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She hooked Henry up, and we walked him down the street.
“He’s good on the leash,” Grandma said. “He trots right along. And when he poops, it’s little poops.”
I love Bob, but Bob doesn’t poop little poops.
We walked for several blocks and turned onto Judy Chucci’s street. Judy was on her front steps, waving her arms and screaming. Johnny Chucci was in the front yard, smashing the gnomes with a hammer.
“You’re killing them,” Judy was screaming. “You’re going to burn in hell.”
“They’re lumps of plaster,” Johnny yelled back at her. “They aren’t even interesting lumps. You suck at this. You need a new hobby. Try knitting. Try quilting. Try cleaning your house. It’s a pigpen.”
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” Judy shrieked.
“You’re a fruitcake,” Johnny said. “You’re nuts. These stupid things aren’t real.” SMASH. Another gnome turned into plaster dust.
He went after the gnome with the blind eye, and even I had to cringe. It seemed excessive to attack Mr. Murphy.
SMASH. Mr. Murphy was sent to gnome heaven.
Judy disappeared into her house and returned with a chef’s knife. “An eye for an eye,” she said, charging after Johnny.
“He runs pretty good, considering that big bandage on his foot,” Grandma said.
They ran past us, and I tackled Judy and took the knife away from her.
“Take Judy inside and make her a cup of tea or something,” I said to Grandma. “I’m going to drive Johnny to the police station.”
“I don’t know if I want to go in that house with all them gnomes,” Grandma said. “They kind of creep me out.”
“They’re house gnomes,” Judy said. “They’re very polite.”
Grandma and Henry went inside with Judy, and I called Lula to pick me up. The bonds office was only minutes away.
“I thought you went to Hawaii on a pre-re-wedding honeymoon,” I said to Johnny.
“I had plane tickets and hotel reservations, and we weren’t on the plane more than fifteen minutes before it started about the gnomes. Mr. Murphy and little Susie and Grumpy. All the way to L.A. And then she wouldn’t get on the connecting flight. She called her neighbor forty-five times. How were the gnomes? Was Mr. Murphy depressed? Who the hell is Mr. Murphy anyway?”
“You smashed him.”
“Good. Now he’s not depressed anymore.”
Lula’s Firebird pulled up to the curb.
“Jail is going to be a relief after this,” Johnny said. “I can’t wait to get locked up with some nice sane murderers and rapists.”
“How’s your foot?” Lula asked him.
“It’s freaking killing me.”
“I got some drugs in my purse,” Lula said.
“Hand them over,” Johnny said. “Mine are all on their way to Hawaii.”
TWENTY-SIX
COURT WAS STILL in session when I turned Johnny over to the police, but he chose not to get bonded out again. He said he was exhausted, and he just wanted to sit in his cell and be happy he wasn’t married. He said after he served his time and got released back into society, he was going to Hawaii and maybe he’d stay there.
“I totally get Johnny’s point of view,” Lula said, driving out of the municipal building lot. “Sometimes when you’re whackadoodle you gotta find a place where you fit in with other whackadoodles. Not that I’m saying Hawaii is full of whackadoodles. I mean, I’ve never been there, but it seems like it’s calling to Johnny Chucci.”
