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“I have the car. A friend found it at the mall and brought it back to me. Where are you now?”
“I’m still at the mall.”
“I thought you were going to the drugstore.”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I needed new sneakers.”
“Stay where you are, and I’ll come pick you up and give you a ride home.”
“Okay. I’ll be at the food court entrance.”
I raced back to my apartment, picked up my extra key, and took off for the mall. I cut over to Route 1 and made a plan. I couldn’t stun him, so I probably wouldn’t be able to cuff him. I’d just get him in the car and drive him to the police station. I’d pull into the back drop-off and let the police wrestle him out of the front seat. If he got unruly, I’d go to the nearest fast-food drive-thru and distract him with a bag of burgers.
I took the mall exit, cruised through the lot, and idled at the food court entrance. No Buggy. I hung there for five minutes. Still no Buggy. Probably got tired of waiting. I parked and ran inside to see if I could spot him in the food court. No luck. I got soft-serve ice cream, vanilla and chocolate swirl, and returned to the lot.
No car. My car was gone. I punched Buggy’s number into my cell phone.
“Yuh,” Buggy said.
“Did you take my car again?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You need to bring it back. I have no way to get home.”
“I’m going to the movies.”
“This is really rotten of you,” I said. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I volunteered to come get you, and now you’ve stolen my car.”
“I didn’t steal it. I only borrowed it.”
“Bring it back!”
“What?” Buggy said. “I can’t hear you. Must be bad reception.”
The line went dead.
“Jeez Louise!” I yelled. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” I thunked the heel of my hand against my forehead so hard I almost lost my ice cream. “I hate him,” I said. “He should rot in hell.”
An elderly woman walked out of the mall and cut a wide path around me, murmuring about drugs and young people.
“Sorry,” I called after her. “Someone stole my car.”
Get a grip, I told myself. It’s just a car. It wasn’t even a good car. That wasn’t the issue, of course. The issue was that I got outsmarted by a moron.
I found a bench by the mall entrance and ate my ice cream. No way was I calling Ranger. It was too embarrassing. I couldn’t call Lula. She was sick. Connie was busy looking for a temporary office. I didn’t want to slow that process. If I called my mother, I’d get the Why Don’t You Have a Nice Job in a Bank lecture. I could walk, but it would take me all day, and I’d probably get hit by a truck on the highway. A cab would be expensive.
I was sitting on the bench debating all this when Grandma and Annie Hart walked out of the mall.
“For goodness sakes,” Grandma said, spotting me. “Are you sitting here waiting for a criminal?”
“More or less,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Annie took me shopping to get bowling shoes, on account of I got my Social Security check.”
Grandma drove with a lead foot and had lost her license several years back after racking up a bu
nch of speeding tickets. So Grandma was now dependent on other, more sane drivers for transportation.
