Tricky Twenty-Two

  “He doesn’t like the Zeta house.”

  “Do you think there’s something evil going on there?”

  “Evil is a pretty strong word. Sometimes people say evil when they mean bad.”

  “I don’t like evil,” Lula said. “Evil gives me the creepy crawlies. I saw a movie once where a woman was possessed by a evil spirit and the woman’s head would spin around and she’d vomit up cockroaches. One day she was perfectly normal, and then bam! she’s vomiting up cockroaches. All because of this evil spirit. And in the movie that evil spirit was lurking in a house that looked sort of like the Zeta house.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Swear to God. It was like that in the movie. I might think twice about going back into the Zeta house. I’m telling you, vomiting up cockroaches isn’t on my bucket list.” Lula looked at her watch. “Where are we going next? You think it’s too early to get some egg salad?”

  We were standing in front of the administration building, looking across a large green lawn that was sprinkled with college kids walking to classes, catching Frisbees, or sprawled out napping in the sun. The new building that housed the biology department was on the other side of the lawn.

  “Globovic was a biology major,” I said to Lula. “Let’s try the biology department. Connie’s done some preliminary research for me, so I have the name of Globovic’s advisor, Stanley Pooka.”

  My cellphone buzzed with a text message from Ranger.

  Need date. Pick you up at seven. Wear sexy red dress. Bring loaded gun.

  This wasn’t wonderful. I didn’t need Ranger complicating my life right now. And I had a gun but I wasn’t sure if I had any bullets.

  “Bad news?” Lula asked.

  “Ranger needs a date, and he’s picking me up at seven.”

  “Why don’t I ever get news like that? That’s my kind of news. That man is so hot I get a flash just thinking about him.” Lula fanned herself. “I feel warm all over. I hope it’s not because I got possessed back there in the evil house.”

  “Maybe you’re warm because it’s almost eighty degrees and we’re standing in the sun.”

  “Yeah, that could be it, but if I start horkin’ up cockroaches you gotta get me to a priest.”

  We walked across the grass to the science building and took the elevator to Stanley Pooka’s third-floor office. The office door was open, and I could see a man pacing inside. He was medium height and slender, and his yellow mass of frizzed, bushed-out hair looked like it could have squirrels hiding in it. He was waving his arms and talking to himself. Hard to tell his age. Maybe in his early fifties. He was wearing what appeared to be pajama bottoms, a gray T-shirt, and a large amulet on a chain around his neck.

  “I think there’s some nutjob in Professor Pooka’s office,” Lula said.

  I moved into the doorway. “Professor Pooka?”

  He whirled around. “Yes,” he said. “Office hours are Wednesdays and Thursdays. This is Monday. Go away.”

  I introduced myself, gave him my card, and told him I was looking for Ken Globovic.

  “He isn’t here,” Pooka said. “Your card says bond enforcement. How do I know you’re really bond enforcement? Where’s your gun? Why aren’t you dressed in black leather?”

  “Honey, black leather is so yesterday’s television,” Lula said. “We don’t go with that black leather stuff no more, but I got a gun. It’s a big one, too.” Lula pawed through her purse, looking for her gun. “I know it’s in here somewhere.”

  “You’re Ken’s advisor,” I said to Pooka.

  “I was his advisor. He’s disappeared. Good riddance. He was a screwup anyway. Everyone at this school is a screwup.”

  “He belonged to Zeta,” I said.

  Pooka narrowed his eyes. “And? Are you implying something?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Just looking for answers.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong place. No one wants answers here. This school is the work of the devil.”

  “Heard that before,” Lula said.

  “Academic freedom is dead here,” Pooka said.

  “Looks to me like what they got is freedom to spank,” Lula said, still pawing around in her purse. “I can’t find my gun. I must have left it in my other purse. I changed it at the last minute on account of it wasn’t complementary with my pink sweater. I’m careful about my accessorizing.”

  “Pink is a feminist color,” Pooka said to Lula. “Are you a feminist?”

  “You bet your ass,” Lula said. “Unless I need something done that’s man’s work. Like relocating a snake. Then I’m all about bending the rules. Just ’cause I wear pink don’t mean I’m stupid. And while we’re on the subject of fashion, I have to tell you the necklace you’re wearing is excellent.”

  “It’s my power amulet,” Pooka said. “I never take it off. It’s the only protection I have from the evils of this school. To take it off would be an insult to the amulet.”

  “Yeah, and you don’t want to insult your power amulet,” Lula said. “It probably could do all kinds of shit. It might make your dick fall off. I saw an episode of South Park once where this guy drank gluten and his dick flew off.”

  “Excuse me,” I said to Pooka. “Getting back to Ken Globovic. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

  “Try talking to his girlfriend. She’s one of those activist nuts. Writes stupid things for the school paper.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Don’t know her name, but she looks like Malibu Barbie.”

  “Do you know Barbie don’t wear no underpants?” Lula said. “I bought one for my niece and that doll didn’t have no underpants. I mean, what kind of message is that to someone? She had something sort of drawn on her molded plastic butt that might have looked like underpants, but it’s not the same, you see what I’m saying? And she didn’t have no bra, either. ’Course she don’t need one on account of she’s got perky plastic titties.”

  “Anything other than the girlfriend?” I asked Pooka.

  “Talk to Avi. He’s usually in the lab down the hall. He knows everyone. All the undergrads go to him for help with their projects.”

  “He’s the wonder kid, right?” Lula asked. “I hear he’s a real cutie.”

  “Girls love him,” Pooka said. “They line up outside the lab. I think it’s his hair. He has good hair.”

  Lula and I walked down the hall to the lab.

  “I don’t see any girls here,” Lula said. “Must be a slow day for the wonder kid.”

  I’d had basic biology in high school and two semesters of microbiology in college. I’d hated every second of every class. I hated the way the labs smelled. I hated growing ick in the petri dishes, test tubes, and glass beakers. And I’d set my lab coat on fire trying to light my Bunsen burner…twice.

  A slim, nice-looking teen was perched on a stool, working at a laptop. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and running shoes. He was the only one in the lab.

  “Avi?” I asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds, and I’m looking for Ken Globovic.”

  “Everyone calls him Gobbles,” Avi said. “I haven’t seen him since he was arrested.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be hiding?”

  “No, but I suspect he’s in the area. There have been sightings of him on campus. Mostly late at night.”

  “I was told he has a girlfriend.”

  “Julie Ruley,” Avi said. “She’s really nice. I think she’s a journalism major. She came here with Gobbles a couple times.”

  “So what do you think of this Gobbles guy?” Lula asked him.

  “I like him. And I can’t see him breaking into Dean Mintner’s house without good cause, if that’s what you want to know.”

  I gave him my card and told him to call or text if Gobbles turned up.

  Three girls were loitering in the hall when we left the lab.

  “I can see why the ladies like h
im,” Lula said. “Besides being cute, he’s got a nice way about him.”

  “Charismatic.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Charismatic. Gobbles sounds like he’s charismatic too. And I could tell you who isn’t charismatic. It’s that Dean Mintner. He don’t sound like no fun at all. And if you ask me, Professor Pooka is batshit crazy.”

  “I’d like to talk to the girlfriend,” I said to Lula.

  “How’re you going to find her?”

  “The dean of students is going to help us.”

  “Oh boy, that’s gonna be a treat. You sure you don’t want to go after Billy Bacon first? Get ourselves fortified with egg salad before talking to Mr. Cranky Pants again?”

  “No. I want to get this wrapped up. If we can get one decent lead, this guy shouldn’t be hard to snag. He’s an amateur, and I’m sure the police confiscated his baseball bat. How hard can this be?”

  •••

  I looked in at Mintner and did a little finger wave. “Hi. Remember me?”

  Mintner was behind his desk. He leaned forward and squinted at me. “Yes. Now what?”

  “I was hoping you could help me find Mr. Globovic’s girlfriend, Julie Ruley.”

  “Unfortunately I know this young woman,” Mintner said. “She’s trying to turn the school paper into the Enquirer. Everything is a crusade. It’s all so sensational. And she has tattoos.”

  “Well, that’s a sin against nature right there,” Lula said.

  “Exactly,” Mintner said. He focused on Lula. “Are you being sarcastic? Do you have tattoos?”

  “I don’t have any tattoos on account of they don’t show up that good on my fabulous dark chocolate skin. And yeah, I’m being sarcastic as hell.”

  Mintner mumbled something that I thought might have sounded like dumb bitch and turned to his computer. He typed in Julie Ruley, and moments later printed out her class schedule and dorm address.

  “After classes she’s most likely at the newspaper office,” Mintner said. “I’m helping you because Globovic is a menace. He needs to be found and taken off the streets.”

  “You bet your ass,” Lula said. “And we’re the ladies who are gonna do it.”

  I took the printout and thanked Mintner. I picked up a campus map on the way out of the building and studied it. The newspaper office wasn’t listed, but I guessed it would be either in the journalism department or in the student center. According to Julie Ruley’s schedule she was currently in a twentieth-century literature class in the Steinart building. No doubt doing an in-depth comparison of James Joyce’s Ulysses with Harry Potter.

  “She’s in class now,” I said to Lula. “Then she’s free for the afternoon. Since we don’t know what she looks like, beyond being Malibu Barbie with tattoos, I guess we should try the newspaper office after lunch.”

  FOUR

  K STREET IS in a sketchy part of town. Not nearly as bad as the blighted blocks of upper Stark, but bad enough that you want to keep your eyes open for big mutant rats and drugged-out old men. Mixed in with the rats and the dopers are decent citizens, illegal immigrants, human traffickers, and runaway kids. Billy Bacon fit somewhere between a decent citizen and a mutant rat. He was six foot three inches tall and weighed upwards of 250 pounds. How he’d managed to get down a chimney, even with the bacon grease, was a miracle. The fact that he’d made it half a block with his pockets jammed full of money and jewelry and his clothes soaked in bacon grease put him in the realm of folk hero on K Street. He was forty-three years old, single, and according to his bond agreement he lived with his mother, Eula.

  “His mistake was using bacon grease,” Lula said. “First off, it’s a waste of good grease when there’s other things not so tasty. If he’d greased himself up with motor oil, the dogs wouldn’t have tracked him down. ’Course the grease was there for the taking on account of he worked the grill at Mike’s Burger Place on K and Main. They collect bacon grease by the barrel from their bacon burgers.”

  Lula cruised down K Street and idled across from the three-story redbrick graffiti-riddled building where Billy and his mother lived. We’d been here before, looking for Billy, with no luck.

  “Problem is, he’s a popular guy,” Lula said. “He fried up a good burger, and he was taking care of his momma. I knew his momma from years ago when she was a prime ’ho. Everybody knew she gave one of the best BJs around, but then she got some lip fungus on all her lips, if you know what I mean, and her business kind of fell apart. She was down to doing hand jobs and then she got the arthritis. I hear just about the only thing she can do with her hand now is lift a liquor bottle. Billy said he turned to stealing so he could afford the meds for his momma’s fungus. It’s kind of noble when you think about it.”

  “It wasn’t noble. It was stupid. Now he’s going to jail and his mother will have no one. Not to mention I have serious doubts he was stealing to pay for meds. Last time he got busted he said he’d hijacked twenty cases of Jack Daniel’s because he needed to cauterize a bite he got from a rabid dog.”

  “Twenty cases sounds excessive,” Lula said.

  The front door to the brick building opened, and Billy Bacon walked out.

  “Holy cats,” Lula said. “That’s Billy Bacon. It’s like he was waiting for us to come along and arrest him.”

  Billy Bacon spotted us in the car and took off at a run up the sidewalk.

  “He moves pretty good for a big man,” Lula said, “but he don’t move as fast as my Firebird.”

  She gave the Firebird some gas, and just as the car jumped forward Billy Bacon attempted to cross the street. Whump! Lula punted Billy Bacon about twenty feet.

  “Oops,” Lula said.

  We got out and looked down at Billy Bacon.

  “Are you okay?” Lula asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I feel dazed. You hit me with your car.”

  “You were born dazed,” Lula said. “And you better hope you didn’t put a scratch in my Firebird. I just had it detailed.”

  Billy Bacon lurched to his feet and looked himself over. “I might have a skinned knee or something. You got insurance?”

  “What we got is a pair of handcuffs,” Lula said.

  I went to cuff him, and he swatted me away. “I don’t want to go to jail. I got things to do.”

  “Like what?” Lula asked him.

  “Like lunch.”

  “We’re going for lunch soon as we get you trussed up,” Lula said. “We’re going for egg salad.”

  “I might go with you if you buy me a sandwich,” Bacon said. “I want ham and cheese. And I want a bag of chips. And not the little bag neither.”

  I cuffed him and got him settled into the backseat, and Lula drove us the two blocks to the deli.

  “I want a egg salad sandwich on worthless white bread,” Lula said. “Make sure they pile on lots of egg salad. And then I want a tub of their potato salad, and a tub of their macaroni salad. And I’ll take a large Diet Coke.”

  I left Lula parked at the curb, ran into the deli, and put my order in. Five minutes later I came out and Lula was gone. I looked up and down the street. No Lula. I called her cellphone. No Lula.

  Crap.

  I waited five minutes and called Lula’s cell again. Nothing. I called Ranger and told him Lula had disappeared with my FTA, and I needed a ride.

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And he hung up.

  Ten minutes later Ranger’s shiny black Porsche 911 Turbo rolled to a stop in front of the deli. Ranger can’t be bothered with anything as trivial as matching his clothes, so he only wears black. Today he was in the standard Rangeman uniform of black shirt with logo and black cargo pants. His skin is flawless, his hair is soft and sexy and cut short, his body is hard muscle and perfect, his eyes are dark brown and unreadable. His past is murky, and he’s made it known that his future doesn’t involve marriage. It’s the present that worries me, because I get damp when I sit next to him, and damp with Ranger isn’t good. Damp could turn into a flash flood. I know this
for a fact. It’s happened. Unfortunately it’s wowie kazowie! at the moment of liftoff and disaster the day after.

  I find it hard to emotionally disentangle after we’ve been romantic. I suspect Ranger doesn’t have this problem. I think I might fall into the category of pet for Ranger. He’s fond of me. He’s protective. I amuse him. Beyond that, I’m not sure.

  I slid onto the passenger seat, put the bag of food on the floor, and buckled myself in.

  “I’m worried about Lula. She’s not answering her phone. We had Billy Bacon cuffed and sitting in the backseat, and I went into the deli for food. When I came out she was gone.”

  Ranger glanced down at the bag. “I think we can safely assume she didn’t leave voluntarily, since you have the food. I can’t see Lula walking away from lunch.”

  “Maybe you could have your guys keep their eyes open for her.”

  Ranger provides high-end, specialized security to individuals and businesses willing to pay his price. Rangeman cars are in constant motion around town, checking on accounts, responding to service calls, always plugged into the command center at the Rangeman building.

  Ranger called in the request to look for Lula, and we parked across from Billy Bacon’s building. We watched the street. No Lula. No Billy Bacon.

  “Stay here,” Ranger said. “I’ll check inside.”

  Ten minutes later Ranger reappeared and walked to the car.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “They aren’t in there. I spoke to the super, walked through four apartments, and talked to your FTA’s mother. I’ll spare you the details.”

  “Was his mother helpful?”

  “His mother was passed out on the couch.”

  I opened the deli bag, took out the turkey club I’d gotten for myself, and gave half to Ranger.

  “Billy’s never been an especially violent guy,” Ranger said. “Maybe he took off with Lula to have a nooner.”

  I couldn’t see Lula choosing sex over egg salad, but I suppose it was possible. I tried her phone again. No answer.

  Ranger finished eating and pulled into traffic. “Let’s cruise down to Mike’s.”