According to Pickle's paperwork he'd just turned forty. He had sandy-colored hair that looked like it had been cut in boot camp. His skin was pale, his eyes hidden behind round-rimmed glasses, his mouth accented by a big herpes sore. He was five-foot-seven and had an average build gone soft. His slacks and dress shirt were just short of shabby. He didn't look like he cared a whole lot if the woman bought the shoes.

I moved my cuffs from my shoulder bag to my jeans pocket. 'I can manage this,' I said to Lula. 'You stay here in case he bolts.'

'I don't think he looks like a bolter,' Lula said. 'I think he looks more like the walking dead.'

I agreed with Lula. Pickle looked like he was two steps away from putting a bullet in his brain. I moved behind him and waited for him to stand.

'I love this shoe,' the woman said. 'But I need a size nine.'

'I don't have a size nine,' Pickle said.

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah.'

'Maybe you should go back and look again.'

Pickle sucked air for a couple beats and nodded. 'Sure,' he said.

He stood and turned and bumped into me.

'You're going to leave, aren't you?' I said. 'I bet you're going to go out the back door and go home and never come back.'

'It's a recurring fantasy,' he said.

I glanced at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. 'Have you had lunch?' I asked him.

'No.'

'Take your lunch now and come with me, and I'll buy you a piece of pizza.'

'There's something wrong with this picture,' Pickle said. 'Are you one of those religious nuts who wants to save me?'

'No. I'm not a religious nut.' I held my hand out. 'Stephanie Plum.'

He automatically shook my hand. 'Melvin Pickle.'

'I work for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds,' I said. 'You missed a court date, and you need to reschedule.'

'Sure,' he said.

'Now.'

'I can't go now. I gotta work.'

'You can take your lunch break.'