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“Drop one a couple feet over.”
“You bet,” Lula said. “Here you go, big guy. Here’s a wing.”
The gator moved his body in slow motion, making a right turn, and then he lunged and snap. Good-bye, wing.
“Whoa,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he can do that lunge thing. That’s like the death lunge.”
She threw a leg close to the wall, and Mr. Jingles scrabbled after it, moving
faster, catching on to the game.
“Hurry up and go around the other side of the couch,” Lula said to me. “Good thing we got two buckets of chicken. Mr. Jingles isn’t exactly a dainty eater.”
I ran around the couch, keeping my eyes on Mr. Jingles. I scooted into the bedroom and shut the door. No stacks of money out in the open here, either. I went through the dresser, the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. I’ve seen drug money collected, and it’s almost always in a backpack or a gym bag. I looked in the bathroom. Very bare-bones. No drug money. I carefully opened the door and looked out. Mr. Jingles was stalking Lula around the couch. Lula was throwing chicken everywhere, and Mr. Jingles would snap it up and come back at Lula.
“I’m running outta chicken,” Lula yelled. “What the heck am I supposed to do when I run outta chicken?”
“How much chicken do you have left?”
“Four pieces.”
“Try to get him back to the other side of the room so I can get out of the bedroom.”
“Okay, but hurry up. I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at me.”
Lula threw a thigh across the room. Mr. Jingles gave the chunk of chicken a cursory glance and turned his attention back to Lula.
“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I think he’s figured out the chicken comes from the bucket.”
“Then throw the bucket across the room. Just don’t leave me trapped here.”
Lula whistled. “Here, boy. Nice Mr. Jingles. Go get the bucket.” Lula wound up to throw the bucket, and Mr. Jingles lunged at her. “Yow!” Lula said, staggering back, falling over the ottoman.
The chicken bucket flew out of her hand, hit the open door, and bounced off onto the porch. Mr. Jingles rushed after the bucket, ate the bucket, ate the remaining three pieces, and lumbered down the stairs.
I was out of the bedroom and Lula was up off the floor, and we were mouths-open, watching Mr. Jingles step onto the cement pad at the bottom of the stairs and amble across the yard to the Camry. Connie frantically powered the window up and looked at us with her what-the-fuck expression. Mr. Jingles nosed the Camry, gave Connie the eye, and waddled off down the alley.
“This ain’t good,” Lula said. “Chopper gonna be mad you let his alligator loose.”
“I’m not worried about Chopper. I’m worried about the dogs and cats and kids in the neighborhood.”
“Maybe we should call the alligator police,” Lula said.
Someone screamed half a block away.
“Okay, I guess we don’t have to call the police,” Lula said. “And it looks like Connie’s on the phone. I don’t imagine she’s ordering pizza. We should finish up here.”
“I can’t find the money.”
“Maybe Chopper took it with him.”
“That’s not the pattern.”
We looked around the room.
“Not a lot of places to hide a big bag of money,” Lula said.
“The couch,” I said to her. “Mr. Jingles was always by the couch.”
