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Lula and I pried his hands away from Mr. Sad Sack and cuffed him behind his back.
“Wish I had a movie of you wrestlin' with this guy,” Lula said. “It reminded me of that joke about the midget at the nudist colony who kept sticking his nose in everyone's business.”
Mitchell and Habib had gotten out of their car and were standing a few feet away looking pained.
“I could feel that all the way over here,” Mitchell said. “If we get the word that we have to rough you up, I'm wearing a cup.”
Lula ran back to the house to get a blanket and lock up.
And Habib and Mitchell and I dragged Munson over to the Buick. When Lula got back we wrapped Munson up, tossed him into the backseat and drove him to the police station on North Clinton. We took him to the back entrance, which had a drive-in.
“Just like McDonald's,” Lula said. “Except we're dropping off instead of picking up.”
I rang the buzzer and identified myself. A moment later Carl Costanza opened the back door and looked over at the Buick. “Now what?” he said.
“I have a body in the backseat. Morris Munson. FTA.”
Carl stared into the car window and grinned. “He's naked.”
I blew out a sigh. “You aren't going to give me a hard time with this, are you?”
“Hey, Juniak,” Costanza yelled, “come take a look at this naked guy. Guess who he belongs to!”
“Okay,” Lula said to Munson, “end of the line. You can get out now.”
“No,” Munson said, “I'm not getting out.”
“The hell you aren't,” Lula said.
Juniak and two other cops joined Costanza at the door. Everyone was grinning dopey cop grins.
“Sometimes I think this is a really crappy job,” one of the cops said. “But then there are other times when you get to see stuff like this, and it makes it all worthwhile. Why's the naked guy got a plastic bag on his foot?”
“I shot him,” I said.
Costanza and Juniak exchanged glances. “I don't want to know about it,” Costanza said. “I didn't hear anything.”
Lula gave Munson her junkyard-dog look. “You don't haul your bony white carcass out of this car, I'm coming back there.”
“Fuck you,” Munson said. “Fuck your fat ass.”
The cops all sucked in a breath and took a step backward.
“That does it,” Lula said. “You put me in a bad mood now. You went and wrecked my good disposition. I'm gonna come back there and root you out like the little pencil-dick rodent you are.” She heaved herself out of the car and wrenched the back door open.
And Munson jumped out of the car.
I wrapped the blanket around him, and we all shuffled into the police station, except for Lula, who has a phobia about police stations. She backed out of the drive-in, found a space in the lot, and parked.
I cuffed Munson to the bench by the docket lieutenant, handed my paperwork in, and got my body receipt. Next on my list of
things to do was visit Brian Simon.
I was on my way to the third floor when Costanza stopped me. “If you're looking for Simon, don't bother. He took off the instant he heard you were here.” He gave me the once-over. “I don't want to be insulting, or anything, but you look like hell.”
I was dusty from head to foot, the knee was torn out of my Levi's, my hair was in the throes of a very bad day, and then there was the pimple.
“You look like you haven't slept in days,” Costanza said.
