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“No problem.”
We left Loretta, and Lula drove slowly down Willet.
“Now where are we going?” Lula asked.
“The Mole Hole.”
“I knew you were going to say that. I think that’s an excellent idea because it’s coming up to lunchtime and I could get a burger there. Plus, we could check it out for Grandma’s wake.”
The Mole Hole is close to the train station. It’s on a side street along with several other sketchy businesses. A pawnshop. A tattoo parlor. A Chinese restaurant that’s regularly cited for health infractions. Mixed in with the businesses are narrow townhouses owned by slumlords.
Lula parked in the lot attached to the Mole Hole and marched over to the attendant.
“I expect my car to be in perfect condition when I get back,” she said. “I don’t want a fingerprint on it.”
The attendant was a scraggly kid with a gold tooth up front. “You gonna pay for extra protection, Mama?”
“First off, I’m not your mama. And second, I’m not paying nothing, but you need to take out some insurance on your nuts, because they’re gonna be in your throat if I’m not happy with my car when I come back.”
I gave the stay signal to the Rangeman guys, and Lula and I went into the Mole Hole. It was aptly named because we went from bright sunshine to no sunshine at all. We stood at the entrance while our eyes adjusted. It was one large room with tables on the perimeter and a circular bar in the center of the room. A stage and three poles were in the middle of the bar. A lone woman slithered around on one of the poles to music I didn’t recognize. She was wearing heels and a G-string and pasties that looked like daisies. Several of the barstools were occupied, and a man and woman sat at one of the tables.
“Not a lot going on here,” I said to Lula.
“It’s early for the lunch trade. It’ll pick up. This is going to be a good venue for a wake. It’s got a parking lot and lots of room in here to mingle and hand out condolences. You could even have entertainment up on the stage. Not the daisy nipple lady, but something classy . . . like a harp player or dueling banjos.”
I moved to the bar and flagged down a bartender. Lula was next to me with a menu.
“I want one of these man-eater burgers with extra curly fries,” she told the bartender. “And I’ll have that with a glass of chardonnay.”
He looked at me.
“I’d like to talk to Charlie Shine,” I said.
He took a beat. “No food?”
“No. Just Charlie.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Stephanie Plum.”
He punched Lula’s order into a computer, turned his back to us, and made a phone call. A couple minutes later a guy who looked like he ate way too much pasta came out of a door behind the bar and walked over to us. He was in his early sixties, wearing a golf shirt and pleated pants. He had thick lips, little eyes, and a comb-over.
“Stephanie Plum?” he asked.
I raised my hand.
He pointed to a table. “Let’s sit.”
Lula started to go to the table with us, and he stopped her.
“Private conversation,” he said to Lula.
“Well, I’m staying right here by the bar, and I’m watching,” Lula said.
I took a seat, and he sat across from me.
“I’m Stan,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
