Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich

attitude.” Morelli pulled car keys out of his pocket. “Terrific mechanic.”
    “I’ll be careful.”
    Morelli gave me a look of total no-confidence. “You sure you don’t want me to go with?” he asked. “I’m good at thumbscrews.”
    “I’m not really into thumbscrews, but thanks for the offer.”
    His Fairlane was parked next to my Jeep.
    “I like the hula girl in the back window,” I said. “Nice touch.”
    “It was Costanza’s idea. It covers an antenna.”
    I looked at the top of her head and, sure enough, there was the tip of an antenna poking through. I squinted at Morelli. “You’re not going to follow me, are you?”
    “Only if you say please.”
    “Not in this lifetime.”
    Morelli looked like he knew better.
    I cut across town and left turned onto Hamilton. Seven blocks later I nosed into a parking slot to the side of the garage. Early morning and evening the pumps were in constant use. At this hour they didn’t see much action. The office door was open, but the office was empty. Beyond the office the doors to the bays were up. The third bay had a car on a rack.
    Sandeman worked nearby, balancing a tire. He was wearing a faded black Harley tank top that stopped two inches short of low-rider, grease-stained jeans. His arms and shoulders were covered with tattoos of snakes, fangs bared, forked tongues sticking out. Stuck between snakes was a red heart with the inscription I LOVE JEAN. Lucky girl. I decided Sandeman could only be enhanced by a mouthful of rotting teeth and possibly a few festering facial sores.
    He straightened when he saw me and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Yeah?”
    “You’re Perry Sandeman?”
    “You got it.”
    “Stephanie Plum,” I said, forgoing the usual formality of an introductory handshake. “I work for Kenny Mancuso’s bondsman. I’m trying to locate Kenny.”
    “Haven’t seen him,” Sandeman said.
    “I understand he and Moogey were friends.”
    “That’s what I hear.”
    “Did Kenny come around the garage a lot?”
    “No.”
    “Did Moogey ever talk about Kenny?”
    “No.”
    Was I wasting my time? Yes.
    “You were here the day Moogey was shot in the knee,” I said. “Do you think the shooting was accidental?”
    “I was in the garage. I don’t know anything about it. End of quiz. I got work to do.”
    I gave him my card and told him to get in touch if he should think of anything useful.
    He tore the card in half and let the pieces float to the cement floor.
    Any intelligent woman would have made a dignified retreat, but this was New Jersey, where dignity always runs a poor second to the pleasure of getting in someone’s face.
    I leaned forward, hands on hips. “You got a problem?”
    “I don’t like cops. That includes pussy cops.”
    “I’m not a cop. I’m a bond enforcement agent.”
    “You’re a fucking pussy bounty hunter. I don’t talk to fucking pussy bounty hunters.”
    “You call me pussy one more time, and I’m going to get mad.”
    “Is that supposed to worry me?”
    I had a canister of pepper spray in my pocketbook, and I was itching to give him a blast. I also had a stun gun. The lady who owned the local gun shop had talked me into buying it, and so far it was untested. I wondered if 45,000 volts square in his Harley logo would worry him.
    “Just make sure you’re not withholding information, Sandeman. Your parole officer might find it annoying.”
    He gave me a shot to the shoulder that knocked me back a foot. “Somebody yanks my parole officer’s chain, and somebody might find out why they call me the Sandman. Maybe you want to think about that.”
    Not anytime soon.

It was still early afternoon when I left the garage. About the only thing I’d learned from Sandeman was that I thoroughly disliked him. Under ordinary circumstances I couldn’t see Sandeman and Kenny being buddies, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances, and there was something about Sandeman that had my radar humming.
    Poking around in