by Unknown
“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 re
d 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.
