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“Okay, but don’t forget about Slick. I promised him a
camera.”
“It’s on my list.”
Ethel was also on my list. I didn’t think two donuts was going to hold her, and the last thing I wanted was for her to be ravenously hungry when I opened Diggery’s door.
The Center Street gym was a large, blocky freestanding building with statues of Greek gods by the front door. We found Little Pinkie in the free-weights area. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he was as I remembered. Over-muscled and over-tattooed. Dark hair slicked back. Missing a finger.
He recognized me too, and he guessed why I was there.
“Johnny was crashing at my house, but it didn’t work,” Little Pinkie said. “Killer hated him.”
“Killer?” I asked.
“My dog.”
“The Chihuahua?”
“Yeah. It was unpleasant, so Johnny moved out.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Sure, but I’m not telling you. That would be ratting on my brother.”
“Yeah, but he’s a felon,” Lula said. “And besides that, he’s a goofball. He robbed a jewelry store wearing a pair of tighty-whities on his head.”
“He might have been ’shroomed up, but he’s clean now,” Little Pinkie said. “He’s trying to get his life together.”
“He could get it together in prison,” Lula said. “They got dumbbells there. He could come out looking like you.”
“Something to think about,” Little Pinkie said, “but I’m not telling you where he is.”
We left the gym and went to Lula’s apartment to get the camera. I drove her to the cemetery, but she wouldn’t go beyond the gate.
“You’ve got to take the camera to him,” Lula said. “I don’t like cemeteries, and I don’t like zombies. And the thing is, I’ve got the feeling that I’m one of those people who attracts zombies. And now that we’re here I’m going creepy-crawly.”
“I thought you were all into this. You wanted to be filmed with the zombies.”
“I’m rethinking that part of it. I could be interviewed at some other location, and they could edit me in. They do that stuff all the time.”
I rolled my eyes and blew out a sigh. It wasn’t a spectacular eye roll. I didn’t really have my heart in it. Truth is, I was getting weary of the zombie routine. I took the camera and walked it back to Slick. He was sitting with his back to a tree, and he was writing in a journal.
“What are you writing?” I asked him.
“A book. I’m going to send it to Oprah when I’m done.”
“You have big plans.”
“I’m short. I have to think tall.”
I nodded acknowledgment. It was an admirable philosophy. It would be even better if he threw some common sense into the tall thinking.
“I don’t suppose you’ve spotted any zombies,” I said.
“Not yet. I’m hoping for some good activity tonight.”
I handed the camera to him. “This is from Lula. It didn’t come with an instruction book, but hopefully you can figure it out.” I gave him my card. “Call me if you see any zombies, or if you get tired of sitting here and want to get carted off to jail.”
