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“There’s no court tonight,” Mrs. Pickeral said. “And I need him to give me a ride home. I’ll make sure he goes tomorrow morning.”
I heard this a lot. No one ever showed up in the morning.
“Look at him,” Mrs. Pickeral said. “Does he look like a criminal?”
My nose was running and my eyes were feeling puffy from the flowers. And I was caring less and less about Lenny Pickeral and his stupid toilet paper crime spree.
“Fine,” I said, unlocking the cuffs. “I’m letting him go, but I’m holding all of you responsible. If Lenny doesn’t show up at court tomorrow morning to get rebonded, you’ll all be accessories to a crime.”
That was a crock of doodie, but I felt like I had to say something. And it was at that instant that God rewarded me for showing compassion and letting Lenny walk. Or maybe it was the bottle that was back in my bag that brought me luck. I turned from Lenny, and from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a head sticking up above the mourning masses. It was Butch Goodey. Lenny’s capture fee would have bought me a meatball sub. Goodey’s capture fee would pay my rent and then some.
Goodey was up by the casket, paying condolences to the family. I hugged the wall, coming at him from the rear. I had no clue how to take him down. I didn’t have a stun gun or pepper spray. I wasn’t about to shoot him. Even if I could get the cuffs on him, I didn’t think I could stop him from fleeing. I stood to one side and waited for him to move from the casket area.
“Yo,” I said, stepping in front of him. “How’s it going?”
His expression was blank for a moment while he connected the dots, and then recognition slammed into him.
“You again!” he said, wheeling around, looking for an exit, fixing on the door to the lobby.
“Wait!” I said, grabbing the back of his jacket. “We need to talk. We can deal.”
“I’m not going to jail,” he said. And he took off for the door. I still had my fingers wrapped into his jacket, and I held tight, trying to slow him down with my weight, not having any luck with it. He was knocking people over, pushing them aside, muscling his way to the lobby.
Grandma was just inside the open double doors, standing beside the cookie station. “Hey!” she said to Butch. “What the heck’s going on with you and my granddaughter?”
“Get outta my way,” Butch said.
“That’s no way to talk to a old lady,” Grandma said, and she whacked Butch in the shins with her crutch.
“Ow!” Butch said, stopping just long enough for me to bash him in the gonads with my purse. Butch sucked air, went down to his knees, and doubled over.
I rushed at him with FlexiCuffs and bound his ankles. Twice.
“Boy,” Grandma said. “You pack a wallop with that purse. What have you got in it?”
“Uncle Pip’s lucky bottle.”
Now I had Butch rolling around on the floor of the funeral parlor. I sort of had him captured, but I had no way to get him into my car. I couldn’t drag him, and he couldn’t walk with his ankles bound. If I cuffed his hands and released the shackles on his ankles, he’d run away.
“I need help getting him to my car,” I said to the crowd of people clustered around us.
Everyone shuffled their feet. No one volunteered.
“For goodness sakes,” I said. “This man is a felon.”
The funeral director, Milton Shreebush, rushed over. “Holy cats,” he said, looking down at Butch.
“He’s FTA,” Grandma said. “My granddaughter just made a bond enforcement maneuver.”
“I see that,” Milton said. “But he can’t stay on the floor like this.”
“Then help me drag him to my car,” I told him.
Milton reached for Butch, and Butch growled and grabbed him. Milton slapped at Butch, and they rolled around, locked together.
“Help!” Milton yelled. “Get the police. Somebody do something!”
I stepped in and hit Butch in the head with my purse. Butch shook his head, stunned, and Milton scrambled away.
