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Lula came over and looked out with me.
“Damn,” Lula said. “No wonder I couldn’t find him.”
“He pushed my car into the road.”
“Yeah, you gotta love that Escalade. It’s got power. Your Buick is no lightweight, but that big ol’ Escalade is a beast.”
We trooped downstairs and left the house. I made sure the doors were locked, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the broken window. Mrs. Joyce was still out somewhere. Carol was most likely lurking in the neighborhood, watching, waiting for us to leave.
Lula and I walked around the Buick, checking it out.
“Not a scratch or a dent,” Lula said. “This car is a tank. They don’t make cars like this anymore.”
Thank heaven, I thought. The thing drove like a refrigerator on wheels, and it got four miles to the gallon.
“I haven’t had my fill of humiliation yet,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if Barry Strunk is home.”
* * *
—
I drove past the front of Strunk’s house and thought I saw the flicker of a television screen through a living room window. I drove down the alley and found his Taurus angle-parked in his backyard.
“Here’s the plan,” I said to Lula. “I’m going to drop you off, and you’re going to keep watch that he doesn’t come out the back door and drive away. Just make sure you don’t get near the neighbor’s truck.”
“What’s wrong with the truck?”
“The crazy lady who lives there doesn’t like anyone getting near her truck. Also, don’t break anything or shoot anything. Just don’t let Strunk get into his car and drive away.”
“Yeah, but what if I have to shoot him to stop him? What if he shoots at me?”
“He tried to kill a kid with a double cheeseburger. There was no gun involved.”
“I could handle a double cheeseburger,” Lula said.
I dropped her off, drove around to the front, and found a parking place. I hung my cuffs from my back pocket, shoved a pepper spray canister into my sweatshirt pocket, and walked up to the house. I heard the bolt slide locked just as I was about to knock.
I rapped on the door and called out that I was looking for Barry Strunk.
The answer came back muffled.
“He’s not home. No one’s home.”
“Open the door. I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I represent your bail bondsman. You missed a court date and I want to help you reschedule.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Crap,” he said. “What do I have to do? Do I have to sign something?”
“You have to go downtown with me and get a new date from the clerk.”
Silence.
