Top Secret Twenty-One (8 page)

“You’ve had your place blown up a couple times,” Briggs said. “It must have been bad for you too.”

“The first time it happened was the worst. I was really rattled. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.”

“Hard to believe,” Briggs said. “You’re a magnet for disaster. I figured you were one of those kids who had their bike run over by the garbage truck.”

“Only once,” I said. “But it was never blown up.”

“Yeah, there’s something about getting your shit blown up that takes it to a whole new level.”

“I’ve pretty much gone through my bag of tricks for tracking down Poletti,” I said. “I think it’s time to hang you out there as bait.”

“
What?
Are you nuts? He wants to kill me.”

“I’ll take precautions.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll be watching.”

“And?”

“And I’ll catch him before he kills you.”

“How are you going to catch him?”

“I’ll rush him,” I said. “And give him a faceful of pepper spray.”

“I’m not completely comfortable with that.”

“I’ll use my stun gun.”

“What if you can’t get close enough to him?”

“Okay, how about if I put bullets in my .45, and then I can shoot him?”

Briggs nodded. “Bullets are good. That’s a good start. How’s your aim?”

“I’m a crack shot at ten feet.”

“You’re making me nervous. I might be getting diarrhea. I’m not well. I got IBS.”

“This won’t be a big deal. All you have to do is walk up and down Stark Street in front of Buster’s building.”

“What if I get diarrhea? I can feel it coming on just thinking about it.”

“Go into the pizza place and use their bathroom.”

“They might not have a public bathroom,” Briggs said.

“Then go out the back door and hide behind the dumpster.”

“Boy, that’s cold,” Briggs said.

“It’s Stark Street. People probably go behind the dumpster all the time.”

“All right. I guess I could try it, but I want to see your gun.”

“I don’t actually have my gun with me,” I said.

Briggs crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not doing it unless you have a gun.”

“Okay, great, fine, whatever. I’ll go get Lula. She always has a gun.”

“Damn right I got a gun,” Lula said, taking the front passenger seat. “I don’t mind using it either if it’s for a good cause. Or in this case to get Poletti before he rids the world of Mr. Poopie Pants.”

“It’s a legitimate medical condition,” Briggs said.

“So where are we gonna show him off?” Lula asked.

I put the Buick in gear and pulled into traffic. “I thought we’d start on Stark Street. We can stand him in front of Buster’s building.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Lula said. “Buster could look out his window, and see Briggs, and call Poletti to come off him.”

“Cripes,” Briggs said. “Could you phrase it some other way?”

“Your problem is you don’t know how to relax,” Lula said to Briggs. “You take everything so serious.”

“You’re talking about people killing me,” Briggs said. “That’s serious!”

“Do you have your cellphone?” I asked Briggs.

“Yeah. I got my cellphone.”

“When we get to Stark Street I’m going to drop you off in front of the pizza place, and then I’m going to park, and Lula and I will take up surveillance somewhere. Keep your cellphone handy, because I’ll call you if I think you’re in danger.”

“You’re going to be close, right? I mean, you’re only accurate to ten feet.”

“No problem,” I said. “We’ll make sure you’re covered.”

“And if you have to poop,” Lula said, “you tell us so we know we can take a break. I might need a piece of pizza or a donut or something.”

“Sure. How long do I have to do this?”

“I’m thinking until someone shoots at you, or runs you over with a car,” Lula said.

I stopped in front of the pizza place, and Briggs got out. He had his cellphone in his hand, and his face was white.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”

He nodded and shuffled around a little.

“There’s a parking place on the other side of the street,” Lula said. “Go around the block and come back the other way.”

I drove around the block and parked two doors down and across the street from Briggs. He was still clutching his cellphone, and he was pacing the length of Buster’s building. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“He don’t look natural,” Lula said. “Nobody’s gonna shoot him with him looking like that.”

“We don’t want him shot,” I said. “We just want to drag Poletti out into the open.”

“I guess that’s one way to go.”

A half hour later a black SUV cruised down the street and stopped in front of Briggs and the pizza place.

“I can’t see Briggs anymore,” Lula said. “That big-ass black car is in my way.”

“Give me your gun.”

“What?”

“Your gun!”

Lula stuck her hand into her purse and rooted around. “It’s in here somewhere.”

I was out of the Buick, running across the street, when the SUV took off. No Briggs on the sidewalk. I ran back to the Buick, jumped behind the wheel, and roared after the SUV.

“They’ve got him,” I said to Lula. “Have you found your gun yet?”

“I might have left it in my other purse. At the last minute I decided to wear these purple shoes, and you know how important it is to coordinate properly.”

I have two purses. One is a messenger bag I use every day. The other is a little evening bag I use three times a year. They’re both black.

The Buick has no pickup, but once it gets rolling it’s a tank. I was half a block behind the SUV when it stopped for a light. I rammed the Buick into the back of the SUV, bouncing it halfway into the intersection. One of the doors opened on the
passenger side, and Briggs was tossed out. The light changed, and the crumpled SUV drove off.

Lula and I got out and picked Briggs up off the road.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“No thanks to you. I just got kidnapped.”

“Was it Poletti?”

“No. It was two whacked-out guys who said they always wanted to kidnap a midget. I mean, what the heck is wrong with this world? What has it come to?”

“Did you explain to them you aren’t a midget no more?” Lula asked. “That you are a very short person now?”

“No. I punched one of them in the nuts, and he threw me out of the car. I thought you were supposed to be protecting me. Suppose that was Poletti?”

“Hey, she crashed into that car for you,” Lula said. “She didn’t even care about damaging her own personal property.”

We all looked at the Buick. Not a scratch on it. The Buick is invincible.

Cars were pulling around us, beeping their horns. Briggs was giving them the finger.

“We should get in the car,” Lula said. “Not a good idea for a little white man to be giving the finger to people in this neighborhood.”

I drove us the length of Stark and turned left at State Street. I cut through town and took a small detour to check out Ranger’s building. The street was still cordoned off and filled with emergency vehicles. My heart stuttered in my chest, and a chill ripped through me. I circled the block and continued on to the
bail bonds office. I dropped Lula off and brought Briggs back to my apartment.

“I thought we were going to your parents’ house for dinner,” he said. “Why are we here?”

“I have to change my clothes. I’m going to Mrs. Poletti’s viewing after dinner, and I can’t go in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Why not?”

“It would be disrespectful. And my mother would hear about it, and she’d yell at me and get out the ironing. She irons when she’s upset. You want to stay away from her when she’s ironing.”

“If you ask me, your whole family is goofy.”

“I like to think we’re normally dysfunctional.”

I set Briggs in front of the television, then changed into a tailored black suit and a stretchy white tanktop with a scoop neck. I stuffed my feet into black heels, brushed my hair out and pulled it up into a new ponytail, added an extra swipe of mascara to my lashes, and I was good to go.

“Well, la-di-da,” Briggs said when he saw me. “Look at you all dressed up. If Poletti comes after me, you can spear him with the heel on your shoe.”

GRANDMA WAS WEARING
shocking pink lipstick, a shocking pink dress, and white tennis shoes.

“You’re right on time,” she said, opening the front door and motioning us inside. “We’re having beer with the meal, but you could have a snort now if you need it.”

“Sounds good,” Briggs said. “I wouldn’t mind a cocktail. What have you got?”

“We got whiskey,” Grandma said. “I could fancy it up with ice, or you could take it like a man.”

“Whatever,” Briggs said.

Grandma ran off to get the whiskey, and I wandered into the living room with Briggs. My father was in his chair, watching television and doing the Jumble.

“Oh jeez,” he said when he looked up and saw Briggs. “You again.”

“It’s always a delight to see you, sir,” Briggs said.

“Boy, you really want that chocolate cake bad,” I said to Briggs.

“Fuckin’ A,” Briggs said.

Grandma trotted in with a tumbler of whiskey for Briggs. Briggs looked at the glass, looked at my father, and belted back half the whiskey. He gasped, and choked, and his eyes watered.

“Good,” Briggs said. “Smooth.”

Grandma and I helped my mother get the food to the table, and we all took our seats.

“God bless,” my father said, offloading half a cow onto his plate. He added a mound of mashed potatoes and four green beans, then poured gravy over everything. My father never got the memo about red meat, colonoscopies, or heart disease. His philosophy was that if you never went to the doctor, you never found out there was something wrong with you. So far it was working for him.

“This is delicious,” Briggs said to my mother, taking the pot roast for a test drive. “How do you get the gravy to look black like this?”

“She burns the meat,” Grandma said. “That’s the secret to good gravy. It’s got to be full of them carcinogens.”

Briggs gulped down the rest of his whiskey, looked at me, and mouthed “Help.”

“Just keep thinking about the cake,” I told him.

“This is going to be a real good viewing,” Grandma said. “There’s going to be lots of people there. We have to go early to get a good seat up front.”

My father kept his head down, working on his pot roast. And Briggs scraped the gravy off his potatoes.

“I hear they had to scramble to get a good casket for poor Mrs. Poletti,” Grandma said. “Nobody made arrangements ahead of time. Can you imagine? I got my casket all picked out. I’ve got it on the layaway plan. It’s a beauty. It’s got a white silk lining and everything.”

My father kept eating, but his knuckles were turning white holding his fork.

“No, sir,” Grandma said, “I’m not going to be caught short. I’m even working on my bucket list.”

Everyone stopped eating and turned to Grandma.

“What’s on your bucket list?” I asked.

“I got six things so far,” Grandma said. “First off, I want new breasts. These ones I got are a mess. They got all flattened and droopy. Second, I want to see Ranger naked. If I can’t see him naked, I’ll settle for almost naked. Except, I sure would like to see his privates. I bet they’re a sight, and I don’t get to see a lot of privates these days.”

My mother’s face flushed, Briggs squirmed in his seat, and a piece of pot roast fell out of my father’s mouth.

“And then I want to get Joe’s Grandma Bella,” Grandma said. “She don’t scare me with her evil eye baloney. I don’t know how I’m going to get her, but I’m going to get her good. The fourth thing is I want to march in a parade. The fifth thing is I want to take down a bad guy. And the last thing is a secret.” Grandma looked over at Briggs. “How about you? Do you have a bucket list?”

“Nothing formal,” Briggs said. “Mostly I’d like to stay out of prison and not die anytime soon.”

“That’s a good start,” Grandma said.

With the exception of the boob job, my bucket list was about the same as Grandma’s. It might be fun to march in a parade, and I’d already seen Ranger naked but he was worth another look … or two or three or many. And that thought gave me a small anxiety attack. I sent him a text message that said
Talk to me
, and he texted back
Patience
.

Briggs washed his pot roast down with two beers, and I thought he looked a little glassy-eyed.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Mmmmarvelous.” And his eyes drooped closed.

“Maybe he needs some cake to perk him up,” Grandma said.

“He’s trashed,” my father said.

Grandma looked at him. “Guess he’s not so good with liquor.”

Considering he was only about three feet tall and had just chugged down a water glass of hooch plus two beers, I thought he’d done okay. If I drank all that, I’d be under the table.

I helped Grandma clear the dishes, and my mom brought the cake to the table. Briggs opened his eyes and tried to focus.

“Cake,” he said. “Cake good.”

He plowed through his piece of cake and slumped in his seat. His eyes slid closed, and a little chocolate drool oozed from the side of his mouth.