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“I'll go with you,” Grandma said. “I want to ride in your shiny black car. I don't suppose you'd let me drive?”
My mother was at the stove. “Don't you dare let her drive. I'm holding you responsible. If she drives and gets in an accident, you're going to be the one visiting her in the nursing home.”
We went to Tasty Pastry on Hamilton. I worked there when I was in high school. Gave away my virginity there, too. Behind the eclair case, after-hours, with Morelli. I'm not sure how it happened. One minute I was selling him a cannoli and next thing I knew I was on the floor with my pants down. Morelli's always been good at talking the pants off women.
I parked in the small lot on the side of Tasty Pastry. The after-church rush was over, and the lot was empty. There were seven parking slots that went nose in to the red brick wall of the bakery, and I parked square in the middle slot.
Grandma and I went into the bakery and picked out another dozen doughnuts. Probably overkill, but better to have too many than to be doughnut deprived.
We came out of the bakery, and we were approaching Ranger's CR-V when a green Ford Explorer careened into the lot and came to a screeching halt next to us. The driver had a rubber Clinton mask over his face, and the passenger seat was occupied by the rabbit.
My heart went ka-thunk in my chest, and I got a rush of adrenaline. “Run,” I said, shoving Grandma, plunging my hand into my bag to find my gun. “Run back to the bakery.”
The guy in the rubber mask and the guy in the rabbit suit were out of the car before it stopped rolling. They rushed at Grandma and me with guns drawn and herded us between the two cars. The rubber mask guy was of average height and build. He was wearing jeans and running shoes and a Nike jacket. The rabbit was wearing the big rabbit head and street clothes.
“Against the car, and hands where I can see them,” the mask guy said.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Grandma asked. “You look like Bill Clinton.”
“Yeah, I'm Bill Clinton,” the guy said. “Get against the car.”
“I never understood that part about the cigar,” Grandma said.
“Get against the car!”
I backed against the car and my mind was racing. Cars were moving on the street in front of us, but we were hidden from sight. If I screamed I doubted I'd be heard by anyone, unless someone walked by on the sidewalk.
The rabbit got up close to me. “Thaaa id ya raa raa da haaar id ra raa.”
“What?”
“Haaar id ra raa.”
“We can't figure out what you're saying, on account of you're wearing that big stupid rabbit head,” Grandma said.
“Raa raa,” the rabbit said. “Raa raa!”
Grandma and I looked over at Clinton.
Clinton shook his head in disgust. “I don't know what he's saying, What the hell's raa raa?” he asked the rabbit.
“Haaar id ra raa.”
“Christ,” Clinton said. “Nobody can understand you. Haven't you ever tried to talk in that thing before?”
The rabbit gave Clinton a shove. “Ra raa, you fraaakin' aar ho.”
Clinton flipped the rabbit the bird.
“Jaaaark,” the rabbit said. And then he unzipped his pants and pulled out his wanger. He waggled his wanger at Clinton. And then he waggled it at Grandma and me.
“I remember them as being bigger than that,” Grandma said.
The rabbit yanked and pulled at himself and managed to get half a hard-on.
“Rogga. Ga rogga,” the rabbit said.
“I think he's trying to tell you this is a preview,” Clinton said. “Something to look forward to.”
