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“I don't want them following me.”
“Well, that's easy.” She took a .45 out of her desk drawer. “I'll just shoot out a couple tires.”
“No! No shooting!”
“You always got all these rules,” Lula said.
Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “How about the burning bag thing?”
We swiveled our heads in his direction.
“Usually you do it as a gag on somebody's front porch,” Vinnie said. “You put some dog shit in a bag. Then you put the bag on the sucker's front porch and ring the bell. Then you set the bag on fire and run like hell. When the mark opens the door he sees the bag burning and stomps on it to put it out.”
“And?”
“And then he gets dog shit all over his shoe,” Vinnie said. “If you did it to these guys and they got dog shit all over their shoes they'd be distracted, and you could drive away.”
“Only we haven't got a front porch,” Lula said.
“Use your imagination!” Vinnie said. “You put it just behind the car. Then you sneak away and someone from the office here yells out at them that something's burning under their car.”
“I kinda like the sound of that,” Lula said. “Only thing is, we need some dog poop.”
We all turned our attention to Bob.
Connie took a brown paper lunch bag from her bottom drawer. “I've got a bag and you can use the empty chicken bucket as a pooper-scooper.”
I snapped the leash on Bob, and Lula and Bob and I went out the back door and walked around some. Bob tinkled about forty times, but he didn't have any contributions for the bag.
“He don't look motivated,” Lula said. “Maybe we should take him over to the park.”
The park was only two blocks away, so we walked Bob to the park and stood around waiting for him to answer nature's call. Only nature wasn't calling Bob's name.
“You ever notice how when you don't want dog poop it just seems to be everywhere?” Lula said. “And now when we want some . . .” Her eyes opened wide. “Hold the phone. Dog at twelve o'clock. And it's a big one.”
Sure enough, someone else was walking their dog in the park. The dog was big and black. The old woman at the other end of the leash was small and white. She was wearing low-heeled shoes and a bulky brown tweed coat, and she had her gray hair stuffed into a knit hat. She was holding a plastic bag and a paper towel in her hand. The bag was empty.
“I don't mean to blaspheme or anything,” Lula said. “But God sent us this dog.”
The dog suddenly stopped walking and hunched over, and Lula and Bob and I took off across the grass. I had Bob on the leash, and Lula was waving the chicken bucket and paper bag, and we were running full tilt when the woman looked up and saw us. The color drained from her face, and she staggered backward.
“I'm old,” she said. “I haven't got any money. Go away. Don't hurt me.”
“We don't want your money,” Lula said. “We want your poop.”
The woman choked up on the dog's leash. “You can't have the poop. I have to take the poop home. It's the law.”
“The law don't say you gotta take it home,” Lula said. “It's just somebody gotta do it. And we're volunteering.”
The big black dog stopped what he was doing and gave Bob an inquisitive sniff. Bob sniffed back, and then he looked at the old woman's crotch.
“Don't even think about it,” I said to Bob.
“I don't know if that's right,” the woman said. “I never heard of that. I think I'm supposed to take the poop home.”
“Okay,” Lula said, “we'll pay you for the poop.” Lula looked over at me. “Gi
ve her a couple bucks for her poop.”
