-to-capture paper ready.

"There's no answer at his house," Connie said. "And he called in sick from work. He's probably at home hiding under the bed, hoping it's all a bad dream."

I tucked the permission-to-capture into my bag and used Connie's phone to call Mary Maggie.

"I've decided I want to make a deal with Eddie," I said to Mason when she answered. "Trouble is, I don't know how to get in touch with him. I thought since he's using your car he might call you or something . . . let you know the car's okay."

"What's the deal?"

"I have something Eddie's looking for and I want to trade Mooner for it."

"Mooner?"

"Eddie will understand."

"Okay," Mason said. "If he calls in I'll pass it on, but there's no guarantee I'll be talking to him."

"Sure," I said. "Just in case."

Lula opened one eye. "Uh-oh, are you telling fibs again?"

"I'm bait," I said.

"No kidding."

"What is this thing Chooch is looking for?" Connie wanted to know.

"I don't know," I said. "That's part of the problem."

USUALLY PEOPLE MOVE out of the Burg when they get divorced. Melvin was one of the exceptions. I think at the time of his divorce he was simply too exhausted and down-trodden to conduct any kind of a search for a place to stay.

I parked in front of Selig's house and walked around back to the garage. It was a ramshackle two-car garage with a second-story, one-man, one-room ramshackle apartment. I climbed the stairs to the apartment and knocked. I listened at the door. Nothing. I banged on the door some more, put my ear to the scarred wood, and listened again. Someone was moving around in there.

"Hey Melvin," I yelled. "Open up."

"Go away," Melvin said through the door. "I'm not feeling well. Go away."

"It's Stephanie Plum," I said. "I need to talk to you."

The door opened and Melvin looked out. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bloodshot.

"You were supposed to appear in court this morning," I said.

"I couldn't go. I feel sick."

"You should have called Vinnie."

"Oops. I didn't think of that."

I sniffed at his breath. "Have you been drinking?"

He rocked back on his heels and a loopy grin spread across his face. "Nope."

"You smell like cough medicine."

"Cherry schnapps. Someone gave it to me for Christmas." Oh boy. I couldn't take him in like this. "Melvin, we have to sober you up."

"I'm okay. Except I can't feel my feet." He looked down. "I could feel them a minute ago."

I steered him out of the apartment, locked the door behind us, and went down the rickety stairs in front of him to prevent him from breaking his neck. I poured him into my CR-V and buckled him in. He hung there suspended by the shoulder harness, mouth open, eyes glazed.