Plum Justified 2 - Hollers to Doughnuts

By MsBrooklyn

I don't own a thing. Not any of Janet Evanovich's characters (Stephanie Plum, Joe Morelli, Ranger and their supporting cast) nor any of Elmore Leonard's creations nor any of the creations that sprang forth from the creative minds behind Justified. The only creative thought I had was to smoosh these two worlds together. Hopefully, that's enough. By the way, this strange crossover between Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series and Justified fits kinda sorta in Season 3 and maybe around Explosive Eighteen.

A quick note of thanks to all who offered title suggestions. They were great and I'm going to use them for chapter names, so keep 'em coming.

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Chapter 1 – A Lawman Goes to Jersey

In the movies, the female bounty hunters wear high heels when they chase after their FTAs. They looks glamorous snapping the cuffs on without breaking a sweat, smudging their lip gloss or messing up their hair. The movies are full of shit.

My name is Stephanie Plum and I'm a bail enforcement agent in Trenton, New Jersey. Bail enforcement agent is a fancy way of saying bounty hunter. Either way, it means going after somebody who got arrested, bonded out by the Vincent Plum Agency and decided not to show up for their court date. These people are known as Failures to Appear or FTAs. If they don't get reprocessed, Vinnie is out the total amount of the bond money. That's where I come in. My job is to track down the FTAs and bring them back to the pokey to reschedule their court date. I get paid ten percent of the bond amount and usually, it's enough to pay the rent on my apartment and utilities and maybe have enough left over for essentials like beer and pizza.

What the movies never show are the boring hours spent searching for the FTA, doing surveillance. It was an early Spring day in the Burg, which meant the sun was shining and the humidity was high. Thunder showers were in the forecast. Lula and I were sitting in my 1998 Nissan Xterra, waiting for the recess bell to ring at the Immaculate Conception Grammar School. We had the windows rolled down but there was hardly a breeze and we were both sweaty and irritable.

"This is margarita weather," Lula said. "That old geezer don't show, I vote we have Mexican for lunch. I could go for some of them chimichangas."

Lula is a former ho who works as a file clerk at the bonds office. Sometimes she helps me with my cases, although most people wouldn't consider it helping. Today, Lula squeezed her plus-sized self into a shiny blue Spandex top and miniskirt and the tips of her hair and her nails were painted to match. The cobalt blue looked good against her dark brown skin but the color wasn't exactly subtle. Then again, neither was the Solar Yellow paint of my Xterra.

The old geezer in question was one Louie LaMarca, age 79. He had early stage Alzheimer's and was apparently reliving his glory days as the Burg's flasher extraordinaire. According to his file, LaMarca spent his twenties and thirties in and out of jail for flashing housewives and kids throughout the Burg. The next thirty years or so were a blank where he either didn't get caught or decided to stop displaying his doodle. Now LaMarca was a resident at the local assisted living facility and somehow managed to slip out to flash the girls and nuns at Immaculate Conception. Forty years ago, it made him an annoying pervert. In today's world, LaMarca was a sex offender. Even if he didn't remember doing it.

It was our third day of surveillance and we'd struck out at the assisted living home, LaMarca's old house and the local public school. LaMarca's arrests mostly were for flashing Catholic school girls and nuns so I was following my hunch he'd show up here again eventually.

"Spicy guacamole," Lula went on, "with them chips. We could go to Ixtaca. They got a five dollar margarita special."

Or I could eat at my parents' house and save the money to fix the Xterra's air conditioning. Right. "Margaritas sound good. The bell is about to ring. Give it until the end of recess and then we'll go."

"Sounds like a plan."

The bell rang and the girls filed out into the schoolyard. They looked like little angels in their cute plaid skirts and crisp white shirts. I knew better. The second school got out for the day, the ones in their teens would be lighting up cigarettes and cursing a blue streak. At least the little ones still had a couple of years left to be cute and innocent.

Suddenly, there were shrieks at the far end of the school yard, followed by the nuns trying to herd the girls away. The cause of the commotion was LaMarca who was buck naked except for a pair of black support socks and white orthopedic sneakers. I raced out of the Xterra but LaMarca just stood there, waggling his wonkie at me.

"Ever seen one like this?" he asked, giving it an extra shake in my direction.

I stared down at it. Once upon a time, it might have been a thing of beauty but now it was limp, wrinkled and depressing. "It's very nice," I told him. "Maybe you'd like to show it to the judge. You missed your court date and I heard he was really disappointed he didn't get to see it for himself."

"You mind if I go get my coat? There's a breeze." He smiled at me and I noticed that he'd lost his dentures since his escape from the nursing home.

"That's fine." He was 79 and scrawny. I figured I'd be fine, even though I'd left my bag with my cuffs back in the truck with Lula.

LaMarca led me around to the back of the school where the dumpsters were. It looked like he'd set up a little camp back here. There was a big cardboard box that he probably used for shelter. A few of the garbage bags had been torn open and I figured that was how he'd been feeding himself. It was pretty sad and I felt sorry for him.

The next thing I knew a set of dentures flew through the air and hit me in the face, scaring the crap out of me. I screamed. LaMarca started to run but I tackled him and we landed on the open garbage bags. We rolled in half eaten sandwiches and fruit and spoiled milk. There were other smells I didn't want to think about. And then there was another horrifying smell.

"Uh-oh. I messed myself." LaMarca stared up at me, wide-eyed. "You're not gonna tell on me, are you?"

I heard footsteps behind me. "Lula, give me my cuffs, would you?"

Hands reached past me, snapping the cuffs onto LaMarca, but they weren't Lula's. They were male with long fingers and a horse shoe ring on the right ring finger. A pair of Tony Lama boots came into my line of vision and they were attached to a pair of long, lean legs encased in a pair of tight jeans. "You don't mind borrowin' mine, do you?"

I stared up at Raylan Givens, a US Marshal that I worked with in Kentucky when I went after Dewey Crowe. Givens was in his early forties, with a slim build and the most intense pair of eyes ever to stare out from under a cowboy hat. He was the only person ever to think I was good at being a bounty hunter. Until now, probably.

Givens helped me to my feet and picked a bread crust from my hair. His eyes swept over me and then he looked down at LaMarca, who'd just fallen asleep. "He's kinda old to be wavin' his wanger at school girls, isn't he? Poor girls are probably traumatized from seein' that scary ol' thing an' they'll end up takin' vows as nuns so they never have to see another one again."

"LaMarca's got Alzheimer's," I explained. "He probably thinks he's in his twenties."

"And he's been livin' back here, eatin' garbage." He sighed. "Didn't do his old stomach any favors." Givens kneeled and shook LaMarca. "Wake up, buddy. It's time to go."

"Good. It smells like poop here." LaMarca narrowed his eyes at me. "Must've been you. Miss Poopy Pants."

At least I was wearing pants, even if they were covered in LaMarca's poop and spoiled school lunches. I picked up his dentures and held them out to Givens. "He'll probably need these later."

"Hold on, this old geezer ain't my FTA," Givens said. "He's yours. I can come with you if you want but you have to bring him in."

I blew out a sigh and steered LaMarca towards my Xterra. It was gone. Lula probably saw Givens and his Town Car, made him for a cop and took off. Because of her past profession, Lula was uncomfortable around cops. "I don't suppose you could give me a ride?"

"Car got stolen?" he asked.

"My partner decided to break for lunch. She wanted Mexican."

Givens grinned. "This is why marshals usually work alone."

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We parked in the parking lot adjacent to the municipal building and I reached across the back seat to wake LaMarca. "Last stop."

"You smell like poop," he told me, opening his eyes and scowling.

I blew out a frustrated breath. "You're naked."

LaMarca looked down at himself, then at the handcuffs and then at me, eyes going wide in horror. "Ohmigod! Help! Rape! Somebody help me!"

Givens turned around in the driver's seat, holding up his badge where LaMarca could see it. "I'll help you. I'm gonna take you right in there," he said, pointing to the back door where the docket clerk was, "an' you can tell 'em all about what this nasty woman did to you. Sound good?"

"Okay," LaMarca agreed.

I climbed out of the car and came around to LaMarca's side to help him out. He'd fallen asleep again and was snoring. "Hey, wake up!"

His watery brown eyes looked at me. "Where are we?"

Suddenly, I had an idea how to get him into the building. "We're in the Immaculate Conception parking lot. That's the stage door and the girls are having an assembly."

LaMarca leaped out of the car and his Mister Happy was sticking straight up as he ran inside the door. Well, running was being kind. It was more like running in slow motion. I strolled behind him and Givens leaned back against the Lincoln, watching me with a big smile.

When I came out with my body receipt, Givens was talking to Carl Costanza and his partner, Big Dog. Carl and I went to school together and that made us sort of friends.

Carl turned around, saw me and grinned. "I hear you got another dangerous septuagenarian off our streets."

"Shitty work. Good thing you're around to handle it," Big Dog put in.

They both guffawed but Givens didn't join in. He levered himself off the Town Car, adjusted his cowboy hat and looked at them. The laughter died immediately. Givens' hand dropped to his gun, drawing Carl and Big Dog's attention to the shiny Marshal's Service star next to his holster.

"I've brought in plenty of dangerous septuagenarians," he said. "Age doesn't make an outlaw any less ornery. Put a gun in their hands and they can kill, same as some young fella. And make no mistake, apprehending a fugitive is messy business. I've chased outlaws through garbage dumps and sewers and fished a couple out of the Dumpsters they were hidin' in. One of 'em - I swear – even pissed on me. Thought it was funny."

Big Dog was staring at Givens, wide-eyed. "What'd you do?"

Givens' lips curled into a feral smile that made Big Dog back up a step. "My job. Same as Stephanie here."

It took everything I had not to make cow eyes at Givens in front of Carl and Big Dog. I knew that if I did, news would travel quickly to Morelli and Morelli still thought something might have happened between us during my visit to Kentucky.

"Come on, Steph," Givens said to me. "Let's get you cleaned up and I'll fill you in on our case."

"She's not a marshal." Carl was staring incredulously at both of us, like he couldn't believe someone this cool wanted to include me in his manhunt and not him.

Givens turned slowly to Carl, his expression amused. "Some months ago, I deputized Stephanie under Section 39(b) of the Marshal's Act. She'll be assisting me while I'm in town, huntin' for my fugitive."

"But she's -" Big Dog started to protest.

"She's gonna be a marshal when they lift that hirin' freeze."

Carl and Big Dog gaped at me.

I gave them a little finger wave.

Then I made cow eyes at Givens.