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“I ran all the fraternity brothers through the system and didn’t get any hits around M and Hawthorne,” Connie said.
The front door to the office burst open and Lula swung in.
“Holy bejeezus,” Connie said, staring at Lula. “What happened to you?”
“Geese,” Lula said. “Ungrateful sons-a-bitches.”
“You have some goose feathers stuck in your hair,” I told her.
“I know. I’m gonna have to go to the beauty salon and have Ayesha work her magic. I was thinking I needed a color change anyways. Lavender is pretty with my brown skin but it’s limiting, you see what I’m saying? I might need to be a blonde on account of then I can move into the red section of my closet. I’m feeling in a red mood.”
“Did you get Hal to take you for onion rings?” I asked.
“He didn’t have time. We waited until the car got loaded onto the flatbed, and then he had to do a patrol run after he dropped me here. It’s just as well since I’m thinking I’m going straight to Ayesha. And then after I’m all beautified I might go out for the onion rings. You all could go with me. It could be a girls’ night out, and we could even look for Gobbles. I’ve been thinking about it, and I bet he comes out of his hidey-hole at night.”
“I’m in,” Connie said. “I don’t have anything going on tonight.”
“Sure,” I said. “Me too.”
“Almost forgot,” Connie said to me. “You got another package. Lo
oks like it’s from Daniel Craig again. No return address. Handwriting looks the same.”
Oh boy.
I opened the envelope and pulled out a photograph of a totally ripped naked guy with a huge boner and Daniel Craig’s head. Clearly the head had been photoshopped on.
“Daniel Craig got a good one,” Lula said.
“It’s not Daniel Craig,” I said. “Someone put his head on someone else’s body. The skin tones don’t match.”
“Too bad for Daniel Craig,” Lula said. “He’d like to own that bad boy.”
Connie looked over my shoulder. “Is that a real penis? It’s massive.”
“I’ve seen them come that big,” Lula said. “Mostly when they get that big they’re kind of dumb. They haven’t got a lot of talent, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t know what she meant, and I didn’t want to ask.
“There’s something written on the back,” Connie said.
I turned the picture over and read the inscription. “It says This is the real me.”
“I think the real me got delusions of grandeur,” Lula said.
“Do you want the picture?” I asked Lula. “There’s no bath caddy.”
“I’ll take it anyway,” Lula said. “Things have been slow in the romance department.”
ELEVEN
I HAD A peanut butter and olive sandwich for dinner and by eight o’clock I was starving. I’d showered away the beer that had splashed off Lula’s head onto mine. I’d put on clean jeans, a dressy tank top with a matching sweater, and flats, and I was ready for girls’ night out.
I met Lula and Connie at the office fifteen minutes later. Lula had hair the color of daffodils. It was all braided into cornrows, and she had a bunch of extensions that reached her shoulders. She’d squashed herself into a fire-engine-red bandage dress that was intended for a much smaller woman but seemed to work for Lula. She had matching lipstick, and she was wearing matching fancy Louboutin knockoffs.
Connie was still wearing work clothes. Tight black pencil skirt that came to an inch above her knees, tight white scoop-necked top that showed a lot of cleavage, chunky gold necklace, earrings, and cuff bracelet, and gold wedge heels. Connie was a couple years older than me and a lot more Italian. My hair was out of control by birth. Hers was by design.
We all piled into the Firebird and Lula drove us to M Street and Hawthorne. We rode around several blocks before parking, keeping our eyes open for Gobbles.
