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It’s a short drive from my parents’ house to my apartment if you go straight to Hamilton and turn right. I chose to weave around a couple blocks, cross Chambers, and drive past Morelli’s house. I prefer not to think too hard about why I was doing this. I suppose I miss Morelli. Or maybe I wanted to make sure he wasn’t having a party without me. No matter the reason, I found myself slowly driving by, looking at the house, feeling some desire to go inside. The green SUV was parked at the curb. Morelli was home. I continued to creep down the street, and the decision to stop or not was settled by momentum. Morelli’s house was behind me. Probably not a good time to visit anyway, since I’d have to explain why Ranger gave me a new Mercedes SUV as an indefinite loaner.
The parking lot to my apartment building was almost full when I pulled in. It was approaching dinnertime and the seniors and hardworking couples living here were watching sitcom reruns and cooking pasta. I parked in a far corner, where hopefully no one would ding my car, and I jogged into the building, up the stairs, and down the hall. Rex was on his wheel when I swept into the kitchen. He stopped running and looked at me with his whiskers whirring and his black eyes shiny bright. I gave him a piece of cheese, and he rushed into his soup can to eat it. So much for pet interaction.
I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich and washed it down with my last beer. I wasn’t sure if olives were fruit or vegetable, but they were green, and they were as close as I was going to get to a salad. I wanted to look normal, so I didn’t change into the all-black commando deal. I was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt and sneakers, and I thought that was okay. I had time to kill, so I spruced up my eyeliner and added more mascara. I arranged the lipsticks in my junk makeup drawer, and I brushed my teeth. I sprawled on my bed to think, and woke up with a start at twenty minutes to seven.
I grabbed my shoulder bag and did a fast inventory. My stun gun was registering low battery. No point taking it with me. Pepper spray was empty. Throw it away. That left my gun and Pip’s bottle. I spun the barrel on the gun. Two bullets. Better than none, right? I didn’t want to use my gun anyway. Still, I should make a note to buy more bullets.
I shrugged into a hooded sweatshirt, locked my apartment, and ran to the car. I stopped at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on my way to the office and got two giant-size buckets of extra crispy chicken. Hold the coleslaw and biscuits.
Connie and Lula were already milling around on the sidewalk when I arrived. Lula was holding the box of stink bombs, and Connie had the rocket launcher and two tote bags. I parked behind Connie’s Camry and realized I was going to have to make a car decision. If we took the Mercedes, I’d have Rangeman backing me up, but I’d also have witnesses to the whole ridiculous scheme. Push for the Camry, I thought. Best not to have witnesses. I got out with my chicken buckets and beeped the SUV locked.
SEVENTEEN
LULA PERKED UP at the sight of the chicken. “That smells like extra crispy,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”
“I bought it for Mr. Jingles,” I told her. “We’re going to use it to lure him away from the money.”
“Mr. Jingles won’t mind one less piece,” Lula said.
“You’re the one who’s going to be leading him away with the chicken,” I told her. “You don’t want to smell like extra crispy.”
“In that case, you got a point,” Lula said. “I’ll pass on the chicken.”
“I think we should take the Camry,” I said to Connie. “It’s the least memorable of the cars.”
“I agree,” Connie said.
We put all the equipment in the backseat with me, and Connie headed for Chopper’s apartment. She drove down Cotter Street, pausing in front of the plumbing supply warehouse. Lights were off. No cars parked in front. Locked up for the night. We looked up at Chopper’s windows. No sign of activity. Connie drove around the block and turned into the alley. She sat at idle behind Chopper’s apartment, and we all took a couple deep breaths. I stuck my gun in my jeans, and I took one of Connie’s tote bags.
“Here’s what I think we should do,” I said. “Connie will stay in the car for a fast getaway, and Lula and I will go into the apartment. I gather up the money, and Lula keeps Mr. Jingles busy with the chicken. Simple, right?”
“Yeah, as long as Mr. Jingles likes extra crispy,” Lula said.
Lula and I got out of the Camry and scurried across the yard and up the stairs. I found the key, opened the door, and stuck my head in.
“Hello?” I called.
No answer. Also no sound of alligator yawning, alligator running, or alligator sniffing out food.
I crept in and looked around. No stacks of money sitting out on the kitchen counter, dining table, end table. And still no sign of alligator, although the apartment smelled gamey. I walked farther into the apartment and there he was . . . over six feet of alligator behind the couch that sat in the middle of the room. His eyes were open, and he was looking at me.
“G-g-g-gator,” I whispered to Lula.
“I see him,” Lula said. “Where you want to go first? You want me to get him to the side of the room so you can look in the bedroom?”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
“Fetch,” Lula said. And she threw a piece of chicken across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a big grease splotch on the wall.
Mr. Jingles swiveled his head toward the chicken but didn’t move.
“What the heck kind of gator is this?” Lula said. “This here’s Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken. You don’t let Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken hit the floor and lay there. This here’s extra crispy.”
“Throw one closer.”
She threw a piece right at him. It hit him in the head and bounced off. Snap, he ate it.
“Did you see that?” Lula said. “He didn’t even taste that chicken. What’s with that?”
