11 Eleven On Top (4 page)

“Not much of a story,” I said, following Grandma into the hallway foyer. “I just thought it was time for a change.”

“That's it? Time for a change? I can't tell people that story. It's boring. I need something better. How about we tell them you're pregnant? Or maybe we could say you got a rare blood disease. Or there was a big contract put on your head unless you gave up being a bounty hunter.”

“Sorry,” I said. “None of those things are true.”

“Yeah, but that don't matter. Everybody knows you can't believe everything you hear.”

My mother was at the dining room table with a bunch of round pieces of paper spread out in front of her. My sister, Valerie, was getting married in a week, and my mother was still working on the seating arrangements.

“I can't make this work,” my mother said. “These round tables don't hold the right number of people. I'm going to have to seat the Krugers at two different tables. And no one gets along with old Mrs. Kruger.”

“You should do away with the seating chart,” Grandma said. “Just open the doors to the hall and let them fight for their seats.”

I love my sister, but I'd deport her to Bosnia if I thought I could get away with it and it'd get me out of her wedding. I'm supposed to be her maid of honor and somehow through my lack of participation and a fabric swatch inaccuracy I've been ordered a gown that makes me look like a giant eggplant.

“We heard you quit your job,” my mother said to me. “Thank goodness. I can finally sleep at night knowing you're not running around the worst parts of town chasing after criminals. And I understand you have a wonderful job at the button factory. Marjorie Kuzak called yesterday and told us all about it. Her daughter works in the employment office.”

“Actually, I sort of got fired from that job,” I said.

“Already? How could you possibly get fired on your first day?”

“It's complicated. I don't suppose you know anybody who's hiring?”

“What kind of job are you looking for?” Grandma asked.

“Professional. Something with career advancement potential.”

“I saw a sign up at the cleaners,” Grandma said. “I don't know about career advancement, but they do a lot of professional pressing. I see a lot of people taking their business suits there.”

“I was hoping for something a little more challenging.”

“Dry cleaning's challenging,” Grandma said. “It's not easy getting all them spots out. And you gotta have people skills. I heard them talking behind the counter about how hard it was to find someone with people skills.”

“And no one would shoot at you,” my mother said. “No one ever robs a dry cleaner.”

I had to admit, that part appealed to me. It would be nice not to have to worry about getting shot. Maybe working at the dry cleaners would be an okay temporary job until the right thing came along.

I got myself a cup of coffee and poked through the refrigerator, searching for food. I settled on a piece of apple pie and carted the coffee and pie back to the dining room, where my mom was still arranging the paper tables.

“What's going on in the Burg?” I asked her.

“Harry Farstein died yesterday. Heart attack. He's at Stiva's.”

“He's gonna have a viewing tonight,” Grandma said. "It's gonna be a good one, too. His lodge will be there.

And Lydia Farstein is the drama queen of the Burg. She'll be carrying on something awful. If you haven't got anything better to do, you should come to the viewing with me. I could use a ride."

Grandma loved going to viewings. Stiva's Funeral Home was the social center of the Burg. I thought having my thumb amputated would be a preferred activity.

“And everyone's going to be talking about the Barroni thing,” Grandma said. “I can't believe he hasn't turned up. It's like he was abducted by Martians.”

Okay, now this interested me. Morelli was working on the Barroni disappearance. And Ranger was working on the Gorman disappearance, which might be connected to the Barroni disappearance. I was glad I wasn't working on either of those cases, but on the other hand, I felt a smidgeon left out. So sue me, I'm nosy.

“Sure,” I said. “I'll pick you up at seven o'clock.”

“Your father got gravy on his gray slacks,” my mother said. "If you're going to apply for a job at the cleaner, would you mind taking the slacks with you?

It would save me a trip."

A half hour later, I had a job with Kan Klean. The hours were seven to three. They were open seven days a week, and I agreed to work weekends. The pay wasn't great, but I could wear jeans and a T-shirt to work, and they confirmed my mother's suspicion that they'd never been held up and that to date none of their employees had been shot while on the job. I handed over the gravy-stained slacks and agreed to show up at seven the next morning.

I didn't feel quite as nauseated as I had after getting the button factory job. So I was making progress, right?

I drove three blocks down Hamilton and stopped at the bonds office to say hello.

“Look what the wind blew in,” Lula said when she saw me. “I heard you got the job at the button factory. How come you're not working?”

“I spent the night with Morelli and overslept. So I was late rolling in to work.”

“And?”

“And I got fired.”

“That was fast,” Lula said. “You're good. It takes most people a couple days to get fired.”

“Maybe it all worked out for the best. I got another job already at Kan Klean.”

“Do you get a discount?” Lula wanted to know. “I got some dry cleaning to send out. You could pick it up tomorrow here at the office on your way to work.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.” I shuffled through the small stack of files on Connie's desk. “Anything fun come in?”

“Yeah, its all fun,” Connie said. “We got a rapist. We got a guy who beat up his girlfriend. We got a couple pushers.”

“I'm doing the DV this afternoon,” Lula said.

“DV?”

“Domestic violence. My time's real valuable now that I'm a bounty hunter. I gotta use abbreviations. Like I'm doing the DV in the PM.”

I heard Vinnie growl from his inner office. “Jesus HIM. Christmas,” he said. “Who would have thought my life would come to this?”

“Hey, Vinnie,” I yelled to him. “How's it going?”

Vinnie poked his head out his door. “I gave you a job when you needed one and now you desert me. Where's the gratitude?”

Vinnie is a couple inches taller than me and has the slim, boneless body of a ferret. His coloring is Mediterranean. His hair looks like it's slicked back with olive oil. He wears pointy-toed shoes and a lot of gold. He's the family pervert. He's married to Harry-the-Hammer's daughter. And in spite of his personality shortcomings (or maybe because of them) he's an okay bail bondsman. Vinnie understands the criminal mind.

“You didn't give me the job,” I said to Vinnie. “I blackmailed you into it. And I got good numbers when I was working for you. My apprehension rate was close to ninety percent.”

“You were lucky,” Vinnie said.

This was true.

Lula took her big black leather purse from the bottom file drawer and stuffed it under her arm. “I'm going out. I'm gonna get that DV and I'm gonna lack his ass all the way back to jail.”

“No!” Vinnie said. “You're not gonna kick his ass anywhere. Ass kicking is not entirely legal. You will introduce yourself and you will cuff him. And then you will escort him to the station in a civilized manner.”

“Sure,” Lula said. “I knew that.”

“Maybe you want to go with her,” Vinnie said to me. “Since it looks like you don't have anything better to do.”

“I start a new job tomorrow. I got a job at Kan Klean.”

Vinnie's eyes lit up. “Do you get a discount? I got a shitload of dry cleaning.”

“I wouldn't mind if you rode along,” Lula said. “This guys gonna be slam barn, thank you, ma'am. And then we drop his sorry behind off at the police station and go get some burgers.”

“I don't want to get involved,” I told her.

"You can stay in the Firebird. It'll only take me a minute to cuff this guy and drag... I mean, escort him out to the car.

“Okay,” I said, “but I really don't want to get involved.”

A half hour later we were at the public housing project on the other side of town and Lula was motoring the Firebird down Carter Street, looking for 2475A.

“Here's the plan,” Lula said. “You just sit tight and I'll go get this guy. I got pepper spray, a stun gun, a head-bashing flashlight, two pairs of cuffs, and the BP in my purse.”

“BP?”

“Big Persuader. That's what I call my Glock.” She pulled to the curb and jerked her thumb at the apartment building. “This here's the building. I'll be back in a minute.”

“Try to keep your clothes on,” I said to her.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “Funny.”

Lula walked to the door and knocked. The door opened. Lula disappeared inside the house and the door closed behind her. I looked at my watch and decided I'd give her ten minutes. After ten minutes I'd do something, but I wasn't sure what it would be. I could call the police. I could call Vinnie. I could run around the outside of the building yelling fire! Or I could do the least appealing of all the options-I could go in after her.

I didn't have to make the decision because the front door opened after just two minutes. Lula tumbled out the door, rolled off the stoop, landed on a patch of hard packed dirt that would have been lawn in a more prosperous neighborhood, and the door slammed shut behind her. Lula scrambled to her feet, tugged her spandex lime green miniskirt back down over her ass, and marched up to the door.

“Open this door!” she yelled. “You open this door right now or there's gonna be big trouble.” She tried the doorknob. She rang the bell. She kicked the door with her Via Spigas. The door didn't open. Lula turned and looked over at me. “Don't worry,” she said. "This here's just a minor setback. They don't understand the severity of the situation.

I slid lower in my seat and became engrossed in the mechanics of my seat belt.

“I'm giving you one more chance to open this door and then I'm going to take action,” Lula yelled at the house.

The door didn't open.

“Hunh,” Lula said. She backed off from the door and cut over to a front window. Curtains had been drawn across the window, but the flicker of a television screen could faintly be seen through the sheers. Lula stood on tiptoes and tried to open the window, but the window wouldn't budge. “I'm starting to get annoyed now,” Lula said. “You know what I think? I think this here's an accident waiting to happen.”

Lula pulled her big Maglite out of her purse, set her purse on the ground, and smashed the window with the Maglite. She bent to retrieve her purse and what remained of the window was blown out with a shotgun blast from inside. If Lula hadn't bent down to get her purse, the surgeon of the day at St. Francis would have spent the rest of his afternoon picking pellets out of her.

“What the F!” Lula said. And Lula did a fast sprint to the car. She wrenched the drivers-side door open, crammed herself behind the wheel, and there was a second shotgun blast through the apartment window. “That dumb son of a bitch shot at me!” Lula said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I saw. I was impressed you could run like that in those heels.”

“I wasn't expecting him to shoot at me. He had no call to do that.”

“You broke his window.”

“It was an accident.”

“It wasn't an accident. I saw you do it with the Maglite.”

“That guy's nuts,” Lula said, taking off from the curb, leaving a couple inches of rubber on the road. “He should be reported to somebody. He should be arrested.”

“You were supposed to arrest him.”

“I was supposed to escort him. Vinnie made that real clear. Escort him. And I could escort the hell out of him except I'm hungry. I gotta get something to eat,” Lula said. “I work better on a happy stomach. I could take that woman-beating moron in anytime I want, so what's the rush, right? Might as well get a burger first, that's what I think. And anyway, he might be more Ranger's speed. I wouldn't want to step on Rangers toes. You know how Ranger likes all that shooting stuff.”

“I thought you liked the shooting stuff.”

“I don't want to hog it.”

“Considerate of you.”

“Yeah, I'm real considerate,” Lula said, turning into a Cluck-in-a-Bucket drive-thru. “I'm seriously thinking of giving this case to Ranger.”

“What if Ranger doesn't want it?”

“You think he'd turn down a good case like this?”

“Yeah.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “Wouldn't that be a bitch?”

She got a Cluck Burger with cheese, a large side of fries, a chocolate shake, and an Apple Clucky Pie. I wasn't in a Cluck-in-a-Bucket mood so I passed.

Lula finished off the last piece of the pie and looked at her watch. “I'd go back and root out that nutso loser, but it's getting late. Don't you think it's late?”

“Almost three o'clock.”

“Practically quitting time.”

Especially for me, since I quit yesterday.

I'm not the world's best cook, but I have some specialties, and almost all of them include peanut butter. You can't go wrong with peanut butter. Today I was having a peanut butter and olive and potato chip sandwich for dinner. Very efficient since it combines legumes and vegetables plus some worthless white bread carbohydrates all in one tidy package. I was standing in the kitchen, washing the sandwich down with a cold Corona, and Morelli called.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Eating.”

“Why aren't you eating in my house?”

“I don't live in your house.”

“You were living in my house last night.”

“I was visiting your house last night. That's different from living. Living involves commitment and closet allocation.”

“We don't seem to be all that good at commitment, but I'd be happy to give up a couple closets in exchange for wild gorilla sex at least five days out of seven.”

“Good grief.”

“Okay, four days out of seven, but that's my best offer. How's the new job at the button factory going?”

“Got fired. And it was your fault. I was late for work on my first day.”

I could feel Morelli smile at the other end of the line. “Am I good, or what?”