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“The Chuccis had a custody dispute over the dog,” my mother said. “It dragged on for a year.”
“How was it resolved?” Lula asked.
“The dog died. Choked on a chicken bone,” my mother said.
“That’s so sad,” Lula said. “They should have been more careful about giving that dog bones.”
“As I remember, it got into the garbage when Judy was off at work,” Grandma said. “It was a hound dog.”
“That explains it,” Lula said. “My uncle had a hound, and it ate everything.”
“Connie heard that Johnny was back in town,” I said. “He skipped out on Vinnie right before his court date. It was a high bond, and we might recover some of it if I could find Johnny.”
“I’m on it,” Grandma said. “I’ll sleuth around tonight at the Molinowski viewing. If Johnny shows up I’ll take him down for you.”
“You will do no such thing,” my mother said to Grandma. “And I’m checking your purse when you go out to make sure you don’t have a gun in it.”
Grandma winked at me when my mom wasn’t looking. She would have the gun wedged into her underwear until she got to the funeral home, and then would transfer it to her purse. Grandma always packed. She packed when she went to the bakery. She lived for the chance to say, “Make my day, punk.”
“Who are you tracking down these days besides Johnny?” Grandma asked.
“Zero Slick is out there,” Lula said. “We started looking for him, but his neighborhood is all blocked off on account of some homeless guy got his brain sucked out.”
“Damn zombies,” Grandma said. “They’re running amuck all over the place. Grace Merkle said she saw one tramping through her flower garden the other night. She lives two blocks from the cemetery on Morley Street. She said the zombies are a real nuisance.”
My mother looked over at the cabinet where she kept her whiskey. She checked her watch. Too early for a drink. There were rules to be observed. Good Christian women didn’t drink before four o’clock unless they were at a wake. My mother gave up a small sigh and took a cookie.
“You could probably bend the rules, since there are zombies in Grace Merkle’s flower garden,” I said to my mother.
“I’ve got fifteen minutes to go,” my mother said, taking a second cookie. “I can stick it out.”
“Boy, you’re a stron
g woman,” Lula said. “You got real willpower.”
“The rules change when you get to be a senior citizen,” Grandma said. “If I want a snort of whiskey in the morning I go for it. I probably only got about thirty good years left.”
By my calculations, thirty good years had Grandma well over a hundred. No doubt in my mind that she would still be going strong.
“My honey just took a part-time job as a greeter,” Grandma said. “He’s working in one of those bars in Key West.”
“You got a honey?” Lula asked.
“I met him on one of them Internet sites,” Grandma said. “He’s a real looker.”
“You gotta be careful of those Internet hookups,” Lula said.
Grandma pulled the picture up on her cellphone and showed Lula.
“That’s George Hamilton,” Lula said.
“Yeah, there’s a good resemblance,” Grandma said. “I’m guessing he’s a little younger than me, but I think I can keep up.”
“What’s a greeter do for a bar?” Lula asked.
“It sounds to me like he holds up a sign outside saying that they got cheap drinks and live dancers inside,” Grandma said. “He works days, so I’m thinking it’ll help him keep that deep tan he’s got.”
“No doubt,” Lula said.
