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Turley unzipped his pants and reached inside.
“Hold it right there,” Lula said. “I got a stun gun here, and you pull anything out of your pants, I’ll zap you.”
Next thing there was a zzzzt from the stun gun and Junior Turley was on the floor with his tool hanging out.
“Whoa, Nellie,” Lula said, staring down at Junior.
“Yep,” Grandma said. “He’s got a big one. All them Turleys is
hung like horses. Not that I know firsthand, except for Junior. And maybe Junior’s Uncle Runt. I saw him take a leak outside the Polish National Hall one time, and it was like he had hold of a fire hose. I tell you, for a little guy, he had a real good-size wanger.”
“We need to get that thing back in his pants before we drag him out of here,” I said.
“I’ll do it,” Grandma said.
“I think you done enough,” Lula said. “You’re the one encouraged him to take it out in the first place.”
They looked over at me.
“No, no, no,” I said. “Not me. No way, Jose. I’m not touching it.”
“Maybe we could drag him out facedown,” Lula said. “Then no one would see. All’s we have to do is flip him over.”
That seemed like an okay plan, so we rolled him over, and I finished cuffing him. Then Lula took a foot, and I took a foot, Grandma got the door, and we hauled him out of the ladies’ room.
All conversation stopped when we dragged Junior through the lobby. It was like everyone inhaled at precisely the same time and the air all got sucked out of the room. Halfway across the oriental carpet, Junior’s eyes popped open, his body went rigid, and he let out a shriek.
“Yow!” Junior yelled, flopping around like a fish out of water, wrangling himself over onto his back. He had a huge erection and a bad case of rug burn.
“I gotta tell you, I’m impressed,” Lula said, checking out Junior’s stiffy. “And I don’t impress easy.”
“It’s a pip,” Grandma said.
It was a pip and a half. I was going to have nightmares.
By now, the funeral director was hovering over Junior, hands clasped to his chest, face red enough to be in stroke range. “Do something,” he pleaded. “Call the police. Call the paramedics. Get him out of here!”
“No problemo,” I said. “Sorry about the disturbance.”
Lula and I pulled Junior to his feet and muscled him to the door. We got him outside, onto the porch, and he kicked Lula.
“Hey,” Lula said, bending over. “That hurts.”
He gave Lula a shove, she grabbed me by my sweatshirt, and Lula and I went head-over-teakettle down the wide front stairs.
“Adios,” Junior yelled. And he ran away into the night.
I was flat on my back on the sidewalk. My jeans had a tear in the knee, my arm was scraped and bleeding, and I was worried my ass was broken. I went to hands and knees and slowly dragged myself up to a semivertical position.
Lula crawled to her feet after me. “I’m surprised he could run with that monster boner,” she said. “I swear, if it was two inches longer, it’d be draggin’ on the ground.”
I DROPPED GRANDMA off at my parents’ house, drove to my building, parked, and limped to my apartment. I flipped the light on, locked the door behind me, and said hello to Rex. Rex was working up a sweat running on his wheel, beady black eyes blazing bright. I dropped a couple raisins into his cage and my phone rang.
“Myra Baronowski’s daughter has a good job in the bank,” my mother said. “And Margaret Beedle’s daughter is an accountant. She works in an office like a normal human being. Why do I have a daughter who drags aroused men through funeral parlors? I had fourteen phone calls before your grandmother even got home.”
The Burg has a news pipeline that makes CNN look like chump change.
“I think it must have happened when he got rug burn,” I told my mother. “He didn’t have an erection when I cuffed him in the ladies’ room.”
