Sizzling Sixteen

  “How’s your foot?”

  “It’s okay. I would have got more attention if they put me in a wheelchair, but they said I would have to rent one of those, and I already spent my social security check. Bitsy Kurharchek has some crutches she said I could borrow, and I might use them for tomorrow night. It’s gonna be a big night. Burt Pickeral finally died. He was old as dirt, but he was a royal magoo in the Elks lodge. All the Elks will be there, and all the Pickerals.”

  “Do you know the Pickerals?”

  “I know some of them.”

  “Do you know Lenny?”

  “No, but the name rings a bell. He might be Ralph’s boy. There’s a mess of Pickerals.”

  I stopped for a light, pulled the Pickeral file out of my bag, and showed Grandma my file photo of Lenny Pickeral, the toilet paper bandit.

  “He looks familiar,” Grandma said, “but then all them Pickerals sort of look alike. What’s he done?”

  “Petty theft.”

  “That’s not so interesting, but I’ll keep my eye open for him anyway,” Grandma said.

  I pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house and made sure Grandma got through the front door.

  A WHILE BACK, Morelli’s Aunt Rose died and left him her house. It’s a two-story row house with basically the same floor plan as my parents’ house. Living room, dining room, kitchen on the ground floor. Plus, Morelli added a half bath. Three small bedrooms and bath on the second floor. Morelli has slowly been working at making the house his own, but some of Rose remains, and I think that’s nice. Morelli lives there with his big, shaggy, orange dog, Bob, and truth is, Morelli has become surprisingly domesticated . . . although the domestication doesn’t seem to extend to the bedroom.

  It’s a short drive from my parents’ house to my apartment if you go straight to Hamilton and turn right. I chose to weave around a couple blocks, cross Chambers, and drive past Morelli’s house. I prefer not to think too hard about why I was doing this. I suppose I miss Morelli. Or maybe I wanted to make sure he wasn’t having a party without me. No matter the reason, I found myself slowly driving by, looking at the house, feeling some desire to go inside. The green SUV was parked at the curb. Morelli was home. I continued to creep down the street, and the decision to stop or not was settled by momentum. Morelli’s house was behind me. Probably not a good time to visit anyway, since I’d have to explain why Ranger gave me a new Mercedes SUV as an indefinite loaner.

  The parking lot to my apartment building was almost full when I pulled in. It was approaching dinnertime and the seniors and hardworking couples living here were watching sitcom reruns and cooking pasta. I parked in a far corner, where hopefully no one would ding my car, and I jogged into the building, up the stairs, and down the hall. Rex was on his wheel when I swept into the kitchen. He stopped running and looked at me with his whiskers whirring and his black eyes shiny bright. I gave him a piece of cheese, and he rushed into his soup can to eat it. So much for pet interaction.

  I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich and washed it down with my last beer. I wasn’t sure if olives were fruit or vegetable, but they were green, and they were as close as I was going to get to a salad. I wanted to look normal, so I didn’t change into the all-black commando deal. I was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt and sneakers, and I thought that was okay. I had time to kill, so I spruced up my eyeliner and added more mascara. I arranged the lipsticks in my junk makeup drawer, and I brushed my teeth. I sprawled on my bed to think, and woke up with a start at twenty minutes to seven.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag and did a fast inventory. My stun gun was registering low battery. No point taking it with me. Pepper spray was empty. Throw it away. That left my gun and Pip’s bottle. I spun the barrel on the gun. Two bullets. Better than none, right? I didn’t want to use my gun anyway. Still, I should make a note to buy more bullets.

  I shrugged into a hooded sweatshirt, locked my apartment, and ran to the car. I stopped at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on my way to the office and got two giant-size buckets of extra crispy chicken. Hold the coleslaw and biscuits.

  Connie and Lula were already milling around on the sidewalk when I arrived. Lula was holding the box of stink bombs, and Connie had the rocket launcher and two tote bags. I parked behind Connie’s Camry and realized I was going to have to make a car decision. If we took the Mercedes, I’d have Rangeman backing me up, but I’d also have witnesses to the whole ridiculous scheme. Push for the Camry, I thought. Best not to have witnesses. I got out with my chicken buckets and beeped the SUV locked.

  SEVENTEEN

  LULA PERKED UP at the sight of the chicken. “That smells like extra crispy,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”

  “I bought it for Mr. Jingles,” I told her. “We’re going to use it to lure him away from the money.”

  “Mr. Jingles won’t mind one less piece,” Lula said.

  “You’re the one who’s going to be leading him away with the chicken,” I told her. “You don’t want to smell like extra crispy.”

  “In that case, you got a point,” Lula said. “I’ll pass on the chicken.”

  “I think we should take the Camry,” I said to Connie. “It’s the least memorable of the cars.”

  “I agree,” Connie said.

  We put all the equipment in the backseat with me, and Connie headed for Chopper’s apartment. She drove down Cotter Street, pausing in front of the plumbing supply warehouse. Lights were off. No cars parked in front. Locked up for the night. We looked up at Chopper’s windows. No sign of activity. Connie drove around the block and turned into the alley. She sat at idle behind Chopper’s apartment, and we all took a couple deep breaths. I stuck my gun in my jeans, and I took one of Connie’s tote bags.

  “Here’s what I think we should do,” I said. “Connie will stay in the car for a fast getaway, and Lula and I will go into the apartment. I gather up the money, and Lula keeps Mr. Jingles busy with the chicken. Simple, right?”

  “Yeah, as long as Mr. Jingles likes extra crispy,” Lula said.

  Lula and I got out of the Camry and scurried across the yard and up the stairs. I found the key, opened the door, and stuck my head in.

  “Hello?” I called.

  No answer. Also no sound of alligator yawning, alligator running, or alligator sniffing out food.

  I crept in and looked around. No stacks of money sitting out on the kitchen counter, dining table, end table. And still no sign of alligator, although the apartment smelled gamey. I walked farther into the apartment and there he was . . . over six feet of alligator behind the couch that sat in the middle of the room. His eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

  “G-g-g-gator,” I whispered to Lula.

  “I see him,” Lula said. “Where you want to go first? You want me to get him to the side of the room so you can look in the bedroom?”

  “Yeah, that would be good.”

  “Fetch,” Lula said. And she threw a piece of chicken across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a big grease splotch on the wall.

  Mr. Jingles swiveled his head toward the chicken but didn’t move.

  “What the heck kind of gator is this?” Lula said. “This here’s Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken. You don’t let Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken hit the floor and lay there. This here’s extra crispy.”

  “Throw one closer.”

  She threw a piece right at him. It hit him in the head and bounced off. Snap, he ate it.

  “Did you see that?” Lula said. “He didn’t even taste that chicken. What’s with that?”

  “Drop one a couple feet over.”

  “You bet,” Lula said. “Here you go, big guy. Here’s a wing.”

  The gator moved his body in slow motion, making a right turn, and then he lunged and snap. Good-bye, wing.

  “Whoa,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he can do that lunge thing. That’s like the death lunge.”

  She threw a leg close to the wall, and Mr. Jingles scrabbled after it, moving
faster, catching on to the game.

  “Hurry up and go around the other side of the couch,” Lula said to me. “Good thing we got two buckets of chicken. Mr. Jingles isn’t exactly a dainty eater.”

  I ran around the couch, keeping my eyes on Mr. Jingles. I scooted into the bedroom and shut the door. No stacks of money out in the open here, either. I went through the dresser, the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. I’ve seen drug money collected, and it’s almost always in a backpack or a gym bag. I looked in the bathroom. Very bare-bones. No drug money. I carefully opened the door and looked out. Mr. Jingles was stalking Lula around the couch. Lula was throwing chicken everywhere, and Mr. Jingles would snap it up and come back at Lula.

  “I’m running outta chicken,” Lula yelled. “What the heck am I supposed to do when I run outta chicken?”

  “How much chicken do you have left?”

  “Four pieces.”

  “Try to get him back to the other side of the room so I can get out of the bedroom.”

  “Okay, but hurry up. I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at me.”

  Lula threw a thigh across the room. Mr. Jingles gave the chunk of chicken a cursory glance and turned his attention back to Lula.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I think he’s figured out the chicken comes from the bucket.”

  “Then throw the bucket across the room. Just don’t leave me trapped here.”

  Lula whistled. “Here, boy. Nice Mr. Jingles. Go get the bucket.” Lula wound up to throw the bucket, and Mr. Jingles lunged at her. “Yow!” Lula said, staggering back, falling over the ottoman.

  The chicken bucket flew out of her hand, hit the open door, and bounced off onto the porch. Mr. Jingles rushed after the bucket, ate the bucket, ate the remaining three pieces, and lumbered down the stairs.

  I was out of the bedroom and Lula was up off the floor, and we were mouths-open, watching Mr. Jingles step onto the cement pad at the bottom of the stairs and amble across the yard to the Camry. Connie frantically powered the window up and looked at us with her what-the-fuck expression. Mr. Jingles nosed the Camry, gave Connie the eye, and waddled off down the alley.

  “This ain’t good,” Lula said. “Chopper gonna be mad you let his alligator loose.”

  “I’m not worried about Chopper. I’m worried about the dogs and cats and kids in the neighborhood.”

  “Maybe we should call the alligator police,” Lula said.

  Someone screamed half a block away.

  “Okay, I guess we don’t have to call the police,” Lula said. “And it looks like Connie’s on the phone. I don’t imagine she’s ordering pizza. We should finish up here.”

  “I can’t find the money.”

  “Maybe Chopper took it with him.”

  “That’s not the pattern.”

  We looked around the room.

  “Not a lot of places to hide a big bag of money,” Lula said.

  “The couch,” I said to her. “Mr. Jingles was always by the couch.”

  We pulled the cushions off. No money.

  “Help me lift it,” I said to Lula.

  We picked the couch up and looked under. Large duffle bag, zippered shut. Chopper had carved out part of the couch. I snagged the bag and looked inside. Lots of money.

  A car horn beeped from the alley. Connie was telling us to get out of the apartment.

  “We’re done here,” I said to Lula. “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I hear a siren. I bet it’s the alligator police.”

  I ran to the door, flew down the stairs, and jumped into the back of the Camry with Lula a hair behind me. Connie drove down the alley, and just before the cross street, we passed Mr. Jingles steadily moving along, looking like he knew where he was going.

  Connie gave an involuntary shiver. I gnawed on my lower lip. And Lula took a disposable wet paper towel from her purse and wiped chicken grease off her hands.

  “So that went well,” Lula said.

  “We let an alligator loose in the neighborhood!” I told her.

  “Yeah, but aside from that, it went well.”

  “Did you call animal control?” I asked Connie.

  “Yes. They should be here any minute.” Connie turned onto Cotter. “How much money did we get?”

  I pawed through the bag. “Rough estimate would be close to a hundred thousand. Might be more.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Lula said, “but it’s not enough.”

  “There should be a lot more at the funeral home,” Connie said. “I’m guessing that’s a major collection point.”

  I leaned forward and put my head between my knees. I wasn’t cut out for this. My mother was right. I needed a nice, boring job at the personal products factory. Maybe I should stop being a bounty hunter and marry Morelli. Of course, Morelli wasn’t sure he wanted to marry me right now, but I might be able to change his mind. I could go over to his house wearing my red thong and a good attitude and catch him at a weak moment. Then we’d get married immediately before he changed his mind. And knowing Morelli, I’d get pregnant. And it would be a boy.

  “I’m not naming him Joseph,” I said. “It’s too confusing.”

  “Who?” Lula said.

  “Did I just say that out loud?” I asked her.

  “Yeah. What the heck were you talkin’ about?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “I tell you what’s important,” Lula said. “Fried chicken. I can’t get it outta my head ever since I had to watch Mr. Jingles eat all that extra crispy. I think we need to stop at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on the way across town.”

  “We’ll stop on the way home,” Connie said. “If we don’t do the funeral home right away, I’m going to lose my nerve.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” Lula said, “but that’s the wrong attitude. That’s delayin’ pleasure, and you do that, and you might never get to the pleasure. Like, what if we get shot or arrested or something and then we can’t get to Cluck-in-a-Bucket? You see what I’m sayin’? Like, we might be dead and then there’d be no extra crispy ever again. And all because we decided to go rob some crazy drug dealer before goin’ to Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”

  I had my head back between my knees. I didn’t want to die or go to jail. And if I got out of this unscathed, I was going straight to Rangeman. I was going to strip Ranger naked and squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of him. Then I’d marry Morelli. Somewhere deep in my panic-fogged mind, I suspected this was faulty reasoning, but I couldn’t get a grip on it, what with all the nausea and inability to breathe properly.

  “Are you okay?” Connie said to me. “I can’t see you in my mirror. Where are you?”

  “Tying my shoe.”

  “We’re almost there. Let’s review the plan one last time. I’ll drive by the front so we can scope things out and drop Lula off. Then I’ll drive by the back and park someplace close. Lula will open the back door and give Stephanie cover while Stephanie finds a place to hide. Then Stephanie will put the gas mask on and wait for my all-clear signal.”

  “How are we getting the stink bomb in the funeral home with all the windows barred?” Lula wanted to know.

  “I have three jars of liquid stink,” Connie told Lula. “You’re going to have to dump them at strategic locations, and then get out before you throw up.”

  “Sure. I could do that,” Lula said.

  “You’re going to need to sneak upstairs and dump a jar in front of the counting room,” Connie said. “Then dump another at the back door and another in the front of the funeral home. Try not to get it on top of the deceased. I have the rocket launcher as backup, but it’s a last resort. We don’t want Sunflower to think he’s being attacked.”

  The funeral home looked business-as-usual when Connie rolled by. A few men in dark suits stood to the side of the front door. They were smoking and quietly talking. Several cars were parked at the curb. We dropped Lula off at the corner, and I handed her the small tote bag with the three jars.

  “Good
luck,” I said. “I’ll be waiting at the back door for you.”

  Lula walked down the sidewalk, and Connie turned into the alley and parked behind the mortuary’s Dumpster. Sunflower’s Ferrari was parked in the small lot, and a Dodge Minivan was parked next to the Ferrari. I took the large tote bag containing a respirator mask, and I walked to the back door and stood to one side. I had some butterflies in my stomach, but I was focusing now. Get the job done, I thought. Steal the money. Give it back. Save Vinnie’s miserable butt. Do some food shopping. I was making a list. Milk, bread, orange juice, beer, an apple for Rex, toilet paper, bullets.

  The back door to the funeral home creaked open and Lula looked out at me. “Show time,” she said. “Looks to me like the best place to hide is the cellar. You could stand on the stairs. Just make sure you put the mask on, ’cause I’m gonna dump stink there.”

  Lula stood in the middle of the hall, shielding me from sight, and I scooted through the cellar door and held tight two steps down. Lula closed the door, and I was in total blackness.

  Good thing I’m not claustrophobic, I thought. Or afraid of the dark. Okay, maybe I was a little claustrophobic and afraid of the dark, but I could deal. That’s what separates the men from the girls, right? The girls can deal.

  I heard muffled conversation through the door. It was flowing down the hall from the public viewing room. I put the mask on and adjusted the straps. Hard to believe I would need a mask for a stink bomb. I mean, how bad could it be? I had my cell phone in hand, waiting for Connie’s call. I checked the time by the phone. It was going on five minutes. Conversation turned loud, and people were in the hall, jostling against the cellar door, gagging and shrieking, trying to get out the back door as fast as possible. A few more minutes passed and my phone buzzed with a text message from Connie.

  GO!

  I opened the cellar door to an empty hall. Don’t fail me now, I said to my feet, and I ran the short distance to the stairs and took them two at a time. I ran into the counting room and almost fainted. The table was filled with money. It was all bundled in stacks and secured with rubber bands. More money than I’d ever seen. The tote bag was huge, but it couldn’t hold all of the money. A large duffel bag had been tossed to the floor not far from the table. I stuffed it full of the remaining bundles and still had a couple left. I stuffed them into my bra and my pants, and I hurled myself down the stairs, hanging on to the tote and the duffel. I raced down the short hall and slid to a stop at the door. I said a short prayer, opened the door, and found Connie standing there, wearing a mask.