Motor Mouth - Janet Evanovich [64]
Hooker reached into the car and popped the trunk. “Get in,” he said to Rodriguez.
Rodriguez paled. “You’re kidding.”
Rodriguez was thinking about Bernie Miller. Thinking about how easy it was to shoot a guy in a trunk. And I was thinking I liked seeing Rodriguez coming to terms with it. This wasn’t the movies. This was real life. And shooting people in real life wasn’t nice. Especially when you were the guy getting shot.
“I could shoot you now,” I said. “Be easy to get you in the trunk with a couple bullets in your head.”
I couldn’t believe I was saying this. I had to get somebody else to kill a spider. And I hated spiders. Not only was I saying all these dumb tough-cookie things…I was almost believing them.
Rodriguez looked into the trunk. “I’ve never climbed into a trunk before. I’m gonna feel like an idiot.”
Guess this was one of those situations where having cojones doesn’t do you a lot of good, eh?
Hooker made an impatient sound and raised his gun, and Rodriguez went into the trunk headfirst. He had his ass up in the air, looking like Pooh Bear going into the rabbit hole, and I almost burst out laughing. Not because it was all that funny, but because I was borderline hysterical.
A bunch of high school kids walked by on their way to the mall.
“Hey, it’s Sam Hooker,” one of them said. “Dude!”
“Hey, man, can I have your autograph?”
“Sure,” Hooker said, handing me the gun. “You got a pen?” he asked the kid.
“What’s with the guy in the trunk?” one of the kids wanted to know.
“We’re kidnapping him,” Hooker said.
“Way to go,” the kid said.
The kids left, and we closed the lid on Rodriguez.
“You drive the SUV, and I’ll take the Taurus,” Hooker said. “We’ll take him to the factory.”
I reattached the hose and wires on the Taurus, jogged to the SUV, Hooker backed the Taurus out, and we took off.
ELEVEN
It was late afternoon. We’d stopped at a grocery store, and I’d done some shopping while Hooker walked Beans. After the grocery store, we drove to the deserted factory and parked the two cars deep in the cavernous interior. Now we were standing behind the Taurus, wondering what the heck we were supposed to do next.
“How about this,” Hooker said. “We haul him out of the trunk, and we chain him to that pipe over there. We can wrap the chain around his ankle and lock it. He’ll be able to move around a little, but he won’t be able to get away.”
It sounded like an okay plan to me, so I held the flashlight and Hooker felt around for the trunk latch. He got the lid up, looked in at Rodriguez, and Rodriguez kicked out with both feet, catching Hooker square in the chest, knocking him on his ass. Rodriguez rocketed out of the trunk and hit the ground running. He tried to push past me. I whacked him hard in the knee with the flashlight and he went down like a sack of sand.
Hooker was on all fours with the chain in his hand, trying to wrap it around Rodriguez’s ankle, but Rodriguez was a moving target, rolling on the cement floor, holding his leg, swearing and moaning. I threw myself on top of Rodriguez, Rodriguez let out an oouf of air, and I pinned him long enough for Hooker to secure the loop of chain with a padlock.
I rolled off Rodriguez and looked at Hooker, still on hands and knees. “Are you okay?”
Hooker dragged himself up to standing. “Yeah, aside from having size-ten footprints on my chest, I’m peachy. Next time I open a trunk with a killer in it, I’ll step back.”
We waited for Rodriguez to quit swearing and writhing in pain, and then we dragged him across the room and chained him to the pipe.
Rodriguez propped himself up against the wall, his knee outstretched. “You broke my