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SEVEN
LULA POLISHED OFF the last of her macaroni salad and chucked her empty food containers into the trash.
“I’m all refreshed now,” she said. “I’m ready to go kick some more butt. What should we do next? You want to pick up the Sunny hunt?”
“No. I’m going to table Sunny until tonight.”
I was starting to get a grip on Sunny’s schedule. He spent the night with Rita and in the morning he went to the club to check on the previous night’s business. I thought my best shot at Sunny was to break in on him when he was sleeping. I just had to figure out how to get around the home invasion shooting me dead thing.
“Then how about we drive over so I can give Kevin his lettuce?” Lula said.
“I was thinking we should look for Ziggy Radiewski,” I told her. “He’s probably in the bar next to the hardware store on State Street. That’s his usual afternoon hangout.”
“Yeah, but I got this lettuce for Kevin, and I don’t want it to wilt.”
“I think we should let things chill out in that neighborhood. Put Kevin’s lettuce in the fridge and we’ll take it over tomorrow.”
“That don’t work for me,” Lula said.
“How about this, you can risk your life by going back to Sunny’s turf to feed Kevin, and I’ll pick up Ziggy.”
“That don’t work either,” Lula said. “You shouldn’t be driving with your injury.”
I looked at my finger. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s gonna be a big deal when everyone thinks you’re flippin’ them the bird and you get to be a victim of road rage,” Lula said. “You’re lucky you don’t get shot driving with that finger sticking up like that. I’ll make a deal. We do a real fast drive down Fifteenth Street, I leave Kevin’s lettuce sitting out for him, and then we go snatch Ziggy.”
Twenty minutes later Lula and I turned onto Fifteenth Street. She drove four blocks and tossed the lettuce onto the sidewalk at the corner of Fifteenth and Freeman.
“I got a plan,” Lula said. “The lettuce is bait. I figure if I keep leaving lettuce here Kevin’s gonna hang around the lettuce, and then I can trap him. I haven’t got all the details worked out yet, but I’m thinking I could use a big net.”
“He’s huge!”
“Yeah, I’d need to get up real high and drop it over him. Like from a helicopter. Or you know what would be really good? Spider-Man. You know how he shoots those webs out from his fingers? He could wrap webs around Kevin.”
“So all you have to do is get in touch with Spider-Man?”
“It’s a shame he don’t live here, right?”
“It’s a shame he doesn’t live anywhere.”
“Ranger’s pretty close,” Lula said, “except he can’t do the web throwing thing, and so far as I know he don’t wear spandex.”
Lula cut through downtown and turned onto State Street. The hardware store and Ginty’s Bar were on the outermost perimeter of the Burg. Ginty’s was a dark hole-in-the-wall-type dive that drew regulars from the shantytown row houses that lined Post Street, and ran parallel with State. Ziggy owned one of the row houses, but he lived in Ginty’s.
Lula parked in the small lot the bar shared with the hardware store, and we got out and walked to the bar’s front door.
“How many times have we pulled Ziggy out of here?” Lula asked. “Must be a dozen. I swear I think he just likes to ride in my Firebird.”
We stepped into the bar and took a moment to allow our eyes to adjust to the dark. The air was cold and damp, and the room smelled whiskey-soaked. There were three small round tables near the door, empty at this time of day. The highly polished mahogany bar stretched the length of the back of the room. Ziggy was one of three men at the bar.
“If he smells bad I’m putting him in the trunk,” Lula said. “Last time we took him in I had to have my car detailed.”
Ziggy was a fifty-six-year-old white male who was on a disability pension from the government and was working hard at destroying his liver. There was no Mrs. Ziggy, and no Rover or Kitty Ziggy. Just Ziggy in all his pickled glory.
The bartender waved to us and said something to Ziggy. Ziggy swiveled on his barstool and saluted us with his empty beer glass.
“Ladies,” Ziggy said. “Long time no see.”
