Finger Lickin' Fifteen (10 page)

“Do you smell something?” Lula asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not good.”

I was concentrating on driving and not on smelling. Ernie was going in circles. He was driving a four-block grid.

“It’s like a cat was burning,” Lula said. “I never actually smelled a cat burning, but if I did, it would smell like this. And do you think it’s getting smokey in here?”

“Smokey?”

“
Yow!
” Lula said. “Your backseat is on fire. I mean, it’s a inferno. Let me out of this car. Pull over. I wasn’t meant to be extra crispy.”

I screeched to a stop, and Lula and I scrambled out of the car. The fire raced along the upholstery and shot out the windows. Flames licked from the undercarriage and
Vrooosh!
The car was a fireball. I looked up the street and saw the pea green VW lurking at the corner. The car idled for a few moments and sedately drove away.

“How long do you think it’s gonna take the fire trucks to get here?” Lula wanted to know.

“Not long. I hear sirens.”

“This is gonna be embarrassing. This is the second thing we burned up this week.”

I dialed Ranger. “Did I wake you?” I asked.

“No. I’m up and functioning. I just got a report that the GPS unit we attached to your car stopped working.”

“You know how when you toast a marshmallow it catches fire and gets all black and melted?”

“Yeah.”

“That would be my car.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I’m stranded,” I told him.

“I’ll send Tank.”

_______

I WATCHED THE fire truck disappear down the street, followed by the last remaining cop car. What was left of my Escort was on a flatbed.

“Where do you want me to take this?” the flatbed guy asked me.

“Dump it in the river.”

“You got it,” he said. And he climbed into the cab and rumbled away.

“Guess you gotta be careful when you’re going after someone who likes fire,” Lula said.

I had a shiny new black Porsche Cayenne waiting for me. Tank had dropped it off, made sure I didn’t need help, and returned to Rangeman. The car was one of several in Ranger’s personal fleet. It was immaculate inside, with no trace of Ranger other than a secret drawer under the driver’s seat. The drawer held a loaded gun. All cars in Ranger’s personal fleet had guns hidden under the seat.

I remoted the car open, and Lula and I got in.

“Now what?” Lula said.

“Lunch.”

“I like that idea. And I think we should take something to Larry on account of he’s still working on your kitchen.”

“It sounds like things went okay last night.”

“One thing you learn when you’re a ’ho is there’s all kinds in this world. Bein’ a ’ho is a broadening experience. It’s not just all hand jobs, you know. It’s listenin’ to people sometimes and tryin’ to figure out how to make them happy. That’s why I was a good ’ho. I didn’t charge by the hour.”

“And Larry fits in there somewhere.”

“Yeah. He’s a real interesting person. He was a professional wrestler. His professional name was Lady Death, but he was one of them niche market wrestlers, and his feelings got hurt when the fans didn’t like him in his pink outfits. So he quit, and he got a job as a fireman. Turns out he’s a hottie, too. He likes wearing ladies’ clothes, but he isn’t gay.”

We decided Larry was probably tired of chicken, so we got ham and cheese and hot pepper subs and brought them back to my apartment.

“Boy, that’s great of you to bring me lunch,” Larry said. “I’m starving.”

He was still wearing the Dolly Parton number. It had a fitted bodice with spaghetti straps and a swirly chiffon skirt, and there was a lot of chest hair and back hair sticking out of the top of the dress. There was also a lot of armpit hair, leg hair, and knuckle hair. He’d accessorized the dress with heels and rubber gloves.

“I know this looks funny,” he said, “but I like to feel pretty when I clean.”

“Go for it,” I told him. And I meant it. I didn’t care what he was wearing as long as I was getting barbecue sauce removed from my walls.

My cell phone buzzed, and I recognized Morelli’s number.

“I’m trying to find Lula,” he said. “I called the office, and they said she was with you.”

“Why didn’t you just call her cell?”

“She’s not answering her cell.”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“I need to show her a photograph. Where are you?”

“We’re in my apartment.”

“Stay there. I’m a couple minutes away.”

“That was Morelli,” I said to Lula. “He’s coming here with a photograph he wants you to look at. He said you’re not answering your cell phone.”

“It’s out of juice. I forgot to plug it in.”

Five minutes later, I opened my door to Morelli. He looked at me in my Rangeman clothes, and the line of his mouth tightened. “Why don’t I just lie down in the parking lot and let you run over me a couple times. It would be less painful.”

“Been there, done that,” I said.

The bright red splotches in my kitchen caught his attention. “Remodeling?” he asked.

“Pressure cooker full of barbecue sauce.”

That got a smile. “Where’s Lula?”

“Eating lunch in the dining room.”

The smile widened when Morelli walked into the dining room and eyeballed Lula in her flak vest and Larry in his cocktail dress.

“This here’s Larry,” Lula said to Morelli. “He’s Mister Clucky.”

“I’m a fireman full-time,” Larry said. “Being Mister Clucky is my part-time job.”

Morelli extended his hand. “Joe Morelli. Isn’t it early in the day for a cocktail dress?”

“I guess,” Larry said, “but I stayed over, and this was all I had to wear.”

Morelli cut his eyes to me. “He stayed over?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I bet.”

“Are those pictures you’re holding for me?” Lula asked. “You need to be figuring this out, because I’m gettin’ tired of this
kill Lula
bullshit.”

Morelli gave her the photos, and Lula flipped through them.

“This one,” Lula said. “This guy with the bad haircut and a nose like Captain Hook. He’s one of the killers. He’s the one with the meat cleaver.”

“That’s Marco the Maniac,” Morelli said.

“Oh shit,” Lula said. “I got a killer named Maniac. Where’s my helmet? I need my helmet. I think I left it at the office.”

“His profile finally popped out of the system,” Morelli said. “He’s from Chicago. Works as a butcher, but he makes spare change by chopping off fingers and toes of people who annoy the Chicago Mob. Mostly gets off on insufficient evidence, but did some time a couple years ago. I don’t know how he’s connected to Chipotle. I’m assuming it was a contract hit, but we don’t really know.”

“You’re gonna arrest him, right?” Lula said.

“As soon as we find him.”

“Well, what are you doing standing here!” Lula said. “You gotta mobilize or something. Put out one of them APB things. I need all my fingers and toes. I got some Via Spiga sandals that aren’t gonna look right if I only got nine toes. And what about the guy with the gun? Why don’t you got a picture of him?”

“We’re working on it,” Morelli said.

“Working on it, my ass,” Lula said. “I’m gettin’ the runs. I need a doughnut.”

Morelli grabbed my wrist and tugged me to the door. “I need to talk to you alone,” he said, moving me into the hall and down toward the elevator.

“I don’t want to argue about Rangeman,” I told him.

“I don’t care about Rangeman,” Morelli said, his voice cracking with laughter. “I want to know about the guy in the dress. What the heck is that about?”

“Lula exploded the barbecue sauce in my kitchen and didn’t want to clean it up, so she told this cross-dresser he could wear her dress if he scrubbed the sauce off the walls and ceiling.”

“And he spent the night?”

“Lula’s guest.”

“The crime lab got to her apartment first thing this morning. She can change out that door anytime she wants.”

“I’m not sure she’ll go back there. She’s really freaked.”

“From what I can tell, Marco is an animal with a very small brain. He’s dangerous and disgusting but not smart. At the risk of sounding insensitive, Lula is a large target, and anyone else would have killed her by now.”

“So you think she shouldn’t be worried?”

“I think she should be terrified. If this goes on long enough, Marco is going to get lucky, and Lula is going to lose a lot more than a toe.” He punched the elevator button. “Is that Ranger’s Cayenne in your parking lot?”

A small sigh escaped before I could squelch it. “I tried to capture Ernie Dell, but he torched my car and got away. Ranger gave me a loaner.”

The elevator doors opened, and Morelli stepped inside.

“How close are you to catching Marco?” I asked him.

“Not close enough.”

I returned to the apartment and finished my lunch.

“We should have got dessert,” Lula said. “I don’t know what we were thinking about, not getting dessert.”

“You have to stop obsessing about food,” I told her. “You’re going to weigh four hundred pounds.”

“Are you sayin’ I’m fat? Because I think I’m just a big and beautiful woman.”

“You’re still beautiful,” I said. “But I think the
big
is getting a little
bigger
.”

“That’s a valid point,” Lula said. She locked on to Larry. “Do you think I’m fat?”

Larry was deer in headlights. He’d already traveled this road. “Well, you’re not
too
fat,” he said.

“Not too fat for what?” Lula wanted to know.

“For me. For this dress. I’m sure you look much better in this dress than I do.”

“Damn right,” Lula said. “Take that dress off and I’ll show you. This dress fits me perfect.”

Larry stood and reached for the zipper, and I clapped my hands over my eyes.

“It’s okay,” Larry said to me. “I’m wearing boxers. I didn’t have any nice lingerie with me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t want to see Lula, either. Tell me when it’s over.”

“Well, what the heck is wrong with this dress?” Lula said a couple minutes later. “I can’t get this thing together.”

I opened my eyes, and Lula had the dress on, but it wasn’t zipped. There was fat bulging out everywhere, and Larry had his knee against Lula’s back and was two-handing the zipper, trying to pull it up.

“Suck it in,” Larry said. “I have this problem sometimes, too.”

“I’m all sucked,” Lula said. “I can’t suck no more.”

Veins were standing out in Larry’s temples and bulging in his neck. “I’m getting it,” he said. “I can press two hundred pounds, and there’s no reason why I can’t get this zipper closed.”

The heck there wasn’t. The dress wasn’t made out of spandex. And even spandex had limits.

“I’ve almost got it,” Larry said, sweat dripping off his flushed face, running in rivers down his chest. “I’ve got an inch to go. One lousy, motherfucking, cocksucking inch.”

Lula was standing tall, not moving a muscle.

“Yeah, baby!” Larry said. “I got it! Woohoo!
Yeah!
” He stepped back and pumped his fist and did a white boy shuf; e in his boxers.

Lula still wasn’t moving. Her eyes were all wide and bulging, and she was looking not so brown as usual.

“Can’t breathe,” Lula whispered. “Feel faint.”

And then
POW
, the zipper let loose, and Lula flopped onto the floor, gasping for air.

Larry and I peered down at her.

“Maybe I could use to lose a pound or two,” Lula said.

We got Lula out of the dress and back into her marigold yellow stretch slacks, matching scoop-neck sweater, and black flak vest. And neither of us mentioned that she looked like a giant bumblebee.

“Are you okay?” Larry asked her.

“Pretty much, but I need a doughnut.”

“No doughnuts!” Larry and I said in unison.

“Oh yeah,” Lula said. “I forgot.”

“I have to get back to work,” I said to Lula. “Are you coming with me?”

“I guess,” Lula said. “But we gotta stop at your mama’s house. Your granny was supposed to cook up a recipe I gave her.”

ELEVEN

MY MOTHER AND Grandma Mazur were in the kitchen. My mother was at the stove, stirring red sauce, and Grandma was at the sink, drying pots stacked in the Rubbermaid dish drainer.

“I made up the recipe just like you said,” Grandma told Lula. “And then I put the sauce on some pulled pork. It’s in the casserole dish in the refrigerator.”

“How does it taste?” Lula asked. “What do you think of it?”

“It tastes okay, but I got the trots as soon as I ate it. I’ve been in the bathroom ever since. I got hemorrhoids on hemorrhoids.”

“Get it out of the refrigerator before your father gets hold of it,” my mother said to me. “Bad enough I’ve got your grandmother running upstairs every ten minutes. I don’t want to have to listen to the two of them fighting over who gets in first.”

I took the casserole dish out of the refrigerator and lifted the lid. It looked good, and it smelled great.

“Do you want to try some?” I asked Lula.

“Ordinarily,” Lula said. “But I’m on a diet. Maybe you should taste it.”

“Not in a hundred years,” I told her.

“It could just be a fluke that your granny got the trots,” Lula said. “It could be one of them anemones.”

“I think you mean anomaly.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“We’re having ham tonight,” my mother said to me. “And pineapple upside-down cake. You should bring Joseph to dinner.”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Since weeks ago.”

“Do you have a new boyfriend?”

“No. I’m done with men. I have a hamster. That’s all I need.”

“That’s a shame,” my mother said. “It’s a big ham.”

“I’ll come to dinner,” I said. “I love ham.”

“No Joseph?”

“No Joseph. I’ll take his share home and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

“I know what we can do with this casserole,” Lula said. “We can take it to the office and feed it to Vinnie. He don’t care what he puts in his mouth.”

I thought that sounded like a decent idea, so I carted the pulled pork out to Ranger’s Porsche and carefully set it on the floor in the back. Lula and I buckled ourselves in, and I headed for Hamilton Avenue.

“Holy cats,” Lula said, half a block away from the office. “You see that car parked on the other side of the street? It’s the bushy-headed killer. It’s Marco the Maniac. He’s sitting there waiting to kill me.”

“Don’t panic,” I said. “Get his license plate. I’m dialing Morelli.”

“It’s them or me,” she said, launching herself over the consul onto the backseat, powering the side window down. “This is war.”

“Stay calm! Are you getting the license number?”

“Calm, my ass.” And she stuck her Glock out the window and squeezed off about fifteen shots at the two guys in the car. “Eat lead,” she yelled, “you sons of bitches!”

Bullets ricocheted off metal wheel covers and bit into fiberglass, but clearly none hit their intended mark because the car took off and was doing about eighty miles an hour before it even got to the corner. I hung a U-turn in front of the bonds office, sending oncoming cars scrambling onto curbs, screeching to a stop.

Lula had discarded the flak vest, rammed herself through the side window, and was half in and half out, still shooting at the car in front of us.

“Stop shooting,” I yelled at her. “You’re going to kill someone.”

The car turned left onto Olden, and I was prevented from following by heavy traffic.

“Get back into the car,” I said to Lula. “I’ve lost them.”

“I can’t get back,” Lula said. “I’m stuck.”

I looked over my shoulder at Lula. All I could see was bright yellow ass. The rest of her was out the window.

“Stop fooling around,” I told her.

“I’m not fooling. I’m stuck!”

Cars were passing and honking.

“Your ass,” Lula said to the cars.

I checked her out in my side mirror and saw that not only was she stuck, but her boobs had fallen out of the scoop-neck sweater and were blowing in the wind. I turned onto a side street and pulled to the curb to take a look. By the time I got out of the car, I was laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks and I could hardly see.

“I don’t see where this is so funny,” Lula said. “Get me out of the window. I’m about freezing my nipples off. It’s not like it’s summer or somethin’.”

Short of lubing Lula up with goose grease, I didn’t know where to begin.

“Do you think it’s better if I pull or push?” I asked her.

“I think you should pull. I don’t think I’m gonna get my titties and my belly back through the window. I think my ass is smaller. And I don’t want no wisecrackin’ comment on that, neither.”

I latched on to her wrists, planted my feet, and pulled, but she didn’t budge.

“I’m losing circulation in my legs,” Lula said. “You don’t get me out of here soon, I’m gonna need amputation.”

I went around to the other side, got into the backseat, and almost fainted at the sight of the big yellow butt in front of me. I broke into a nervous giggle and instantly squashed it. Get it together, I told myself. This is serious stuff. She could lose the use of her legs.

I put my hands on her ass and shoved. Nothing. No progress. I put my shoulder to her and leaned into it. Ditto. Still stuck. I got out of the Porsche and went around to take another look from the front.

“Maybe I should call roadside assistance,” I said to Lula. “Or the fire department.”

“I don’t feel so good,” Lula said. And she farted.

“Jeez Louise,” I said. “Could you control yourself? This is Ranger’s Porsche.”

“I can’t help it. I’m just a big gasbag. I still got leftover barbecue gas.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and did a full minute-long fart. “Excuse me,” she said.

I was horrified and impressed all at the same time. It was a record-breaking fart. On my best day, I couldn’t come near to farting like that.

“I feel a lot better,” Lula said. “Look at me. I got room in the window opening.” She wriggled a little and eased herself back into the SUV. “I’m not so fat after all,” she said. “I was just all swelled up.”

My cell phone buzzed, and I saw from the screen that it was Morelli.

“Did I miss a call from you?” he asked.

“Yeah. Marco and his partner were parked in front of the bonds office. They were in a black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t get their license. I followed them to Olden and then lost them.”

“I’ll put it on the air.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes later, Lula and I trudged into the office with the casserole and came face-to-face with Joyce Barnhardt.

Joyce had been a pudge when she was a kid, but over the years the fat had shifted to all the right places. Plus, she’d had some sucked out and added some here and there. Truth is, most of the original equipment had been altered one way or another, but even I had to admit the end result was annoyingly spectacular. She had a lot of flame-red hair that she did up in waves and curls. Hard to tell which of it was hers and which was bought. Not that it mattered when she swung her ass down the street in spike-heeled boots, skintight low-rider jeans, and a black satin bustier. She wore more eye makeup than Tammy Faye and had lips that were inflated to bursting.

“Hello, Joyce,” I said. “Long time no see.”

“I guess you could say that to Morelli, too,” Joyce said.

Lula cut her eyes to me. “You want me to shoot her? ’Cause I’d really like to do that. I still got a few bullets left in my gun.”

“Thanks, but not today,” I said to Lula. “Some other time.”

“Just let me know when.”

“So what are you doing here in the slums?” I asked her.

“Ask Connie.”

“Vinnie hired her again,” Connie said. “He decided you weren’t bringing the skips in fast enough, so he brought Joyce in to take up the slack.”

“I don’t take up slack,” Joyce said. “I take the cream off the top.”

From time to time, Joyce had worked for Vinnie, mostly because she was good with a whip and once in a while Vinnie felt like a very bad boy.

“What’s in the casserole?” Joyce asked.

I opened the lid. “It’s barbecue. Grandma Mazur made it for me for dinner. She knows how I love this recipe.”

Joyce spit on the pulled pork. “Just like old times,” she said. “Remember when I used to spit on your lunch in school?”

“How about now?” Lula asked. “Can I shoot her now?”

“No!”

Joyce took the casserole dish from me. “Yum,” she said. “Dinner.” And then she sashayed out of the bonds office, got into her black Mercedes, and roared off down the street with the barbecue.

“I got a dilemma here now,” Lula said. “I don’t know whether I want her to like my barbecue sauce or get the squirts from it.”

Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “Where is she? Did she leave? Christ, she scares the crap out of me. Still, there’s no getting around it. She’s a man-eater. She’ll clean up the list.”

Connie and Lula and I did a collective eye roll because Joyce had tried her hand at bounty hunting before and the only man she ate was Vinnie.

“Am I fired?” I asked Vinnie.

“No. You’re the B team.”

“You can’t have an A team and a B team going after the same skips. It doesn’t work.”

“Make it work,” Vinnie said.

“We should have saved the barbecue for Vinnie,” I said to Lula.

“Wasn’t me that gave Barnhardt the barbecue,” Lula said. “I wanted to shoot her.”

I hiked my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m out of here. I’m going to see if Myron Kaplan is home.”

“I’m with you,” Lula said. “I’m not staying here with this Barnhardt-hiring idiot.”

“What about the filing?” Vinnie yelled at Lula. “There’s stacks of files everywhere.”

“File my ass,” Lula said.

ACCORDING TO THE information Connie had given me, Myron Kaplan was seventy-eight years old, lived alone, was a retired pharmacist, and two months ago, he robbed his dentist at gunpoint. Myron’s booking photo was mostly nose. Several other photos taken when bail was written showed Myron to be slightly stooped, with sparse, wild gray hair.

“There it is,” Lula said, checking house numbers while I crept down Carmichael Street. “That’s his house with the red door.”

Carmichael was a quiet little side street in the center of the city. Residents could walk to shops, restaurants, coffeehouses, corner groceries, and in Myron’s case . . . his dentist. The street was entirely residential, with narrow brick-faced two-story row houses.

I parked at the curb, and Lula and I walked to the small front stoop. I rang the bell, and we both stepped aside in case Myron decided to shoot through his door. He was old, but he was known to be armed, and we’d been shot at a lot lately.

The door opened, and Myron looked at me and then focused on Lula in the yellow stretch suit and black flak vest.

“What the heck?” Myron asked.

“Don’t mess with me,” Lula said. “I’m off doughnuts, and I feel mean as a snake.”

“You look like a big bumblebee,” Myron said. “I thought I slept through October, and it was Halloween.”

I introduced myself and explained to Myron he’d missed his court date.

“I’m not going to court,” Myron said. “I already told that to the lady who called on the phone. I got better things to do.”

“Like what?” Lula wanted to know.

“Like watch television.”

Myron had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was gumming it around, sucking in smoke and blowing it out, all at the same time.

“That’s disgustin’,” Lula said. “You shouldn’t be smoking. Didn’t your doctor tell you not to smoke?”

“My doctor’s dead,” Myron said. “Everybody I know is dead.”

“I’m not,” Lula said.

Myron considered that. “You’re right. You want to do knicky-knacky with me? It’s been a while, but I think I can still do it.”

“You better be talkin’ about some kind of card game,” Lula told him.

“We need to go now,” I said. “I’m kind of on a schedule.”

“Listen, missy,” Myron said. “I’m not going. What part of
not going
don’t you understand?”

I hated capturing old people. If they didn’t cooperate, there was no good way to bring them in. No matter how professional and respectful I tried to act, I always looked like a jerk when I dragged their carcass out the door.

“It’s the law,” I said. “You’re accused of a crime, and you have to go before a judge.”

“I didn’t commit a crime,” Myron said. “I just got a refund. This quack dentist made me false teeth. They didn’t fit. I wanted my money back.”

“Yes, but you got it back at gunpoint.”

“That’s because I couldn’t get an appointment to see him until January. Couldn’t get past his snippy receptionist. When I went in with the gun, I got to see him right away. It’s not like I have forever to wait for money. I’m old.”

“What about the teeth?” Lula asked him. “Where’s the teeth?”

“I left them with the dentist. I got my money back, and he got his teeth back.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Lula said.

“The court decides what’s fair,” I said. “You have to go to court.”

Myron crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Make me.”

“This is gonna get ugly,” Lula said. “We should have left this for Barnhardt.”

“I’ll make a deal,” I said to Myron. “If you come with me, I’ll get you a date with my grandmother. She’s real cute.”

“Does she put out for knicky-knacky?”

“No!”

“Criminy,” Lula said to Myron. “What’s with you and the knicky-knacky? Do it by yourself and get it over with just like the rest of us.”

“He’s not real big,” I said to Lula. “Probably about a hundred and sixty pounds. If we hog-tie him, we should be able to cart him out to the car.”

“Yeah, and he don’t have no teeth, so we don’t have to worry about him biting us.”

“You can’t do that to me,” Myron said. “I’m old. I’ll have a heart attack. I’ll pee my pants.”

Lula was hands on hips. “I hate when they pee their pants. It’s a humiliating experience. And it ruins the upholstery.”

I cut my eyes to Myron. “Well? How do you want us to do this?”

“I gotta go to the bathroom before you hog-tie me,” Myron said. “Or else I’ll pee for sure.”

“You’ve got three minutes,” I said to him.