VINCENT PLUM BAIL Bonds is one of several storefront businesses on Hamilton Avenue in Trenton, New Jersey. It’s run by my cousin Vinnie and owned by his wiseguy father-in-law, Harry the Hammer. Connie Rosolli is the office manager. My name is Stephanie Plum, and my official title is bond enforcement agent. I’m assisted by Lula. We’re not sure exactly what Lula does, and we’ve never been able to come up with a title for her.
Connie, Lula, and I were looking out the big plate glass window at a Chevy Bolt parked at the curb. It was a small car overstuffed with large women.
“Do you know who’s in that car?” Lula asked Connie.
“Madam Zaretsky, Vinnie’s dominatrix, is driving,” Connie said. “Little Sally, his happy endings masseuse, is next to her. It’s hard to see who’s in the back seat, but it might be his bookie.”
“Vinnie has a lady bookie?” Lula asked.
“She used to be a man,” Connie said, “but Vinnie stayed with her through the transition.”
“Good for him,” Lula said. “He’s always been open-minded anyways. He didn’t even care what sex that duck was.”
The women got out of the car and marched into the office. Madam Zaretsky had jet-black hair pulled back in a bun. Her lipstick was blood red. Her nails were creepy long and matched her lips. She was wearing a black bandage dress and spike-heeled black pumps. Little Sally wasn’t all that little. She was a plump five-five with a lot of frizzy red hair, an abundance of boob, and legs like tree trunks. The bookie was almost seven feet tall in heels. She was tastefully dressed in a pale-yellow sheath dress and patent nude pumps. Her makeup was understated. Her hands were big enough to palm a basketball, and she had gym monkey muscles.
“Whoa,” Lula whispered to me. “That’s a big bookie.”
“Where is he?” Zaretsky said. “We need to talk to him. He owes us money.”
“He’s not here,” Connie said. “Can I help you?”
“Sure, he’s here,” Lula said. “He’s in his office.”
The bonds office consists of a reception area with Connie’s desk and some uncomfortable seating choices. Vinnie’s private lair is off to one side, and a large storeroom stretches across the back of the building.
The three women sashayed over to Vinnie’s office, but before they reached his door I heard Vinnie throw the bolt to lock them out.
“I know you’re in there, Vinnie,” Zaretsky said. “Open the door.”
Silence. Vinnie wasn’t answering.
“Vinnie!” Zaretsky said. “Open this door or Sally is going to kick it in.”
“Makes sense,” Lula said. “Sally’s the one in combat boots. You don’t want to kick a door down wearing Louboutins. You could ruin them doing something like that.”
Sally gave the door a good kick with her boot heel, but the door didn’t budge.
“Stand back,” Zaretsky said.
She took a silver-plated Glock out of her handbag and squeezed off a shot. The round ricocheted off the door and took out Connie’s desk lamp.
“His door’s got a steel core,” Connie said.
Zaretsky put her gun back into her bag. “You tell that weasel we want our money.”
Connie gathered up the desk lamp pieces. “I’ll pass it along.”
“C’mon, girls,” Zaretsky said. “We have better things to do than to hang here all day.”
Zaretsky motioned for no one to say anything, and the women flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the door.
After a couple minutes, Vinnie opened the door a crack. “Are they gone?” he asked.
The women pushed the door open and stormed into the inner office. Vinnie shrieked and tried to scramble around his desk, but the bookie grabbed him.
“I haven’t got any money,” Vinnie said. “I swear to God, I’ll pay you when I get some money.”
In a very ladylike fashion, the bookie wrapped her hands around Vinnie’s ankles and effortlessly held him upside down about a foot off the floor.
Vinnie is five foot nine and slim. His black hair is slicked back and wouldn’t move in hurricane-force winds. His pants are narrow-legged and tight across his butt. His shirts are shiny and fit like skin. His complexion is Mediterranean. His dick has an adventuresome spirit and is most likely hideously diseased.
The bookie shook Vinnie up and down as if he was trying to empty Vinnie’s pockets, but Vinnie’s pants were too tight for anything to fall out.
“Tell Connie to give you the petty cash,” Vinnie said. “It’s all I’ve got.”
The bookie dropped Vinnie, and the three women went to Connie.
“I’ve got two hundred and twenty dollars here,” Connie said. “Sign this receipt.”