Finders Keepers. Shirl Henke

spreadsheet. If this getup didn’t grab his attention, he had an eyesight problem her research hadn’t revealed.

      As soon as he looked across the street, she could tell there was nothing wrong with his vision. Sam increased her exertion, even emitting a few ladylike swearwords to indicate she was in big trouble. A guy who cleaned up litter surely wouldn’t refuse to help a damsel in distress. She watched him vacillate, obviously wanting to help her as he glanced down at his wristwatch.

      Chivalry won out just as she hoped it would. Granger crossed the deserted street. She knew this wasn’t the best neighborhood in San Diego for a woman alone, especially an attractive one whose least provocative article of apparel was the fanny pack strapped to her waist. The big brick complex of buildings where Granger lived was called Samaritan Haven, a place where people hid from their pasts, or ran from their futures. Not all of them were exactly hospitable to strangers.

      “Need some help?” he asked, nodding to the box, half in, half out of the van.

      “Yeah, I could use some. Thanks,” Sam replied with a bright grin, stepping back so he could take the box in both hands. Predictable as snow in Boston.

      “What’ve you got in here, rocks?” he asked, bending his knees to put some muscle behind shoving the box across the carpeting of the van.

      Sam moved in close behind him, giving him a whiff of her perfume, a faint musky rose scent. Just for added measure, she let her breasts brush against his shoulder to distract him further. When he shoved the box all the way inside, she shoved the barrel of her gun sharply into his right kidney.

      He grunted in surprise as she said conversationally, “It’s exactly what it feels like, so don’t get cute.”

      “You’re the one who’s cute, honey, or I wouldn’t have walked my stupid butt across the street to be mugged,” he replied.

      “No mugging, honey, but this will be a prelude to a funeral if you don’t spread your legs and lean forward into the van. Put all your weight on your palms.”

      “If you’re a kidnapper, I have to warn you there’s not enough in—”

      “Just do it,” she snapped curtly, pressing the gun muzzle harder into his kidney to emphasize her point. He was too big to take any chances with.

      “Ouch,” he muttered with an oath, leaning forward and spreading his long legs.

      Sam tossed a small plastic nasal inhaler next to where his left hand pressed into the plush carpeting. “Squeeze a spray into each nostril, then snuff it up—good and hard,” she instructed.

      When he hesitated, she cocked the snub nose. He picked up the bottle and squeezed. She could see that he was trying not to get much of the spray up his nose, but with this new drug, that shouldn’t matter. “Now inhale.” She used the gun to emphasize her point. He complied with a noisy snuffle.

      “What is that stuff? My nose’s tingling,” he said, trying to turn around.

      “Stand still,” she commanded him, jamming the snub nose harder in his kidney until she was satisfied that he wouldn’t try anything stupid. Then she grabbed the back of his shirt with her free hand and balled it up tightly between his shoulder blades.

      “Hey, you’re choking me,” he protested.

      She ignored him. No time to fool around now, she thought, eyeing the deserted street again. “Drop the bottle and put your hand back on the van floor.”

      “Okay, you’re calling the shots.” He coughed as his shirt collar bit into the sides of his throat. “For a little broad, you have a grip like a sumo wrestler. Now what?”

      “We wait,” she said. This was her first use of the new inhalator. Just her luck to experiment on a guy tall as a skyscraper. He coughed again. She imagined his brain starting to spin like the Seattle Space Needle.

      His right arm buckled. He straightened it and shook his head. “Shit, that stuff wasn’t Vicks, was it?” he muttered thickly.

      Sam heard the slight slurring in his voice and swore silently. Jules had told her the nasal delivery system worked fast, but with a guy this big she’d never imagined it could work quite this fast. Damn! He was starting to puddle up real quick. She found it distracting enough that the man was drop-dead gorgeous. But did he have to be twice her size to boot? If he oozed beneath the van she’d be screwed. There was no way she could heft over two hundred pounds of male muscle from the pavement into her vehicle.

      When his legs suddenly started to give way, she hissed, “Lock your knees. Stiffen your legs, for God’s sake.” A little panic was not all that unprofessional.

      “Stiffen…stiff… My ass.” The sibilant sound hissed between slack lips. “I cudn’ get stiff for Julia Roberts.”

      Sam could see his legs were liquefying. She uncocked the .38 and slipped it into her fanny pack to have both hands free to work. She reached up between his legs to grab the front waistband of his Levi’s.

      “Doan get fresh!” It came out “fesh.”

      He grunted in acute discomfort as she levered her forearm up against his testicles. It was an old jujitsu move guaranteed to turn any man into a toe dancer. Any man not already higher than a satellite. His knees continued to wobble like Jell-O as she tried to shove him inside the van.

      He muttered, “Hey, hey, tha’s m…m’ fam’ly jew’ls.”

      “Either you help me get your ass in that van or I’m going to liquidate a couple of the family assets right now. Got it?” Braced behind him, Sam cupped her left hand under his knee, trying to get him to lift it onto the floor of the van. She revised her estimate of his weight. He was the size of her uncle Declan’s semi carrying a full load of sheet steel.

      She tugged at his knee again, cursing as she became truly desperate. “Come on, throw your friggin’ leg up there!” A quick glance up and down the street revealed no spectators, her only break so far. Finally, using her body weight against his rump, she bumped him hard several times until she was able to lever his knee high enough to slide it onto the van floor and roll him inside.

      “Guy’s ’posed ta do the h-humpin’,” he said, collapsing, giggling in baritone as he flopped onto his back.

      Now she only had one of his long legs and an arm dangling out the doors. “I can do this,” she muttered to herself, leaning over him so she could pull the offending limbs inside.

      “Ya got great k-knockers…ash, too,” he murmured as his hand groped clumsily around her hip.

      Quickly she bent the leg and shoved it inside, then threw the offending arm across his chest and slammed the door before it flopped out again. Sam could hear the crack of his elbow hitting the door panel but he was clearly feeling no pain. The giggling continued, a side effect of the drug she hadn’t been warned about.

      “Crap, ‘happy hour’ at ten in the morning,” she muttered to herself. Relief made her almost giddy enough to giggle in return while she once again scanned the street. Not so much as a window shade moved in any of the buildings. Southern California. It figured. “I could’ve gone after him with a net and trident and nobody would’ve noticed a thing.”

      Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, then placed the .38 in the glove compartment before pulling out and driving away slowly. In the back of the Econoline she could hear soft male snoring as her new “retrieval” settled into a deep, drugged slumber.

      “Well, handsome, we sure as hell gave added dimension to the term tailgating,” she said, turning the corner of the street and heading for a deserted strip mall next to the freeway.

      Pulling into the back of the parking lot beneath a cluster of blue gum trees, she shifted to Park, keeping the engine running while she climbed over the seat and quickly changed into a loose set of pink hospital scrubs. After exchanging her slides for a pair of crepe-soled lace-up shoes, she climbed out of the side door of the Econoline and opened