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Lula, Grandma, my mother, and I all trooped into the kitchen and set to work.
“I don’t see any more barbecue sauce anywhere,” Grandma finally said. “The floor’s clean, the counters are clean, the stove’s clean, and the dishes and pots are clean. Only thing dirty is me, and I’m too pooped to get clean.”
“I hear you,” Lula said. “I’m goin’ home, and I’m goin’ to bed.”
I DROVE BACK to my apartment, changed into comfy worn-out flannel pajamas, and was about to settle in to watch television and bang, bang, bang. Someone was hammering on my door. I looked through the security peephole at Lula.
“I been shot at,” she said when I let her in. “I’m lucky I’m not dead. I parked in front of my house, and I got out of my car, and just as I got to my front porch, these two guys jumped out of the bushes at me. It was the guys who whacked Stanley Chipotle, and the one had a meat cleaver, and the other tried to grab me.”
“Are you serious?”
“Fuckin’ A. Don’t I look serious? I’m friggin’ shakin’. Look at my hand. Don’t it look shaky?”
We looked at her hand, but it wasn’t shaking.
“Well, it used to be shakin’,” she said. “Anyways, I hit the one asshole in the face with my pocketbook, and I kicked the other one in the nuts, and I turned and ran back to my car and took off. And one of them shot at me while I was driving away. He put bullet holes in my Firebird. I mean, I can stand for a lot of shit, but I don’t tolerate bullet holes in my Firebird. What kind of a moron would do that, anyway? It’s a Firebird, for crissake!”
“But you’re okay?”
“Hell yeah, I’m okay. Don’t I look okay? I’m just freakin’ is all. I need a doughnut or something.” She went to my kitchen and started going through cabinets. “You don’t got nothin’ in here. Where’s your Pop-Tarts? Where’s your Hostess Twinkies and shit? Where’s your Tastykakes? I need sugar and lard and some fried crap.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yeah. I called them from my car. I told them I was coming here.”
I got out my only fry pan, put a big glob of butter in it, slathered a lot of Marshmallow Fluff between two slices of worthless white bread, and fried it up for Lula.
“Oh yeah,” Lula said when she bit into the bread and Fluff. “This is what I’m talkin’ about. I feel better already. Another four or five of these, and I’m gonna be real calm.”
There was a polite knock at the door, and I opened it to two uniforms. Carl Costanza and Big Dog. I made First Communion with Carl, and Big Dog had been his partner long enough that I felt like I made communion with him, too.
“What’s up?” Carl said.
“I been shot at,” Lula said. “That’s what’s up. And before that I almost got my head chopped off. It was terrifyin’.”
Carl looked at me. “This isn’t like the time she fell in the grave and thought the devil was after her, is it?”
“Your ass,” Lula said to Carl.
“Just asking,” Carl said.
“I got bullet damage to my Firebird,” Lula told him. “It wasn’t done by no devil, either. It was done by a certified killer.”
Morelli appeared behind Carl. Morelli looked like he’d fallen asleep watching the ballgame, was jolted awake by dispatch, and reluctantly dragged his ass out to investigate. His black hair was overdue for a cut and curling along his neck in waves. His five o’clock shadow was way beyond shadow. He was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a faded navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves p
ushed up to his elbows.
“I’ll take it,” he said to Carl and Big Dog.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“I’m assigned to the Chipotle murder. Dispatch got a report of attempted murder by the same perps.”
“That’s right,” Lula said. “I almost got my head chopped off. It was the same two idiots. And the one had a meat cleaver. Just like he used on Stanley Chipotle. Biggest meat cleaver I’ve ever seen. And this one with the meat cleaver was giggling. Not normal giggling, either. It was eerie. It was like horror movie giggling.”
“Why didn’t they chop your head off?” Morelli wanted to know.
“I kicked the one in the nuts and smashed my pocketbook in the other one’s face.”
