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“That’s disgusting,” Lula said. “You need to show some respect and act like professional car washers. And get your head out of my window.”
“I think me and my boys need to show you what we got and maybe we teach you some respect.”
Lula pulled her Glock out of her purse and stuck it in his face.
“You got ten seconds before I blow your nose off,” Lula said.
“Yow, momma!” the guy said.
They all turned and ran, and Lula squeezed off six rounds, managing to miss all of the car washers at pretty much point-blank range.
“Hunh,” Lula said, rolling her window up and driving out of the lot. “They don’t make these guns like they used to. I can’t believe I didn’t hit a single one of those fools.”
Next stop was the pawnshop. Lula parked on the street, and we got out and looked around. There was an apartment above the shop, but so far as we knew, it wasn’t owned by Sunflower. A consignment store was to one side of the pawnshop and a pizza place was to the other side.
“This doesn’t look promising,” I said to Lula, “but I’m going to go in and scope it out.”
“Who am I?” Lula wanted to know. “Am I good cop or bad cop?”
“You’re nothing. There’s no cop. We’re just browsing and leaving.”
“No problemo. I can do that. I’m a excellent browser.”
We went inside the pawnshop, Lula walked up to the counter, looked in the display case, and called the pawnshop guy over.
“It’s not like I need the money or anything, but I was wondering how much I could get for this ring I got on,” Lula said. “As you could see, it’s got a ruby in the middle with some diamond chips around the edge. And it’s in a genuine gold setting.”
“Is that a real stone?” he asked her.
“You bet your ass it’s real. A gentleman gave me this ring for certain favors. He bought it for his wife but decided I earned it.”
“I don’t suppose you have any documentation. Like an appraisal.”
“Say what?”
“I guess I could give you forty-five.”
“Forty-five hundred?” Lula asked.
“No, just forty-five. Cripes, lady, what do I look like, a sap?”
“No, you look kinda hot,” Lula said, leaning her boobs on the counter. “What have you got in that back room, sugar?”
“There’s no back room. Just a bathroom that even I won’t use.”
“Movin’ on,” Lula said. And she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the pawnshop.
Ten minutes later, we were idling in front of Sunflower’s garage on lower Stark. It was a one-story cinder-block structure with three bays, all doors open.
“I can’t see them keeping Vinnie here,” I said to Lula. “There are too many people around, and there’s no space to hide someone.”
Next stop was the topless bar. The neon sign was flashing, and electronic dance music dribbled out the open door. A wasted guy in a baggy white T-shirt leaned against the graffiti-covered building, smoking. He looked at us through slitted eyes, and Lula drove on.
“Nothing but trouble there,” she said.
We parked in front of the mortuary and stared at the building. Brown brick, two stories. Upper windows were blacked out. There was a magenta-and-black awning over the door, and MELON FUNERAL PARLOR was written on the awning.
“I don’t know what’s more depressing,” Lula said, “this dreary-ass funeral home or a titty bar in the morning.”
