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“No, a defective propane tank apparently exploded,” Connie said. “I’ve been listening to police chatter.”
Lula looked up from the Jumble, rolled her eyes, and made the sign of the cross.
“Brenda was there when the police arrived, one thing led to another, and she punched out a cop.” Connie looked up at the ceiling. “Hey, something just dripped on my desk.”
We all looked at the ceiling. There were big wet splotches, and it looked like it was buckling.
Lula sniffed. “It’s the rats. They’re relievin’ themselves, and it’s soakin’ through. There must be a lot of them. When I was a ’ho, I used to do business out of a Chinese restaurant, and they had this problem. It used to drip into the hot-and-sour soup.”
“There’s no rats,” Vinnie said. “There’s probably a busted pipe. Somebody call the landlord.”
“I know rats when I smell them,” Lula said. “And there’s rats.” She got a broom from the corner and poked the ceiling. “Shoo!”
The minute the broom made contact with the ceiling, a piece of the ceiling b
roke loose and fell onto Connie’s desk. A crack opened up above us, and there were some smooshy, groaning sounds. The crack stretched the length of the room, the ceiling sagged, the crack gaped open, and about a thousand rats poured down on us. Big rats, small rats, fat rats, startled rats. Bug-eyed and squealing. Nasty little rat feet treading air. Tails stiff as a stick. They thudded onto Connie’s desk and the floor, stunned for a second and then up and running.
“RATS!” Lula shrieked. “It’s raining rats.”
She climbed onto her chair and covered her head with the Jumble.
Connie was on her desk, punting rats across the room like they were footballs. “Someone open the door so they can get out!” she yelled.
I was afraid to move for fear of stepping on a rat and pissing him off. I think I was screaming, but I don’t remember hearing myself.
Vinnie lunged for the door, bolted out, and the rats rushed after him.
Minutes later, we were on the sidewalk, looking in at the office. Most of the rats had departed for parts unknown. A few rats, too dumb to find the door, were hunkered down in corners.
“I feel like I got rat cooties,” Lula said. “I bet I got fleas. And I think one of them bit me on the ankle.”
I examined Lula’s ankles. No bite marks.
“It must have been one of those bites that don’t show,” Lula said, “on account of I’m coming down with something. I can feel it. Lord, I hope it’s not the plague. I don’t want the plague. You break out in them booboos when you got the plague.”
“I don’t see any booboos on you,” I told her.
“Well, it’s still early,” Lula said.
Better booboos than Buggy, I thought, hiking my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m heading out. I’m going to look for Magpie.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lula said. “Only I gotta get something to settle my stomach. I gotta keep my strength up in case I get the plague. I need chicken.”
• • •
I cruised into the Cluck-in-a-Bucket drive-thru and Lula got a bucket of extra-crispy, a bag of biscuits with dipping gravy, an apple pie, and a large diet root beer. I helped myself to a piece of chicken, and I got a text message from Brenda.
Thanks for everything. I’ll send you the formula for your hair.
I texted her back and asked if she was at the salon and could she do my hair.
Negative, she texted. Arrivederci.
“Change of plans,” I said to Lula. “Brenda’s running.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. I’m going to see if I can talk her out of it.”
