High Five by Janet Evanovich Page B

Fred.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou better get going,” Bunchy said. “You’re gonna be late.”
    T HE GARAGE AT Third and Marshall didn’t have a name. It was probably listed under something in the phone book, but on the outside of the building there was nothing. Just a redbrick building with a paved parking lot, enclosed by chain-link fencing. There were three bays in the side of the building, opening out to the lot. The bay doors were open and men worked on cars in each of the bays. A white stretch limo and two black Town Cars were parked in the lot. I pulled the Buick into a slot next to one of the Town Cars, locked the Buick, and dropped the keys into my shoulder bag.
    A guy who looked like Antonio Banderas on an off day sauntered over to me.
    â€œNice car,” he said, eyeing the Buick. “Man, they don’t make cars like this anymore.” He ran a hand over the back fender. “Cherry. Real cherry.”
    â€œUh-huh.” The cherry car got four miles to a gallon and cornered like a refrigerator. Not to mention it was all wrong for my self-image. My self-image called for fast and sleek and black, not bulbous and powder blue. Red would be okay, too. And I needed a sunroof. And a good sound system. And leather seats . . .
    â€œEarth to Babe,” Banderas said.
    I dragged myself back to the moment. “You know where I can find Eddie?”
    â€œYou’re looking at him, Cookie. I’m Eddie.”
    I extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum. Ranger sent me.”
    â€œI got a car ready and waiting.” He rounded the nearest Town Car, opened the driver’s side door, and took a large white envelope from behind the visor. “Here’s everything you need. The keys are in the ignition. The car’s gassed up.”
    â€œI don’t need a chauffeur’s license to do this, do I?”
    He stared at me blank-faced.
    â€œYeah, right,” I said. Probably nothing to worry about anyway. It wasn’t easy to get a permit to carry concealed in Mercer County. And I wasn’t one of the chosen. If I got stopped by a cop he’d be so overjoyed to be able to arrest me for illegally carrying concealed that he’d no doubt forget to charge me for the driving thing.
    I took the envelope and slid behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and leafed through the papers. Flight information, parking directions, some procedural instructions, name and brief description, and snapshot of Ahmed Fahed. No age was given, but he looked young in the photo.
    I eased the Lincoln out of the lot and headed for Route 1. I picked up the turnpike in East Brunswick and glided along in my big, black, climate-controlled car, feeling very professional. Chauffeuring wasn’t so bad, I thought. Today a sheik, tomorrow . . . who knows, maybe Tom Cruise. Definitely better than getting some computer nut out of his apartment. And if it wasn’t for the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about that severed right hand and decapitated head, I’d really be enjoying myself.
    I took the airport exit and found my way to Arrivals. My passenger was coming in from San Francisco, flying commercial. I parked in the area reserved for limos, crossed the road, entered the terminal, and checked the monitors for gate information.
    A half hour later, Fahed strolled through the gate, wearing two-hundred-dollar sneakers and oversize jeans. His T-shirt advertised a microbrewery. His red plaid flannel shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. I’d expected sheik clothes with the head thing and robe. Fortunately for me, he was the only arrogant Arab departing first class, so it wasn’t hard to pick him out.
    â€œAhmed Fahed?” I asked.
    His eyebrows raised ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
    â€œI’m your driver.”
    He looked me over. “Where’s your gun?”
    â€œIn my shoulder bag.”
    â€œMy father always orders a bodyguard for