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I took my gun out of my shoulder bag. “I'm sort of out of bullets,” I said to Connie. “You have any extras lying around?”
Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. “You're putting bullets in your gun? Did I hear right? What's the occasion?”
“I have bullets in my gun a lot,” I said, eyes narrowed, feeling testy. “In fact, just last night I shot someone.”
There was a collective gasp.
“Who'd you shoot?” Lula asked.
“Morris Munson. He broke into my apartment.”
Vinnie rushed over. “Where is he? Is he dead? You didn't get him in the back, did you? I keep telling everyone—not in the back!”
“I didn't shoot him in the back. I shot him in the foot.”
“So? Where is he?”
“Omigod,” Lula said. “You shot him in the foot with your last bullet, didn't you? You blew off a little piggy and ran out of bullets.” She shook her head. “Don't you just hate when that happens?”
Connie returned from the back room with a box of bullets. “You sure you want these?” she asked me. “You don't look too good. I don't know if it's a good idea to give a woman a box of bullets when she's got a pimple.”
I put four rounds in my gun, and dropped the box into my shoulder bag. “I'll be fine.”
“This here's a woman with a plan,” Lula said.
This here was a woman with a hangover who just wanted to get through the day.
Halfway to Munson's house on Rockwell Street I pulled to the curb and threw up. Habib and Mitchell grimaced behind me.
“Must have been some night,” Lula said.
“I don't want to think about it.” And that was more than just an expression. I really didn't want to think about it. I mean, what the hell was this thing going on between me and Ranger? I must be crazy! And I couldn't believe I'd actually sat drinking bourbon and hot chocolate with Grandma. I'm no good at drinking. I get drunk on two bottles of beer. I felt like my brain had been beamed into outer space and my body had been left behind.
I drove another quarter-mile and pulled into the McDonald's drive-through for my never-fail hangover remedy: french fries and a Coke.
“As long as we're here I might as well get a little something, too,” Lula said. “Egg McMuffin, breakfast fries, chocolate shake, and a Big Mac,” she yelled across me.
I felt myself go green. “That's a snack?”
“Yeah, you're right,” she said. “Hold the breakfast fries.”
The guy in the drive-through window handed me the bag of food and looked into the Buick's backseat. “Where's your dog?”
“Home.”
“Too bad. That was pretty cool last time. Lady, that was a mountain of—”
I stepped on the gas and took off. By the time we got to Munson's house the food
was gone, and I felt much better.
“What makes you think this dude's come back here?” Lula asked.
“Just a feeling I have. He needed to bandage his foot and get a new pair of shoes. If it was me, I'd go home to do those things. And it was late at night. Since I was already in my house I'd want to sleep in my own bed.”
We couldn't tell anything from the outside of his house. The windows were dark. No sign of life inside. I drove around the block and took the alley to the garage. Lula jumped out and looked in the garage window.
“He's here, all right,” she said, climbing back into Big Blue. “At least, his wreck of a car is here.”
